Clash of Empires Page 27

  Jack tends to Marengo for a while. The horse trembles when the battlesaurs are near but does not rear or shy away. He is a brave horse as well as a strong one. No wonder Napoléon chose him for his own.

  Another scream comes from the far side of the army. A cannon fires, but there is no resultant cheering as there would be if the cannon had found its target.

  Jack wonders about the others. How they got on in the caves. He worries about Frost. How he will be without Jack to guide and protect him.

  Still another scream, this time from the rear of the formations.

  It will be a long night, Jack thinks.

  * * *

  The view from the top of the hill is shocking.

  Willem brings his steed to a halt, surveying the scene that stretches out before them, describing it to Frost. Cosette stops her tricorne next to his.

  In the distance, on the coast, is the city of Calais, surrounded by a high saur-wall topped with battlements, the clean hard lines broken at regular intervals by cannon ports. On the far side, by the seawall, a tall stone watchtower guards the harbor.

  The overnight rain has stopped. The sun has not yet risen but the sky is alight with the red rush of morning. Below them, overturned ammunition caissons litter the flat farmlands before the city.

  The Prussian Army is in disarray, their cannon broken and strewn around the paddocks. It is the French artillery that fires, each roar and gush of smoke matched by a great scar gouged into the ragged Prussian ranks.

  And roaming free are the battlesaurs. Willem counts six of them.

  They hunt at the edges of the battle, occasionally racing forward to pick off some hapless soldier as his comrades rush backward in terror.

  A small group of Prussian soldiers break free suddenly from the main body of the army, running for a small forest and the meager shelter it offers. One of the greatjaws is on them before they are halfway to the tree line, stomping, slashing, and tearing with those terrible teeth. Their screams are piercing but mercifully brief.

  “But why do the Prussians not retreat or surrender?” Willem asks.

  “Thibault,” Arbuckle says, his face grim. “He does not mean to defeat them. He intends to wipe them out. They have broken their alliance. They have proven themselves untrustworthy and Thibault will not want to leave such an army in his rear. He will not want to risk an attack on Paris while he is occupied over the English Channel. He will destroy them.”

  “It will be a massacre,” Willem says.

  “Then let us even the odds,” Arbuckle says from the saddle behind Cosette.

  She spurs her tricorne forward.

  Willem says, “Cosette.”

  She looks back.

  “I will look out for you down there,” Willem says as he jolts his own saur into movement.

  “And I you,” Cosette says, and it is the closest thing to a declaration of love that has ever passed between them.

  “The flare!” Big Joe cries, and they all look to the coast. A streak of light climbs from the stone watchtower, leaving a bubbling smoky wake. It bursts into a bright green star, drifting slowly back down over the city.”

  “What does it mean?” Cosette asks.

  “The signal for the Royal Navy to depart,” Willem says.

  “We must hurry,” Arbuckle says. “Or there will be battlesaurs in the streets of London tonight.”

  “Is there a signal that would tell the navy to remain here instead?” Cosette asks.

  “A red rocket,” Frost says. “We must find the red rockets.”

  “Where?” Cosette asks.

  Willem points at the smoky trail that is dispersing slowly in the clear blue sky, tracing it back down to the top of the stone tower in the fort.

  “There,” he says. “The tower.”

  The hill shudders under the giant hooves of the four tricornes. Leaves whisper a rustling alarm and birds are shaken out of the trees. A dust cloud rises behind them as they pick up speed, thundering down the hill toward the flat fields beyond.

  Only now does Willem think of Jack. Did he make it? Did he warn the Prussians but too late? Is he dead, or alive somewhere in the midst of the battle below?

  There is the constant crackle of musketfire punctuated by the boom, boom, boom of the artillery.

  Willem looks again at the wide flare of bone in front of him and wonders if it will stop a musketball. He hopes so.

  The Prussian soldiers have spotted them now. There is confusion, perhaps because they see a woman warrior with blond hair waving behind her, still in the unbuttoned French uniform jacket of Lieutenant Horloge. But as the Prussians take note of the several red British uniforms, they let out a cheer that is quickly taken up by the entire army.

