The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [92]
Unfortunately, according to the Karevna woman, those same alchemical devices would attract the attention of the Russian sorcerers.
“Sir? May I ask a question?”
Oglethorpe turned to Parmenter. “What's that?”
“Why haven't we invested the redoubt, if our mission is to hold it?”
Oglethorpe smiled wryly. “I'm not much for being cornered like a badger, no matter how snug the hole. The tower is a fat bull's-eye for the arrows of our enemy, and I don't intend—”
At that instant, coincidentally, a shell made his point for him. They heard its shrill whine and then an explosion that shook the air, even here, a quarter mile from its detonation. The tree—a five-hundred-year-old pine, if it was a day— teetered, charring black but not catching fire, due to its presence in the zone of bad air.
Another shell struck next to it, this one spattering a viscous burning fluid that immediately went out.
After that, so many shells fell that there was no space in the sound, only a noise like God humming. An avenue opened in the thick forest as the explosions worked their way directly toward the invisible redoubt.
“See? They've taught their shells to seek the aegis, just as Franklin feared. If we were in there, we wouldn't dare come out.” He grinned. “As it is, we're free to go find the bastards working those cannon and lay them down to sleep.”
“Amen, General,” Parmenter said.
“Get ‘em on their horses. ‘Tis time to meet the devil.”
It was eerie to hear the shelling fade in the distance, and as it did, the sound of cannon fire come over like one symphony replacing another. It reminded him vividly of his first battle with Prince Eugène, of his younger self ‘s sheer unbelief at the range and accuracy of the new alchemical guns—that they could be placed so far away you not only couldn't see them but also couldn't even hear them. His first command had been to take a company and find the cannon chewing up their lines. He had done it then, and he would do it again.
Of course, it hadn't been easy that first time, either.
As Oglethorpe and his men approached the slope of the hill the guns were sounding from, bullets began swarming from the trees like a hundred acres of bees. Something like a sledgehammer struck Oglethorpe in the chest, nearly unhorsing him, and he gave quick thanks for his adamantium breastplate as he raised his pistol and fired at the Indian springing from behind the nearest tree. The fellow howled like a catamount as the kraftpistole cut him in half.
The fighting got dirty. This time they didn't face regulars, trying to keep neat columns—this enemy fought from amongst the trees, like his own people. The rangers unslung their carbines and dismounted, forming a rough line, firing and advancing, one tree to the next. The air was thick with the smell of powder and pine sap.
Oglethorpe stayed mounted, barking orders and shooting at shadows. A trio of Indians broke from cover and ran at him, firing their muskets; then, when they saw they had missed, pulling tomahawks. He calmly shot one with his last charge, then drew his saber as his horse screamed and collapsed, rolling on its side, blood blowing from its neck like spume from a whale surfacing. He was on his feet but still untangling himself from the saddle when they reached him.
One pitched back from him at a distance of a yard, and he heard a ranger behind him shout in triumph. The other leapt, whirling an ax. Oglethorpe struck savagely with his saber, and the bright edge bit into the Indian's arm. It didn't slow him. They crashed together, Oglethorpe reaching with his free hand to catch the descending ax. He missed, and the weapon skinned down his arm, surprisingly painful, before spanging into his breastplate. With an involuntary roar, he struck his knuckle guard into the man's face, and for an instant he was twenty-three again, in a low tavern