Free Conflagration by Mick Farren Page B

where a trickle of blood ran down from just above his eyebrow. Argo was the first to notice. “Hey, man, you’re bleeding.”
    Raphael tersely shook his head. “It’s nothing, just a scratch.”
    “You want a medic to take a look at it?”
    Raphael found a handkerchief and dabbed at the cut. His expression was scathing. “Be real. There are guys being blown to pieces just over there.”
    Cordelia didn’t want to look, but Raphael was right. The infantry and the fighting machines were advancing into a hell of shot, shell, and deafening cacophony. Within just minutes, they had been almost totally obscured by dark billowing smoke, curling in sudden eddies, and punctuated by flashes of red-orange flame. Starshells burst overhead, leaving blossoms of white cloud, and a dirigible rode the wind currents, but safely to the east, out of the reach of even the most optimistic Mosul fire. The terrible beauty of it all left Cordelia scarcely able to speak. The battlefield was a place of brutal fascination, to which all must succumb, no matter how many engagements they had seen. The aides and officers around her had all been at the Battle of the Potomac, but they still stared in awe as the main Albany assault ground deeper and deeper into the valley that so far didn’t even have a name.
    Dunbar observed what was happening and cleared his throat. “Yes, gentlemen. Take a good look, and tremble. You have one minute to stare in horror at what we have wrought, and then, goddamn it, get yourselves back to the task at hand.”
    The officers around the map table visibly pulled themselves together. Dunbar took out a pocket watch, read the time, and then snapped it closed. He turned briskly to his artillery coordinator. “Musgrave…”
    The stocky, red-haired colonel stiffened. “Sir?”
    “Move the guns into the valley. Fast as you can.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Cordelia had once been friends with Musgrave’s daughter Hyacinth but, when Hyacinth had enlisted in the Royal Nursing Volunteers, Cordelia had lost track of her. Musgrave picked up a field telephone, briskly cranked the handle, but nothing happened. He cursed all modern contraptions of wires and batteries, then quickly turned and signaled for a galloper. A young lieutenant stepped forward—little more than a boy who had yet to start shaving. He was given quick instructions, and then ran for his horse. The spell of first combat was broken, now the officers were all in motion, casting worried glances from the battle itself to the maps in front of them. The near end of the valley was now so swathed in smoke that to see whether the advance was still moving proved hard. Bursts of small-arms fire seemed to indicate that the infantry was engaging the Mosul on the ridge. One group of staff officers was peering at the high ground through field glasses. “Field Marshal, I see explosions in among the trees, near the summit line.”
    “Cavalry making contact?”
    “That’s how it looks.”
    “Let’s hope so.” Dunbar searched for Musgrave. “Where are those damned guns?”
    “They’re moving now, sir.”
    Cheers broke out from across the knoll as galloping teams of horses, a mounted rider on the leader, charged through the camp with all the show and bravado of the mobile artillery, and then plunged on, each dragging a light howitzer. Down the trail and into the valley, they maintained a reckless speed across ground already torn up by armor and infantry. The gun-carriages were making for the base of the eastern ridge, before the enemy could draw a bead on them, to set up forward firing positions from which they could rain down all hell on the Mosul in the opposite trees.
    As the last caisson rattled past, Cordelia could not resist clasping her hands together in wonder and delight. The gunners had charged out so breakneck, and splendidly headlong, Albany suddenly seemed to have a chance. They were taking the fight to the Mosul at such a dashing fury, how could they not