with Blair-everything fell apart. By the sound, the seaborne assault had commenced with a will, likely catching the Doms attempting to respond to Chack and Blair’s attack, as hoped, but now there was fighting everywhere, and Chack had personal control of barely a company of mixed “American” and Imperial Marines.
“The harbor’s that way,” gasped Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar, pointing vaguely over the top of a stone barrier that she, Chack, and the rest of his remaining command had been forced to shelter behind. The barrier formed a rectangle around the Company/Government headquarters building, and there were a lot more rebels or Doms within than Chack had Marines outside. “I can hear the monstrous, great guns still firing from one of the forts,” Blas added.
“I’m glad someone can still hear something,” Chack growled irritably. “This war gets noisier all the time.”
“You like the exploding shells,” Blas accused.
“They don’t explode repeatedly next to my ears,” he said. “And if our enemies ever begin using them, I’ll probably like them less.”
“General Aalden was right about the muskets, though,” Blas insisted. “You can’t poke a bow over a rock wall and loose an arrow without showing much of yourself!”
“A point.” He looked around. Firing had resumed in the direction they’d come from, echoing dully down the narrow, debris-strewn streets, and he had no idea who was shooting at whom, or in which direction. It would probably not be a good idea to go back that way. “If they made their buildings up off the ground in a proper fashion, we could see more,” he grumped.
“We can’t stay here, Major. We must get back into the fight.” Blas looked around. “We need a mortar-gre- naades. Something to raise the enemy fire so we can move.” An errant roundshot, a big one, probably from Salaama-Na herself, crashed into the building before them and showered rocky fragments into the street. The strange but geometrically pleasing city was being systematically destroyed. Smoky dust filled the air.
“Major!” cried an Imperial Marine nearby. “Look there!” A door had opened across the street, and an arm was waving them toward it.
“A local?” Blas asked.
“Must be. It may be a trap, though,” someone said.
“Not all here are rebels, surely,” Chack speculated. He looked at the Marine. “Try to make it across. We’ll fire a volley as you move, to cover your sprint!”
At Chack’s signal, the men and ’Cats behind the barrier fired their muskets at the Company headquarters, and the red-coated Marine scrambled through the rubble and disappeared safely through the door. There was little return fire from the Doms. Several minutes later, a red-sleeved arm motioned from the door in the gloom, and Chack ordered the covering fire resumed. The Marine almost made it back before he tripped and fell, but he managed to scrabble back to safety with musket balls “vrooping” by above his head, or sending shattered rock over the top of the wall.
“Major,” he wheezed, crawling up beside Chack, “it’s a New Dubliner, all right. A cobbler.” The man grinned. “He don’t know what you Lee-mooans are, and he was a touch nervous, but he seen our red coats. He’s a loyal man. Says his sons are watchin’ the fight from the rooftop. Lots of locals are, all over the city, an’ many’re with us! The Doms’ve treated folk rough.” He shook his head. “Anyway, a lot have risen up-that’s one reason we’re not takin’ much fire from above. There ain’t many of ’em armed, but those that are are tryin’ to stay out of the way, on the roofs! They ain’t fightin’ much,” he admitted, “just enough to keep the Doms down off their places, see, and not enough to provoke ’em as much against them as they are against us!”
“That’s a larger service than they credit,” Chack mused. “But are they not vulnerable to the flying creatures the Doms control?”
“They might be, but for the smoke. Seems the bloody damn things don’t like it. Can’t see through it, or breathe it, maybe. They don’t know why. Anyway, all them devils are gone, or stayin’ above the fight, says he.”
“Does he know where our closest friends are?”
“Aye. If you’ll look up, he has three stories. A fair view. There’s maybe another company just two streets yonder!” The Marine pointed beyond the cobbler’s establishment.
“Okay,” Chack said, deciding. “Will you take me to meet your new friend?”
The Marine looked back across the avenue he’d just crossed twice. “Aye, sir.”
“Good. Blas? Same procedure as before.”
They both made it again, though a few balls came close, and they bolted through the door followed by splinters and powdered, gravelly dust. The “cobbler” was still in the dark room, standing behind a substantial wall. He started to move to greet them, then stopped, his eyes going wide in the gloom at the sight of the Lemurian.
Chack touched his battered helmet. “Major Chack-Sab-At, of the Amer-i-caan Navy and Maa-rine Corps,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage. “Ally and friend of His Highness, Gerald McDonald. I am at your service, sir.”
“By all that’s holy!” blurted the balding, tall man. “The Doms said ye were demons, an’ ye do look like one!”
“I hope we are demons to them, sir,” Chack said, “but we’re friends of the Empire.”
“Well… that’s good enough for me,” the man decided. “If those bloody bastards fear ye, an’ men such as this Marine obey ye, I’d wager ye’re near a saint! How can I help?”
Chack quickly scanned the room. Shadowy objects were discernible. Shoe lasts, benches, stacks of leather, tools. “I’m told you can see the battle from above?”
“Aye.”
“May I have a look?”
The man hesitated only slightly before nodding. “Aye, follow me.” He opened a door that concealed a flight of stairs and retrieved a burning lamp from a step. “This way, if ye please.”
Up the stairs they went, passing through the second-story living space. The third was much the same- possibly for the sons? Finally, the trio emerged on the roof, surrounded by a high continuation of the out- side wall. Four young men greeted them with muskets, but turned them away when they recognized the cobbler. A middle- aged woman and a girl sat huddled to one side, wrapped in blankets head to foot, to protect them from flying debris. Chack didn’t know if he’d ever seen such concern for Imperial females demonstrated by anyone other than Commodore Jenks-or Governor Radcliff on Respite Island. The reaction of the “sons” was similar to the cobbler, but he quickly assured them.
“Watch yerself near the edge,” the cobbler warned as Chack started to look around. “I doubt the sods’ll hit ye, but they might get grit in yer eyes!”
Chack nodded his thanks and began to absorb the Battle of New Dublin. The house/store/shop wasn’t the tallest building in the city by any means, several being two or more stories taller, but it afforded an excellent view of the chaotic struggle. It was surreal. Salaama-Na had moved quite close to one of the forts with her great sweeps, and the two traded heavy fire like angry volcanoes locked in a hellish embrace. The Home had the advantage in firepower, but whether the great ship or the fort was more durable was anyone’s guess. The other fort was a smoldering ruin, probably destroyed by a hit in its magazine, and Chack realized he must have missed its demolition during the bombing. He doubted it was constructed to protect against attack from the air.
The harbor glowed and pulsed with burning ships of all sizes, and buildings and warehouses all along the waterfront were in flames. Small flashes lit the night in all directions, like granules of gunpowder trickled in a fire, and he finally gained a semblance of understanding where the general respective lines were. A light gun barked in the street to the south and canister crackled down an alleyway amid foreign screams. Must be one of our light six- pounders, he thought. Bringing it down the mountains behind them would have been a nightre. I wonder how many there are? Few pieces were firing anywhere in the city; the Doms must’ve had all of theirs pointing outward, and spiked them as they were overrun. The only other big guns still in the fight were those of the fort, a few light pieces firing inward that the landing Marines must have brought, and what appeared to be a Dom bastion of some kind far on the northwest side of the city. Guns from there belched fire in all directions.
“Maarine,” he snapped, “what’s your name, anyway?”
“Private Shmuke, sir.”
“ Corporal Shmuke, after I talk to Mr. Blair,” Chack said. “I need you to contact that company fighting to our
