Time Commander (The First Admiral Series) (38 page)

“
Present!” The bushy-bearded sergeant made his presence known as Billy drew the rifle up to his shoulder.

“
Aim!” Billy targeted a smaller, slighter warrior with a brown loin cloth and black cow-hide shield.

“
FIRE!” the sergeant ordered.

Once again the world in front of him disappeared in smoke and fire, and the rifle kicked against his shoulder, but, this time, Billy knew he had hit the target. The small, slight warrior was on his knees, having dropped his shield and weapons. Clutching his abdomen, the warrior keeled over onto his face and lay still.

Got you!
Billy thought, and found that his hands were automatically working the mechanism of the rifle and slotting a new cartridge into the rifle.

By the eighth shot, Billy’s eyes were starting to sting, and his shoulder was starting to ache. But, by that point, the Zulus had reached the one hundred yard markers.

The long, loping strides of the warriors suddenly ceased as they ran into the broken glass and nails set down earlier that day. Even with bare feet conditioned to hard marches and running for many years, the sharp edges of the glass and points of the nails tore and stabbed at the Zulus’ soles. The first warriors to reach the glass and nail trap lurched to a halt, with those following them either running into or being blocked by their injured comrades, or else simply running further into the trap themselves.

“
This is it lads, give them everything you’ve got!” Billy fired his rifle at a lurching Zulu warrior, who carried a white shield with what looked like a corn cob at the top.

The British officers and NCOs, seeing the Zulu attack grinding to a halt, urged the tired riflemen on, and stepped up their firing routine. “Load...present...aim...FIRE!” they shouted, speeding up the tempo of the drill. In the centre of the firing line, Billy Caudwell lost all idea of the concept of time as he repeated the drill of loading and firing at the Zulus who were trying to extricate themselves from the trap he had set for them. The riflemen, sensing that the Zulus were not going to overwhelm their position, and realising that this was their big chance to drive them off, somehow found a second wind. As the adrenaline surged through their bodies, their tired, aching limbs suddenly didn’t hurt any more. Their stinging eyes no longer hurt and the raging thirst from lack of water and the salty taste of the smoke in their mouths abated. Their bruised shoulders found a new strength, as they loaded and fired like men possessed.

The cannon bellowed once more, his time a much duller CRACK than before.

He’s double-shotted them
, Billy speculated as he loaded and fired at the carnage and confusion ahead of him.

Major Smith had indeed double-shotted the cannon. Instead of one case shot being used, the Major had increased the powder charge and put two case shots into the barrel. When the gun had been fired, twice the number of projectiles had slashed downrange to tear into the stumbling and lurching Zulus. At one hundred yards, Major Smith couldn’t miss the target.

The volleys hammered into the mass of Zulus who had been brought to a halt by the glass and nail trap. The more adventurous of the Zulus managed to clamber over the fallen bodies of their comrades to press on to the British position; which seemed so close to them, only to find themselves landing amongst more of the glass and nails. Where the glass and nails trap was sparsely distributed on the ground, some warriors managed to break through, but for only a few steps. The volleys would then cut them down just as indiscriminately as their comrades who had already fallen.

As with all retreats, the Zulu withdrawal started from the back of the formation. With their formations scattered to the winds, the Impi commanders decided that it was time to regroup.

The Zulus started to withdraw in good order; holding up their shields as if they were some kind of magic talisman that could stop the heavy bullets that just kept on coming at them from the British position. Billy Caudwell was not prepared to let them off quite so lightly. From his position in the front line, he urged the riflemen to keep firing at the fleeing Zulus. The riflemen, rightfully elated at their sudden success responded by repeatedly pouring volley after volley into the mass of fleeing warriors. The officers and sergeants yelled the orders, held the discipline together and sent one devastating volley after another into the enemy’s ranks.

