The GNUF… freedom fighters? Army? Xiatamrou didn’t give a damn what they called themselves. The mounted pricks were swarming out of their camps. Looked to be a couple thousand of them, which was more than he was expecting, but less than he hoped for. Their projected numbers for the GNUF were more like ten thousand, so this was clearly a branch operation. Shame. Oh well. They were being shouted into some kind of order by their officers, but discipline was still clearly pretty lax. Discipline in his mercenary company, however, was anything but.
His officers quickly formed the men into ranks. Pavise crossbows out front, shields planted in the ground. Long pikes extending almost twenty feet out in front of them, steel heads gleaming wickedly. Behind the pikes, discreetly getting ready, was a small block of riflemen with weapons “liberated” from the Collective. But the GNUF didn’t need to know that little secret just yet. They probably wondered why his attached cavalry was off to one side, more than a hundred yards from the main formation. Even bandits understood the notion of “defeat in detail.” That unit looked like easy meat.
Their Collective advisers might have warned them, but, well, maybe they didn’t know either. Or the GNUF just weren't listening.
The GNUF road out at an angle to his main formation. Whatever they might be, what they weren't was lancers. They were already starting to knock arrows to their little recurve bows, steering their cheves with just their legs.
Xiatamrou could practically read their minds- sure the pavise crossbowmen had shields. The pikemen didn’t. And by the way, they were shooting from above, so the arrows would be going over the shields anyway. Makes you wonder what kind of moron jams their shield in the dirt and hides behind it when facing cheve archers. The crossbows might outrange their recurve bows, but probably not by much. And the bows could fire much, much faster.
Xiatamrou grinned hungrily. “Come children. Let Daddy teach you why heavy infantry is so scary. Yes, Daddy will teach you very well today.”
The GNUF raced in, sliding past the defensive square and losing their arrows as they passed. They were moving fast, so they were already starting to curve around the back of the square when Xiatamrou raised his hand and ordered “Loose!”
The crossbowmen stood up from behind their shields. Their wide brimmed, dish-like helmets shaded their eyes as they sighted down their bows. On the order, they picked a target and squeezed the trigger. Four hundred and fifty pound draw crossbows, punching bolts clean through the quilted armor of the GNUF. There weren’t many misses at such close range. The crossbowmen then dropped back down behind their shields. Return fire glanced off the helmet or was absorbed by the shield. It took six seconds to place the goat's foot lever, draw the string with an easy pull of the lever, place the next bolt, then it was UP and loose once again.
The compound bows fired much, much faster, of course. Against unarmored civilians, they had plenty of stopping power. But this was a company of elite Xia mercenaries. Their armor was well designed, well made… and steel. A blinding fortune in steel. Never mind looting the city, the bandits wanted to loot the mercenaries! A fact Xiatamrou had been exploiting his entire life.
The crossbow bolts were sheeting out of the square now, picked targets not volley fire. Melting away the GNUF raiders like snow in front of a fire. Some of the brighter ones spotted the problem quickly- the armor and shields used by the Xia mercenaries were all high quality and designed to stop or deflect arrows. The occasional lucky shot might sneak through and do some damage, but mostly, the arrows just bounced off. There is something inherently demoralizing about seeing your arrow hit someone clean in the head, only for it to bounce off their helmet like it was nothing. For them to hardly blink, before lining up their own, much more effective, shot on you.
Some of the more alert GNUF officers spotted the problem and tried to do something about it. They hung their bows from their saddle horns, pulled out sabers or short axes, and tried to charge the square. This got them exactly nowhere. Cheves will not charge into a nest of twenty foot long spikey bits of wood, no matter how much you kick them. It also had the unfortunate effect of telling the crossbowmen who the smart ones were. They didn’t survive to make a second attempt to break through the formation.
The GNUF held together for about three minutes, then broke. First singly, then in fives and tens, they split off and ran. Then someone started yelling “Retreat, and the whole formation disintegrated, running without a thought of order or reformation.
Xiatamrou smiled “kindly.” “Signal the Riflemen. Weapons free.” The bugler next to him sounded a short blast. The riflemen at the middle of the formation stood. The Pavise crossbowmen and the pikemen lay down on the ground.
The riflemen fired fast. The rifles were single shot, bolt action, but they could fire, accurately, ten rounds in a minute. Accurately, in this case, meaning they would hit center mass within a hundred yards. The GNUF were twenty yards away when they broke. It was a slaughter. There weren’t many riflemen, but then, there didn’t have to be.
The noise was deafening, incredible, impossible cracks like the devil’s own whip in a sinner’s ear. Endless CRACK-CRACK-CRACK as bodies fell screaming. Soft nosed lead slugs, heavy in the hand, smashed through flesh and bone alike, leaving dish sized holes where they exited the body. The cheves screamed too- not used to the sudden, horrible noise or the piercing smell of gun smoke.
The GNUF ran flat out, dropping flat over the necks of their cheves as they screamed at them to run faster. Whipping them, as though the cheves wanted to hang around any more than their riders did. As they got further away, the riflemen dropped to one knee for better accuracy, then stopped firing once the riders crossed the hundred yard mark.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
At which point the GNUF found out why the Xia cavalry were positioned so far from the infantry.