  Just as the Prussians have spotted them, so have the French. Already one of the battlesaurs is heading toward them at a run, the lurching, two-footed stride of the greatjaw so different from the four-footed gallop of the tricornes. Willem’s ride, without any encouragement from Willem, turns, aiming directly for the greatjaw. The ground is soft and the huge feet of the tricorne sink deeply but this does not seem to slow it down.

  A gunshot sounds from over Willem’s left shoulder. He jumps, and half turns to see Arbuckle in the rear part of Cosette’s saddle already reaching for another pistol.

  The greatjaw slides to a stop in the muddy field, standing its ground directly in front of the charging tricorne, its mouth open, those huge teeth glistening. Why does it not move out of the way?

  Only at the very last second, the greatjaw steps nimbly to one side and the teeth slash down, but the tricorne has been expecting this and somehow shunts itself sideways into the chest of the greatjaw, unbalancing it. The greatjaw slips, falls, and writhes around in the mud, struggling to get back to its feet, but a second tricorne is there, one of its long horns driving up into the softer skin at the base of the greatjaw’s neck as it tries to rise. It falls again and this time does not struggle.

  Willem lets out a scream of excitement, which is matched by Cosette on the tricorne behind.

  “To the cannon!” Arbuckle shouts.

  * * *

  Jack has watched the French cannon chewing into the ranks at the front, the Prussian artillery unable to respond. The six French battlesaurs have been roaming at will, rampaging through the Prussian infantry, which scatter before them, unable to hold their lines. The cavalry has tried again and again to charge at the saurs, but the horses always refuse, turning away at the last minute.

  It has been a catastrophe.

  But now Willem and the others are here, storming in on some new kind of saur that Jack has not seen before! The greatjaws are diverted, giving hope to the Prussian infantry, enabling their officers to generate some kind of order in the ranks.

  In the field to his left Jack sees a tricorne hurtling toward a greatjaw, but the bigger beast steps out of the way, surprisingly nimble for a huge animal. It grabs down as the tricorne passes, its huge teeth clamping on to one of the rear legs of the three-horned saur. It lifts and the tricorne goes down, over on its side, creating a huge crater in the mud.

  Jack runs to Marengo, springing up into the saddle. He whirls and gallops through the French ranks, which open to let him through.

  The tricorne is trying to twist around to reach the greatjaw with its horns, but it cannot twist far enough. The greatjaw will not open its mouth to release the leg, and rakes at the stomach of the tricorne with its claws.

  Jack clutches the reins with one hand and draws his pistol with the other. He thinks he has correctly remembered which pistol has the pepper and which has the ball. He hopes he is right. The rider of the greatjaw sees him approaching, raises a pistol, and fires, but misses wildly as the saur thrashes its head.

  Of all the horses on the field, only Marengo will charge at a saur, Jack learns. The horse remains steady and true and Jack waits until he is sure of his shot, then pulls the trigger just as they come in range of the greatjaw. The crash of the pistol shot is followed by a brief
mist of black powder and the greatjaw screams, thrashing its head from side to side, its rider barely holding on.

  The greatjaw turns and runs, snorting, wild, crazed, throwing its rider before it has gone more than ten strides.

  * * *

  Willem steers his huge steed toward the French lines. To reach the enemy first they must pass over the remains of the Prussian artillery. Broken wheels, smoldering caissons, and the bodies of the artillerymen—a blackened, burning, hellish scene of devastation, mud, and carnage wrought by Thibault’s battlesaurs.

  Now in front of them the cannon of the French are lined along a cobblestone road in front of the saur-wall. The infantry and cavalry seem to have disappeared, but looking up Willem sees a long row of muskets lining the battlements. The cannon belch red and yellow flames and thick smoke and Willem feels the wind of one of the huge iron balls as it passes close to his leg. A little closer and he would have lost the leg, and his life soon after. Behind him he hears screams as the cannonballs wreak more damage on the Prussian lines.