When it was over, and the Zulus had retreated back beyond the six hundred yard markers, Billy Caudwell called the “cease fire” order. But still, some of the riflemen; lost in the sheer joy of victory, and, of killing an enemy who would most surely have killed him, kept firing at the fleeing figures. With shouts and curses from the NCOs, the exhausted and elated riflemen were finally silenced. There then followed a great cheer, as the British soldiers celebrated, hoisting their rifles and helmets into the air. Many of the British soldiers shouted insults and jeered at the rapidly disappearing Zulus; who seemed to be heading back to the broken ground at the foot of the ridge.

Meanwhile, on the flanks of the position, the Zulus trying to cross the dongas were joining the retreat. Having seen the “Chest” of their attack withdraw, they knew that they could never break the British position alone.

So, to the jeers, insults and sporadic carbine shots of the Natal cavalrymen, the two “Horns” slowly made their way back to the ridge. The Natal cavalrymen, predominantly from the tribes who had been on the receiving end of Zulu cruelty in previous generations, celebrated with cheers and tribal dances for a victory over the enemies of their blood.

Billy Caudwell, exhausted by the exertions; both physical and mental of the firing line, let them cheer and celebrate for a few minutes, before returning to the water supply wagon he had taken over as his observation and command post.

“
Right then, Major,” Billy began, “issue water to the men, rifles cleaned, fresh issue of ammunition, and post lookouts on top of the barricade wagons. I’m expecting the Zulus to try to sneak warriors up close to our positions. Anything that moves, shoot it.” He took a swig of water from a nearby canteen.

Rinsing out his mouth from the taste of the gun-smoke, Billy spat the water out and then took a long drink.

“Do you really think they’ll come back after that thrashing?” Major Pulleine asked.

“
Oh yes, Major,” Billy Caudwell looked out over a battlefield that could have been drawn straight from the pit of Hell itself.

All the way from the six hundred yard markers the field was littered with dead and wounded Zulus. At the one hundred yard markers; the high-tide of their advance, the dead and wounded were piled up.

They lay where they had fallen; mowed down by the rifle volleys and cannon case shot.

What kind of human beings can take that kind of punishment
, Billy marvelled at their courage, whilst being sickened by the savagery of it.

Shields, spears and clubs lay everywhere. Some of the black figures on the ground were trying to drag themselves away to find comfort from their comrades. Many writhed and screamed in their pain and agony, whilst some just lay quietly and awaited the inevitable cold, cloying hand of death to find them. For many, lost in their own worlds of pain and distress, they moaned pitifully. Some called for help. Help that they would never receive.

By Billy Caudwell’s estimation, there were close to twenty thousand Zulu casualties out there.

That
was half their army
, he considered, but also remembered that there was also another half to contend with.

The British had lost five dead and twelve wounded. The Zulus still had twenty thousand warriors left; that was still an advantage of ten to one, and Billy Caudwell understood the cold, clinical mathematics of the situation. Since the Zulu commanders had been prepared to sacrifice twenty thousand men, they were undoubtedly capable of sacrificing the rest to clear the British out of Zululand before the harvests. His position was far from safe, despite all these Zulu losses.

“They want us off their turf, Major, they’ll definitely be back,” Billy scanned the carnage in front of them.

Jarrelm Grobbeg, former Frontier General and commander of the Fourth Frontier Fleet, paced nervously back and forth across his pale blue Containment Cell.

For a Ganthoran military Containment Cell, this particular one was especially luxurious, reserved only for the highest rank of prisoners. At three metres by three metres, it was still larger than those accommodations reserved for those of less, illustrious rank. It was still, however, a lot less luxurious than Jarrelm Grobbeg had grown accustomed to as Frontier General.

As military commander of the Fourth Frontier, Grobbeg had been accustomed to the best of everything; the best food, the best of alcoholic beverages, the best residences, and the company of almost every female he desired. Those were days that were long in the past now for Jarrelm Grobbeg. The finely tailored uniforms were now replaced by a one-piece Imperial Guard fatigues overall. The finely crafted boots that once adorned his feet were also now gone, replaced by roughly made shoes that he found difficulty walking in. With no fastenings, the shoes had a habit of slipping off from his feet when he lifted them from the ground. Thus, the normally proud gait and confident stride of Jarrelm Grobbeg was replaced by an apologetic shuffle.

