Miles’ lips parted and eyes rounded. He hadn’t expected to be put in charge of anything important. He was only here to fill in for General Jacobs. Pride and nervousness ran side by side in his veins. But he agreed not to attack the residents, hadn’t he?
When General Roundtree lifted his chin, turning toward the target, his granite profile looked carved for a statue. He pointed. “You see that mountain shadowing the fort, the one across the valley from its twin bearing the castle?”
“Yes,” said Hobbs. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the hard sunlight under a clear blue sky.
It was a striking landscape. Miles had never seen green mountains like these, nor grass and forests that extended forever. Fort Rustin wasn’t in a desert clime, nor limited to prairie grass and sparse trees. But because of the Mother River’s floodwaters and adequate rainfall, it overlooked the only corner of the Red River Republic suited for large-scale agriculture. Therefore, forests had been cleared to make way for corn, beans, and pastures. He found Verdancia’s lushness almost unsettling in its beauty.
“Why are they just sitting there?” demanded Major Hawkeye McKinley. He wiped dirt from his face with his forest-green neckerchief.
Roderic stood with him and the other senior officers atop the ramparts, studying the invaders. The Iron Army wouldn’t have an easy time of it. Fort Calder clung to the mountainside as if it had clawed its way there centuries ago and refused to yield. Its lower walls were hewn from the same buff stone as the cliffs behind it, its upper barracks of brick and timber stacked with purposeful austerity. Smoke from cookfires and forge chimneys curled upward and vanished into pine-shadowed slopes. Gun platforms stepped up the rock in ascending tiers, cannons resting in their cradles like watchful beasts. Where Highcrest Hall commanded with elegance, the fort endured with steel resolve.
“Intelligence reports that General Roundtree commands the corps—a more cautious and calculating leader than Garcia.” Roderic focused his gaze through the telescope mounted on the parapet. He adjusted it slightly, fixing on a hill a kilometer away.
“It’s a good thing we got most of the citizens out in time,” said Major Williams. His dark skin glistened with sweat despite wearing only a summer-weight, short-sleeved shirt. Overhead, the Verdancian flag rippled above the blue-and-silver Calder falcon banner.
“No simple task,” added Captain Cooley.
The evacuation to an abandoned mine thirty kilometers north began the morning after Roderic returned. Some citizens refused to leave their homes, especially old timers. Nearly a thousand others volunteered as militia troops, sending their loved ones away to safety. Essential personnel—doctors, nurses, firefighters—remained to support the citadel and Highcrest Hall.
“I can confirm General Garcia is not leading the corps.” Roderic stepped back from the telescope, turning to his officers. “We need to be prepared for anything.”
“My cavalry stands ready,” McKinley declared, lifting his square jaw with resolve.
“The archers and riflemen are on three rotations at their posts,” said Williams, “to ensure they’re rested and remain sharp.”
“We could use Colonel Pickering directing our cannons and catapults,” Roderic said quietly. “Still, I have full confidence in you, Colonel Moore.”
“Thank you, sir.” The mixed-race lieutenant colonel squared his shoulders, his hands clasped behind his back, feet set wide.
To be fair, Moore had done most of the actual work while assisting the elderly Pickering and was quite capable. Morale was the primary concern, as everyone admired and revered the old bird colonel.
“I’ve kept half of our percussive shells in reserve, safe from bombardment in the bunker, while having enough on hand to see us through the first wave or two of assaults,” the eager officer reported. “The ammunition is spread across the wall and turrets. There’s sufficient tar and catapult stones. The howitzers are behind iron shielding, but a direct hit could knock one out. I’ve drilled the crews, and they’re ready.”
“Ammunition.” Roderic’s tone was solemn, speaking the word like a bad omen. “We have the stronghold, the defenses. We ran out of bullets at Cypress Creek. Even here, they are in finite supply—explosive shells even more precious. Colonel Moore, we must defend Stonevale while expending them conservatively. Rely more heavily on catapults and lead balls so our ammunition will last as long as possible. Williams, that goes for your ranged troops as well. No one shoots at random. Even the machine gunners and light artillery.”
He gave each officer a serious, commanding stare. “We can’t drown them in a volume of fire. Each shot must hit a target. Tell your gunners to aim for clusters, archers for individuals. McKinley, I want to meet with you in my office to plan out after-dark stealth attacks on the edges of the enemy camp. Use dynamite with preset timers to blow up their armored vehicles. We’ll discuss how and where. Everyone else, return to your units. Keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Yes, sir,” they replied.
Then Lieutenant Rushing, serving as Roderic’s aide, asked, “What about Lord Calder? Did he leave for the mines with your wife and children?”
Roderic let out a sigh and shook his head. “He insists on holding his castle. I sent a company to defend Highcrest Hall if we fail here. But in the end, it won’t matter. We must hold, or all is lost.”
Miles was glad for the clear skies, with the stars and moon shining above. He had led a troop of horsemen around the back side of the mountain, ridden uphill until the grade became too steep, and left the horses behind. They carried backpacks of explosives around the ridge, through thick pines, red spruce, and maples, taking positions above the bastion. The small force reduced the risk of detection by Verdancian lookouts and ensured minimal losses if they were discovered. It was a good plan. Their primary objectives were the howitzers, heavy machine gun nests, and the barracks. If they could cripple the enemy’s ability to defend the fort, the area lord might be willing to discuss terms.
He used a short-distance radio to communicate with his captain and lieutenants to coordinate the attack. Four platoons crouched on the scarped cliffside awaiting his command.If this works, the campaign ends with minimal loss of life. The civilians will be safe, and General Roundtree will gain prestige in Dominion.
Checking his watch, Miles waited for the hands to align. He thought about his wife and daughter in Rustin, his son in the hospital tent. He’d received no word of his condition. Gritting his teeth, he half-hoped Garcia would fail to capture Marchland. It would serve him right for neglecting his son’s welfare and that of all the wounded left behind without transportation. He pictured Eliam lying on a field cot, Nurse Langston tending him.
Pressing the talk button on his radio, he gave the word. “Sky-drop is a go.”
A thunderous boom shook the Inner Redoubt, knocking Roderic off his cot. A crack split wide in the command chamber wall as dust showered from above. Rushing jumped up and pushed his feet into his boots. “Sir—”
“I know.” Roderic hadn’t taken his boots off. He grabbed his belt, bearing sword and pistol, and a rifle. The clang of the alarm bell joined the report of another blast, this one farther down the wall.
A sergeant rushed in, alarm on his face. “Let’s go,” Roderic called. “All hands on deck!”
Outside on the wall, he found his troops alert, performing their jobs as they’d been trained. Bucket brigades rushed to put out fires. Machine gunners raked the cliffs above the fortress. Infantry climbed the steep slope in pursuit of the enemy. Roderic ducked as a barracks roof exploded, sending rubble flying. A six-inch splinter drove into his forearm as he shielded his face, white pain flaring through him.