  Already the cannon crews are reloading. He sees the spongemen with their long ramrods frantically worming the barrels. The loaders with their heavy cannonballs or canister shot. The firers with their fuses and burning linstocks. He hears the officers shouting orders. But the French cannoneers are unused to being on this end of a battlesaur charge. They drop their ammunition, their ramrods and fuses, breaking ranks and running for the safety of the thick walls of the city.

  The smoke from the last barrage is still hanging in the air as Willem and Frost reach the French front lines. Their tricorne brushes aside the first cannon as if it were a toy, smashing the wheels, dumping the weapon into the mud.

  The air around him sounds as if it’s alive with buzzing insects—musketballs! Glancing up, Willem sees puffs of smoke obscuring the French soldiers lining the battlements. A pistol sounds behind him, then another, as Frost returns fire.

  “Ignore the cannon,” Frost shouts. “Destroy the ammunition!”

  Willem ducks down behind the bony shield of his tricorne and again hears Frost’s pistol sound behind. He turns the beast, charging sideways along the artillery support line, just behind the row of cannon. They overturn caisson after caisson, strewing cannonballs, explosive canister shot, and gunpowder across the cobblestone road. A fire starts and quickly spreads to the gunpowder stores. The air fills with dense black smoke from the burning wagons, punctuated constantly by great flashes of heat and light as canisters and powder barrels detonate. The wind carries the smoke toward the city, and the sound of the muskets on the battlements ceases as the soldiers there are engulfed and blinded.

  “We must get to the tower,” Frost shouts, and Willem points his ride at one of the gated entrances to the city.

  Where are the other tricornes? Willem wonders, even as he presses his mount onward.

  A glance back tells him. Two are in battle with an equal number of greatjaws. The body of another tricorne lies in an empty field. He cannot see the riders and sight of the field is soon lost in the billowing smoke. He remembers his promise to keep Cosette safe. He prays she and Arbuckle are not the fallen riders, but there is nothing that he can do now but that: pray.

  Before him, the large wooden gates are closing rapidly. Through them he can see two or three soldiers lending their shoulders to each gate. They slam shut just as Willem reaches them. They were built to keep out saurs, but the builders could not have imagined a saur like this. The wood splinters; the gates fall as if made of paper; the soldiers behind are tossed aside like toys under the creature’s headlong rush.

  The narrow streets of the city are choked with smoke and panicking soldiers who scatter before the huge horns and great thundering hooves.

  One soldier bravely stands his ground, raising his musket toward Willem, but a pistol sounds behind Willem’s ear and the man flies backward into a water trough.

  “The tower!” Frost shouts.

  A glance up, and even through the smoke Willem sees it. A tall circular watchtower in the distance to the south.

  * * *

  The battle of two armies has become the battle of the dinosaurs.

  Men and horses scatter as the great beasts rampage across the battlefield, the tricornes charging, their horns lowered, the greatjaws dodging out of the way and snapping as they pass. Through it all rides Jack Sullivan on his fearless steed.

  He races for a small hillock on the outskirts of the battle where two huge saurs are locked in combat.

  The tricorne charges but the greatjaw steps nimbly out of the way. Its massive jaw latches on to the neck of the other beast. The rider disappears and the man in the rear saddle flings himself off as the greatjaw bears the tricorne to the ground and pins it there with a giant foot.

  But Jack is moving without fear or thought. He spurs Marengo onward, drawing his pistol. There will be opportunity for only one shot and Jack knows how difficult it is to shoot from horseback. For that reason he waits until the very last minute. Riding right up toward the two great saurs locked in a dance of death. Only when he is right in front does he raise the pistol, utter a brief prayer, and fire. Not at the saur, but at its rider.

  The man topples, clutching his neck, bright blood bubbling between his fingers. Still Marengo closes in on the greatjaw, right alongside now, and Jack raises himself up in his saddle and dives off, clutching at the base of the battlesaur’s saddle and hauling himself up.

  There are cords and wires, the controls of the saur, but he does not know which does what. A small box has a lever and on impulse he jams that forward.

