Travis Starnes
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The Plains of Pluto - Chapter 22
🕑 Added 2025-03-15 15:00:05 +0000 UTCGreece
Gundomar pressed against the muddy trench wall as another shell screamed overhead. Thirty yards behind their position, it detonated, hurling dirt and metal fragments in all directions. It was as though Nastrond, the shore of corpses, had been brought from the underworld into this place. They had endured eighteen or maybe even twenty hours under constant fire. He’d lost count by this point as minute after minute, shells exploded around them, shaking the ground and his nerves alike.
“Down!”
Another shell landed closer. The impact struck ten yards right, percussion hammering his chest as dirt rained down. A young legionnaire huddled against the opposite wall, hands over ears, mouth opened in the way that they’d all learned helped equalize the pressure. The young man’s eyes, however, told the tale. Vacant, wide things that stared into nothing.
The men were starting to break, enduring things he’d never thought possible until now.
“The tribune said they would pull us from the line soon,” a man huddling near Gundomar said, one of the veterans who’d come down when the Consul repositioned them from Germania to this place.
Blood trickled from a cut above the man’s eye.
“The tribune says things. It doesn’t matter. Either they’ll come or they won’t.”
The man shrugged in response.
For a moment, the shells began to fall a little further away, pounding a section of the trench to their left. It didn’t help the nerves, since he knew they would swing back his direction, but for now he used the reprieve to check on his men. He crouched, still staying low to keep from being surprised, scuttling through ankle-deep mud, checking their trench section. Around a corner, he found a partially collapsed wall and three men injured by a very close hit.
One would be gone in the next few minutes, a massive hole torn in his chest. The other two … perhaps. A few years ago he would say all three would be dead, but the Britannians had been doing impressive things with medicine these days.
“You four,” Gundomar said, pointing out some men who looked mostly together. “Drag them to the aid station, then return to positions.”
As the men moved to obey, another shell landed close. Close enough that, for a moment, Gundomar thought he would be going with the injured men. But no explosion followed. Looking up at the edge of the trench, he could see something metallic protruding from packed soil. The shell hadn’t exploded. It just … sat there. The men around him who he’d ordered to pull the injured just stood there, all of them staring at the thing, probably wondering if it was going to go off.
“Ignore it and do as you were ordered!” Gundomar said, shaking the soldiers out of their fixation and getting them moving, taking the wounded to the rear.
Gundomar turned to see a wild-eyed soldier climbing the trench front, clawing at the dirt, screaming, “Have to get out! Have to get out!”
Three men dragged him down as another explosion showered them with dirt. The man collapsed sobbing, curled against the trench wall.
Gundomar just shook his head and moved on, both to continue his inspection and to get away from the unexploded shell. He wasn’t sure how much longer they could sustain this.
He continued down the trench, stepping over, and sometimes on, men packed into narrow confines. Some prayed, others stared ahead. Veterans reloaded rifles or just hunkered down, trying to keep sane.
They were on an important section of the miles of trenches dug into a long, zig-zagging line. This section held a curve that bent toward a set of low hills, standing out and exposed as one of the furthest east parts of the line.
Not a great place to be.
Another impact, followed by rumbling collapse. Screams down the line. And then suddenly … silence. It hadn’t tapered off or slowed. It had simply stopped.
The men around him looked momentarily relieved, but Gundomar knew what the sudden, complete silence meant.
“Firing positions! Check rifles! Fix bayonets!” He began yelling, pulling men out of the places they’d been hiding and pushing them into position.
Veterans needed no explanation. Coordinated artillery silence like this meant an infantry attack. Men rushed to firing steps, sticking their weapons above the edge of the trench.
“Movement,” someone called from down the way.
Gundomar climbed to a firing step, peering through a sandbag gap. As a breeze shifted the smoke, he felt his stomach drop.
The horizon had transformed into a moving mass of men. Eastern troops with their pale skin like ripe wheat, Greeks with their olive complexion and wiry hair, Egyptians with their almost bronzed hue were all part of the first wave, advancing in large masses that stretched beyond sight in both directions.
“Gods of my fathers,” Gundomar whispered.
He’d been at this end of many charges against the trenches in Germania. None had rivaled this.