Xiatamrou had placed his cavalry well out of the firing lines for the riflemen. Once the GNUF had started to clear the rifle’s operational range, he put the cavalry into motion. Unlike the GNUF, his cavalry were lancers.
The troopers crouched over their saddles in a half seat, the lances tucked under their armpits as they rode down the fleeing GNUF. Their cheves were fresh, and full of enthusiasm. No stranger to the sound of guns were they. The broken bandits found long lances buried in their backs, and when lances were broken or lost, the troopers drew sabers and kept on chasing. Nobody saw any particular reason to take prisoners. Nobody was going to ransom this trash.
The GNUF were half way down the road when they found out that the troopers had pistols too. Out of an initial force of two thousand, five hundred and six, not even a hundred escaped with their lives.
“What an absolute mess. Well, the boys did well, I’ll give them that. Pass the word, Lieutenant. I aim to have this town pacified in short order. To that end, I am awarding the men a bonus. They may pillage Colmbe for loot and prizes of whatever sort they fancy. Today and tonight only. No burning buildings, nobody touches the caravans or the caravansary.” Xiatamrou smiled fondly. “They did bloody well. Tell ‘em to have fun.”
A few days later, a visibly pissed off Xiatokte rode into Colmbe with a string of guards. The town was still in tatters, recovering from the pillage. The GNUF was gone, but the voyageurs didn’t seem to have missed a beat. Nor had the caravaneers. The saloons and what locals there were, however, were another story.
The mercenaries patrolled the small town in twos and threes, “keeping the peace.” The actual, useful, intelligence gathering was being done by the troopers. They had pushed out fifty or more miles from the town, scouting hard. If GNUF forces tried to retake Colmbe, Xiatamrou would have plenty of notice, and plenty of time to do something about it.
’Te’s eyes flicked around. A lot of people just walking casually. Very casually. Excessively casually, in fact, given everything. A lot of long, silent glances, and curtains twitching as he rode past. He could smell the stench of secrets, of cabals forming. If the locals tolerated the GNUF before, they surely supported them now. This was a complete fuckup. Xiatamrou might be good in a fight, but garrisoning a hostile town? He was a nightmare.
How perfect.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” ’Te asked Xiatamrou. Very reasonably, in his opinion.
“You watch your tone with me, ’Te. This isn’t your bank. It would be a terrible shame if we missed someone and something awful happened to you.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly my point. This place is somehow more of a snake's nest than it was a week ago. So what, exactly, are you doing here?”
“First, I don’t answer to you, so piss off. Second, see the first point. Actually, you know what? Let me help you on your way.” Xiatamrou started to shove his chair back. ‘’Te waved him down and had his guard place a small locked chest on the table.
“Oh, it’s not me you are working for, though the Bank is going to be paying you.”
Xiatamrou settled back down. “I like the sound of “pay.” What exactly is the job, and who am I working for?”
’Te smiled. “The Clan, of course. And the job is the job you were supposed to do. Be doing. Namely, the pacification of Colmbe and ensuring the vital east-west trade corridor stays open.” Xiatamrou was going to growl something at ’Te there, but was cut off again. “I am frankly confused why you would make your life so much harder than it needs to be for this job. I know you don’t want to be posted here.” ’Te casually unlocked the chest.
“Elaborate.”
“This isn’t Cold Garden. It’s not Cold Garden’s turf. It’s not anybody’s turf, except maybe the Langpopo and even they might not really know. Colmbe exists because it’s in a geographically useful spot, and a load of people who don’t want to deal with anything too like an organized government thought it would be a great place to settle.”
“So?”
“So, Conditerre, there is no one here who is the boss of you. No one who you need to worry about pissing off. No one who can make a stink about what you do. The only thing that even passes for oversight is the Clan, and the only thing that the Clan cares about is- are you fulfilling your contract? That is it.”
Xiatamrou was looking thoughtful. He had ordered the ransack for that exact reason, of course, but hearing it laid out so plainly was… interesting. “Where are you going with this?”
“What was the last news you got from Cold Garden?”
“Asking if I know about your boss? Oh yes. He’s going to live, I hear. For now.”
“Yeah, my boss. Also my oldest friend, closest ally and the person who pulled me out of the neck deep shit that is Clan politics and idiotic prejudice. The man who gave me my career. Who’s patronage lets me live my best life.”
Xiatokte’s voice was rising, angry. “Not to mention the man who picked up the whole DAMN Clan and is carrying them through the godsdamned political bullshit in the City right now. And who seems to be on every planning and budgetary committee, industrial production board, investment group and every other thing keeping the economy going. In addition to running the bank. That guy!”
’Te flipped the chest over, dumping out hundreds of pages, each with a seal at the bottom. Xiatamrou recognized them. They were blade orders- bounty contracts unique to the Xia clan. When someone absolutely needed to die, and they didn’t care who did it.
“Old ’Tok liked to fill them out and leave the names blank as a way to relax during the day. Well, Xiatokmai and I have been filling in names. Here! One hundred and eight names. Known collaborators, suppliers, GNUF members, suspected Collective spies. Voyageurs who have been a little too happy making themselves useful. Each one budgeted for, each one payable when the head is delivered and identity verified.”
Xiatamrou’s eyes seemed to glow red for a moment- this was an insane amount of money, even for him. A few million rads, just from what he was seeing.
“Fulfil your contracts, Conditerre. By any means necessary.”