  The battlesaur rears in agony, thrashing blindly, tossing Jack off like a rag doll. It twists and bellows. The tricorne, released, wastes no time, sinking its horns deep into the belly of the vulnerable greatjaw, ripping it open, then charging in again, this time aiming for the neck.

  Jack rolls away across the mud as the dying greatjaw slams into the ground next to him. A nudge on his shoulder and Marengo is there. He quickly mounts and surveys the field.

  Of the mighty French battlesaurs, three are now dead or dying and two are riderless, disappearing into the surrounding forest. He searches for the other one, and to his horror, sees it disappearing into the walled city.

  As the resurgent Prussian Army sets upon the small French garrison, Jack spurs Marengo forward, riding hard for the city gates.

  * * *

  Willem holds on tightly, keeping his balance, but barely, as the tricorne continues its charge, impaling soldiers on its horns, tossing them aside like garbage. An artillery troop is wheeling a cannon forward but before the firer can touch the fuse, the weight of the tricorne slams into it, sending the cannon and the French artillerymen flying.

  They reach the harbor. It is packed with French ships, huge battleships, transport ships, their decks packed with soldiers.

  “So many ships!” Willem gasps.

  His words are swallowed by a thunderous, guttural roar that echoes off the walls of the buildings around them.

  Willem looks around to see a greatjaw right behind them. The tricorne does not need jolting; it has heard the roar too. It jerks forward, throwing Willem back in the saddle. The streets are narrow, there is no room to turn and fight. The greatjaw’s teeth slash through the air just behind them. The tricorne panics, running blindly from what comes after it.

  Willem glances back again just in time to see Frost fire at the greatjaw. The sound of the pepper cartridge is unmistakable but Willem curses as the cloud of particles shoots high in the air, above the greatjaw’s head.

  He is almost thrown from the saddle as the tricorne veers around a corner. Behind him, Frost is hanging on by his fingertips. The tricorne skids on the cobblestones and its hindquarters smash into a house. A wall collapses into a pile of bricks and dust. Still the greatjaw is right behind them, stumbling on the loose bricks that have spilled into the street. As it turns the corner the rider is revealed.

  “Now!” Willem shouts.

  The pist
ol kicks in Frost’s hand. The rider shudders and slides backward off the saddle.

  Willem gives a whoop, but his joy is short-lived. The greatjaw needs neither encouragement nor rider to chase a tricorne. Willem hauls on the reins, trying to regain control of his animal. He closes a blinder, steering the tricorne around another corner onto a small bridge across a river, heading for a church. Here the road curves again, toward the ocean. In the distance Willem can see the retreating masts of the Royal Navy.

  He turns again, into a narrow street filled with market stalls. The wooden poles and awnings disappear, shredded to ribbons and matchsticks.

  A quick glance confirms that the greatjaw is still right on their tail.

  “We must find somewhere to turn around,” Frost shouts, exactly what Willem has been thinking. If they can turn, the tricorne can fight, bringing its three great horns to the battle. But if they slow, the riderless greatjaw will be upon them.

  VICTORIE

  Thibault watches the battle from the crow’s nest of the Impérial, where he has climbed since receiving reports of a group of tricornes approaching from the east. He slams his one fist into the wood of the mast in frustration and anger, seeing two of his precious saurs lying in the fields beyond the city. How could he have relied on that fool Baston to defend the abbey? He slams his fist again into the mast, drawing blood inside his black leather glove. Within the walls of the city he sees the greatjaw close on the tail of a tricorne.

  “They are heading for the fort,” he shouts to the officers below him. “Send the reserve artillery to the courtyard. I want those tricornes dead!” He thinks a moment longer. “Prepare Victorie,” he shouts.

  He finds the opening in the floor of the wooden platform and begins to descend. It is difficult with only one arm, but Thibault does not even notice. His mind is on Victorie, the one battlesaur he held in reserve. A good name for a battlesaur because today she will be the difference between defeat and victory.

  He reaches the deck and runs for the gangplank, not minding that he is being watched by the lower orders of his troops. There is no time to waste.