A shot cracked and a man standing beside Gundomar jerked backward, blood spurting from his throat. Gundomar grabbed him, dragging him down as crimson spray patterned their uniforms. The man’s eyes rolled back, final breath gurgling through his neck wound.
“Fire!” he screamed as his men just watched the oncoming horde.
The Britannian line erupted as the enemy closed in. Gundomar sighted an officer leading the first wave, squeezed the trigger, watched him crumple. Front ranks fell, but waves behind pushed forward over fallen comrades without pause.
Where one man fell, three appeared, weapons lowered toward the trench. The waves created an illusion of the dead rising again, an endless tide flowing toward their position.
Britannian artillery responded from behind. Shells burst among advancing troops, throwing bodies skyward. One blast opened a twenty-foot gap in the enemy formation, closed within seconds as men flowed around the crater.
It was like they had a never-ending supply of bodies to throw at them.
Gundomar dropped below the parapet to reload, measuring powder, ramming the ball down the barrel. Along the line, men fired in staggered sequence, maintaining pressure while comrades reloaded.
“They’re at the wire!” someone shouted.
Gundomar returned to position. True enough, the enemy vanguard reached barbed obstacles two hundred and fifty paces in front. Eastern soldiers pushed sections down with poles, others threw mats over barbs. Some simply pushed forward, or rather were pushed forward, their falling bodies becoming bridges for those behind.
He fired, reloaded, fired again. After his third shot, the enemy closed to one pace or so. Individual faces became visible. Determined, afraid, some shouting unintelligible war cries through battle noise.
At fifty paces, both sides fired with frantic urgency. No-man’s land became a hellscape of cratered mud, discarded weapons, dismembered bodies. Blood and black powder stench filled the air.
“Grenades!”
All along the line, men pulled the fin-shaped weapons from belts or small stashes, pulled the priming cords, and heaved them onto the ground above. A ripple of explosions ripped out as they landed, killing men by the dozens. And still, on they came.
“Through on the left!”
Egyptian forces, by the look of them, poured into a section where defenders had thinned. Men fired point-blank, then fought with bayonets.
An Eastern soldier appeared above, sliding down with rifle extended. Gundomar lunged, driving his bayonet into the man’s chest. Dark eyes widened in shock, then glazed as Gundomar wrenched the bayonet free.
More followed. Gundomar fired at the next man, the shot taking him in the face. Three more dropped in before he could reload.
“Stand fast!” Gundomar swung his rifle like a club.
The wooden stock connected with an attacker’s head, sending him sprawling. Single shots, clashing metal, and screams filled the air. The trench became a slaughterhouse. Britannians thrust bayonets at dropping enemies while others fought hand-to-hand.
A few even pulled swords they kept on them, returning to the old ways of fighting.
One of the men he’d sent to carry the wounded earlier was a few steps away, grappled with a Greek soldier, locked in deadly embrace until drawing a knife and plunging it into his opponent’s ribs. Blood spurted, coating both men as they fell. Their man rose while the Greek remained.
Hand-to-hand fighting engulfed the entire trench system as the firing line was overwhelmed. Gundomar faced an Egyptian officer who slashed at him with a curved sword, missing his throat by inches. Gundomar countered with his bayonet; the Egyptian parried skillfully.
Gundomar was saved from the man’s counter when a grenade landed into the handful of Egyptians that had come with him and exploded, tearing their bodies apart.
The victory was short-lived as another man tackled him from behind, slamming him into the trench wall. Hands closed around his throat, cutting off air. Gundomar twisted, trying to get around, clawing at his attacker’s face, fingers finding an eye socket and pressing with desperate strength. The man screamed, releasing his grip.
Few men reloaded rifles now. The fighting grew too close for the slow process of powder and ball. They fought with bayonets, knives, entrenching tools, bare hands.
Bodies littered the trench floor, creating macabre barricades used by both sides. Gundomar grabbed a fallen rifle and vaulted over intertwined corpses to engage an Eastern officer who had killed two Britannians.
The officer thrust toward Gundomar’s midsection. Gundomar twisted aside, feeling the blade tear uniform without touching flesh. Gundomar brought his rifle butt down on the officer’s arms, breaking his weapon grip. A follow-up strike dropped the man to his knees, where a Britannian finished him with a bayonet thrust.
The enemy was everywhere and they were quickly being surrounded.
“Front line collapsing! Fall back! Fall back to the secondary trench.”