His bushy beard and fine dark hair had also been removed as part of the regime enforced at the Imperial Guard Military Prison. At the facility, everyone was clean shaven and bald headed, and in the stifling heat of the Containment Cell, it was something that Jarrelm Grobbeg was grateful for. The idea of removing his facial and head hair had not been for his particular comfort, but more to rob him of his individuality. Every single one of the eight hundred prisoners at the facility had been similarly stripped of head and facial hair. With the beard removed, Grobbeg still retained the sharp, angular features of his lower jaw and forehead, and his dark eyes still missed nothing that was going on around him. After a fortnight of facility food, his rotund frame was already starting to shrink.

Thus, the life of Jarrelm Grobbeg was just beginning to settle down to a routine that he could scarcely call normal. He ate his meals in his cell, with the military grey containers sliding through the white, shimmering Tele-Portal doorway that stood opposite his bed. Four times per day, he was allowed out of the Containment Cell for a short time to allow for his toilet and bodily functions. When his Legal Representative visited him, the meeting was conducted in a special room where a large transparent partition separated the lawyer from his client. It was an existence for Jarrelm Grobbeg which he had grown to tolerate, and become as comfortable as any prisoner could become with such a regime.

Except that this day was different. This was the day of the Time Warrior Ritual. It was this day that his future was likely to be decided. Almost every Ganthoran citizen would be watching the Vide-Broadcast monitors to follow the fortune of the flame-haired alien from Earth, and his attempt to claim the Crystal Throne. Even some of the lower ranking prisoners in the Facility would have access to the Vide-Broadcast.

Many of them would be hoping that a new Emperor, if the alien was successful, would grant them all amnesty as a part of the Coronation celebrations. This had been a tradition for all but the most dangerous and serious offenders in the Empire. However, Jarrelm Grobbeg would be at the especial mercy of the human who had defeated and shattered his Fourth Frontier Fleet.

Jarrelm Grobbeg was quietly confident that Billy Caudwell could and would succeed in whatever challenge the Adjudicators had set him. Having been on the receiving end of the tactical brilliance of the young Alliance First Admiral, Grobbeg knew that there would be very few enemies who would last very long in opposition to Billy Caudwell. The Time Warrior Ritual would have begun by now, and here he was; the person who most needed to know the outcome more than anyone else in that facility, had no access to the Vide-Broadcast. It was both frustrating and annoying for Grobbeg. He wanted to know, no, he needed to know if he was likely to have any chance of survival. Grobbeg knew that if Caudwell failed, the prison guards would simply walk into his cell and shoot him down like an animal. There would be no fanfare, no spectacle, no ceremony and no ritual for his death. It would simply be a plain, simple shooting in a squalid, little cell in the middle of the Ganthus City military prison.

That was not how Jarrelm Grobbeg wanted to die. If he was not going to die of old age, Jarrelm Grobbeg had wanted to die leading his Frontier Fleet to victory over impossible odds. There would be memorials to him, with statues raised in his honour in the far flung corners of the Empire. Children would be taught lessons of the heroic Frontier General, carefully avoiding the murder, extortion, and unpleasantness that had led him to the exalted position of Frontier General in the first place. He would go down in the annals of Ganthoran history as a conqueror and hero, or so he had hoped.

If Caudwell lost, then he would be shot and his body dumped in a hole somewhere, an anonymous and unmarked grave, out on the Lightning Fields. He wouldn’t be a conqueror and a hero, he would simply be another opportunist Frontier General who had gambled and lost. Within hours of his death, another opportunist General would be appointed to command his Frontier Fleet, and Jarrelm Grobbeg would be all but forgotten within a few years. Still shuffling angrily back and forth across his cell, Grobbeg decided that he would lie down on the bed, and try to think of other things. No sooner had he lain himself down, than his entire world disappeared in a bright, blinding white flash.