That was all the men needed, turning and running as if their lives depended on it.
Which they did.
Gundomar led the retreat down a narrow zigzagging trench toward rear positions. They met Eastern soldiers who had broken through elsewhere, engaging them in short, violent clashes in the confined space.
Men around him fell as the enemy fired into their backs.
Those with loaded rifles provided cover fire, each shot followed by desperate bayonet defense during reloading. Gundomar had managed to load the last round he had on him and fired at an enemy blocking their path, then rushed forward to finish him with his bayonet.
As he started forward again, a young legionary near him stumbled, blood pouring from a thigh wound. Gundomar dropped his rifle and pulled the sword he kept on him, something most of the men still did. Grabbing the injured man’s collar, he dragged him while fending off attackers toward the secondary line. Thankfully, the men who’d been there, mostly recuperating from the daylong parade, had formed a line at the communication trench and fired over their heads at pursuers.
Ahead, someone yelled, “Hold fire! Friendlies coming!”
Hands pulled them into the secondary trench and relative safety. Gundomar counted eight men from his original section, plus the wounded soldier. The rest were lost in the attack.
The secondary trench stood better constructed, deeper, with comprehensive overhead cover and reinforced firing positions, built for this contingency.
Desperate fighting continued as front line survivors joined the fallback defenders. Gundomar found himself alongside troops from three different units, all fighting to prevent the enemy from overrunning this final line.
He’d found a rifle someone had dropped and some ammo from a reserve box, putting himself back into the fight. They had a small reprieve though, as the enemy attack briefly slowed. They still pushed at them, but with less intensity than before.
He knew it was only a reprieve though. They were reorganizing, reinforcing, and getting ready to go again, and Gundomar didn’t have enough men to counterattack and take back the lost stretch of trench, and what men he did have were injured and out of ammo.
Gundomar positioned his remaining men along thirty yards near the communication trench and waited. Men distributed ammunition and water from dead to living. A medical orderly applied hasty bandages to wounds that allowed men to keep fighting.
The reprieve didn’t take long. Within a few minutes, the Easterners and their allies got themselves sorted out and the attack renewed, just as vigorous as before.
Gundomar fired at the first man he saw, an enemy officer advancing through the zigzag of connecting trenches, dropping him as he came around a corner. He was not alone.
Before Gundomar could reach for another paper cartridge, three Eastern soldiers rounded the same corner, leaping over the dead man. Gundomar thrust with his bayonet, driving the lead man back against his comrades in the narrow passage while Britannian soldiers to either side dealt with his friends.
The ground shook, knocking Gundomar off balance for a moment as Britannian artillery adjusted their fire, shells now landing nearly on top of them, just beyond the captured front line positions, trying to stem the flow of enemy pouring into their trenches with a wall of metal and fire.
Gundomar attempted to reload, but the mechanism seized. The rifle he’d grabbed had mud caked with powder clogging the firing hammer, keeping it from evenly striking the primer cap. He discarded the weapon, snatching another from the dozens dropped on the ground around them. This one must have just been lost, since the barrel was still warm to the touch.
To his right, there was a sudden commotion: shouts for help as the defenders in that section, which connected to a separate communication trench, began to thin beyond their ability to defend themselves. Gundomar pulled five men from the center section and rushed to the threatened intersection.
“Stand! Stand and fight!”
The Eastern forces had broken through the junction, advancing in single file through the narrow passage. Gundomar thrust his bayonet into the lead soldier’s abdomen, twisting the blade before wrenching it free. His men fired a ragged volley past him into the packed communication trench, dropping several attackers who tried to press forward over their fallen comrades.
Men stabbed and slashed within arm’s reach, unable to properly swing weapons or maneuver. Blood slicked the duckboards underfoot, forcing men to grab at trench walls for balance as they fought. Greek officers shouted orders from the rear, urging more men forward into the bottleneck where Britannian defenders cut them down.
“They’re coming through the left passage!” someone shouted from behind.
Gundomar grimaced. They were about to lose this trench too, and there was not a third trench line here like there had been in Germania. They hadn’t had time to dig it out more.
Gundomar pulled two men he’d just brought with him. It might not leave enough men to hold this junction, but they were running out of men and options. They rushed through fifty yards of support trench, arriving at the threatened position as Egyptian soldiers emerged from a connecting passage.
One of his men fell the moment they crossed a corner to point-blank fire. Gundomar and the others took cover behind a collapsed section of trench wall, firing whenever Egyptian helmets appeared at the junction. A rifle ball grazed Gundomar’s upper arm, slicing out a small gouge of cloth and flesh.
More enemy soldiers pushed into the junction, forcing Gundomar and his men back. Three attackers rushed at once. Gundomar parried a bayonet thrust with his rifle barrel, pivoted to drive his own blade into a second man’s throat, then narrowly avoided a knife thrust from the third. The other man with him fought with equal ferocity, knowing that retreating deeper into the trench system only hastened their encirclement.
Finally, he heard something he’d been longing for since the attack started: trumpets. The unmistakable brass notes of Alliance reinforcements sounded from the rear support trenches, stopping where the enemy had pushed forward and firing full volleys into them.
The sudden influx of Western Alliance men caused the momentum of the Easterners to halt, and then to retract. Gundomar and the other survivors joined the counter-attack, attacking alongside the fresh troops to retake their lost ground.
For the first time since the bombardment began, Gundomar thought he might survive this. The Eastern forces, now caught in the same confined spaces they had used to advantage, fell back through the communication trenches, pressed hard by the now larger allied forces. Their own reinforcements had been stopped by a veritable wall of artillery.
They cleared the trenches yard by bloody yard, stepping over the fallen from both sides. Some wounded still lived, pressed against trench walls to avoid being trampled as the counter-attack surged past. Men moaned for water, for mercy, for death.
As they approached the original front line, resistance stiffened. Eastern soldiers had fortified key junctions, turning dugouts into strong points. Gundomar directed rifle fire against these positions, then led a rush down a straight section of trench toward a dugout entrance held by Egyptian forces.
As he rounded the final bend, almost back to where he’d started the day, an Egyptian soldier emerged suddenly from the corner, driving his own bayonet deep into Gundomar’s chest before he could react. White-hot pain exploded through his torso as the blade sunk into him.
Anger flooded with the pain, and Gundomar stabbed out with his own rifle, right into the man’s head. As his killer fell, Gundomar collapsed against the trench wall, blood filling his lungs with each labored breath. His rifle slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering onto the duckboards as he slid down into the mud.
The man who’d been with him was grabbing onto his jacket, trying to hold him up, yelling for a medic, but the sound was distant. Far away.
The pain started to fade as the world became fuzzy around him. Gundomar’s final thoughts weren’t on the war, weren’t of victory or defeat, not of armies and the men he commanded. They were of the forests of his childhood and of the wind through its trees, calling him home.
***
Devnum
Lucilla stood at the window of her private reception chamber, looking out at the bustling main street that led from here all the way to the coliseum. It had been quite the day, every minute of it filled with long, stressful meetings.
But meetings she needed to take, in order to set up for the conversation she was about to have.
She turned from the window as a sharp knock sounded at the door, followed a moment later by Commander Faenius, who entered, trailing a weathered man with broad shoulders and dark hair that set him apart from his countrymen.
“Your Majesty, Captain Kolbeinn, as ordered.”
“Your Majesty,” the Captain said in accented but fluent Latin. “I am honored by your summons, though I confess I am puzzled why someone in your position would wish to speak with a simple ship captain.”
Lucilla studied him for a long moment, partially to set the mood and make him just a little more nervous, but also noting how much he resembled his uncle, Bjarki, who had been one of the leading merchants in all of Scandi, and the de facto leader of their council.
“You are more than just a simple captain. You are also the nephew of, arguably, the most important person in Scandia.”
“I am not my uncle. I am just a simple ship captain.”
“True, but you can get in to see your uncle, which makes you exactly what I need. Now, I’m curious, are you aware, Captain, that Scandi vessels continue to trade openly with Egyptian ports despite Egypt’s recent betrayal of Britannia and alliance with the Eastern forces?”
“I’ve heard rumors of some independent merchants making such voyages, Your Majesty. But many captains operate without direct oversight from…”
“These are not rumors, Captain. We have intercepted several Scandi ships coming and going from Egyptian ports in the last several weeks, and the ports of allies who’ve been invaded and currently held in Egyptian hands. Some of these ships have been carrying military supplies like gunpowder, which is being used on our people.”
“Again, Your Majesty, these are private merchants acting on their own initiative. The Scandi Council has declared neutrality in this conflict.”
“Neutrality is buying military supplies from us and selling them to our enemies? This passes as neutrality to you?” Lucilla asked. “That isn’t the worst of it, however. One week ago, Praetorians seized a Scandi vessel called The Njord. Its captain was caught loading military supplies stolen from our factories. Supplies not sold even to anyone outside the Western Alliance. Supplies meant for our troops fighting on the eastern front.”
“Your Majesty, I know nothing of this. This ship and its captain are unknown to me.”
“I am highly doubtful of that, but whether you know him personally is irrelevant. What matters is that your countryman was caught smuggling Britannian artillery shells to Egyptian vessels, which was used to learn how we made the weapons, and then produce shells of their own which are right now killing my people.”
“Your Majesty, I cannot speak for the actions of individual captains or…”
“Then speak for your government. Because I have reason to believe that Scandi leadership is deliberately maintaining commercial relationships with both sides in this conflict while claiming neutrality. A profitable position, to be sure, but hardly a neutral one when those commercial relationships include selling weapons to our enemies.”
“I know nothing of any such arrangements and cannot speak for the leaders of my people either.”
“I am aware, and I wasn’t expecting answers from you. I want you to take what I have to say, and speak with your brother. I need him to understand that this pattern of behavior constitutes a serious breach of Scandi’s claimed neutrality. One that Britannia will not tolerate. I want you to tell him that, effective immediately, Scandi will be considered a potentially hostile nation by the Britannic Empire. This decision has been reached after consultation with other Western Alliance nations who share our concerns and will be treating your people the same way.”
The captain’s face registered shock. “Potentially hostile? Your Majesty, what exactly does that mean?”
“It means, Captain, that all Scandi vessels are now barred from entering any Britannic port throughout the empire. Any Scandi ship attempting to dock at a Britannic port will be turned away by naval forces. This blockade extends to all commercial, diplomatic, and private Scandi vessels regardless of their stated purpose. Moreover, our Western Alliance partners have agreed to implement similar restrictions in their territories. Germania, Gaul, Italia, and Hispania will all close their ports to Scandi vessels.”
“Your Majesty, surely this is an overreaction to the actions of a few…”
“I am not finished, Captain. To enforce these rules, any Scandi vessels ignoring this embargo will face military consequences from Britannian naval forces. Ships attempting to get around the restrictions in trade or sail into one of our ports will either be sunk or confiscated as prizes of war, and their crews detained for the duration of the conflict.”
“This is tantamount to a declaration of war!”
“No, Captain. This is a measured response to Scandi’s breach of neutrality. A declaration of war would involve our navy actively hunting down your vessels on the open sea and sending a legion into your villages. For now, we are simply protecting our own waters and ports from a nation that has demonstrated it cannot be trusted.”
Thorvaldsson opened his mouth to protest, but Lucilla continued without pause.
“In addition to the restrictions on our ports, Scandi merchants and government officials are no longer permitted to purchase any military goods or technology from Britannia. All existing agreements for weapons, ammunition, and military equipment are suspended indefinitely. Several pending orders for muskets and powder will be canceled, with deposits forfeited to the Imperial Treasury. Again, this prohibition extends to all Britannian allies who have agreed to honor this military embargo.”
“Your Majesty, the economic impact of these measures…”
“Will be severe, yes. So, perhaps, selling to our enemies wasn’t the wise financial decision it once seemed. Furthermore, construction on Scandi ships currently in Britannian shipyards will halt immediately. Any vessels that have already started being built will be sold to another ally, with the money put down for their construction being forfeit. Scandi representatives will not be permitted to place new orders with any Britannian industrial concerns until this matter is resolved to our satisfaction.”
“You can’t do this. You have limited us from trading with nearly any nation in our reach. This will ruin most of our merchant houses!”
“I am aware, Captain. These are the consequences for the decisions you have made. I hope they know that it is within your, or at least your brother’s, power to get these restrictions removed. You are to deliver this message personally to your brother. It contains the formal written terms for Scandi to end the embargo,” she said, handing him an already written and sealed document. “Scandi must cease all trade with Egypt and Eastern forces immediately. Your vessels will submit to inspections by Britannian naval officers to verify compliance. Additionally, you must turn over any captains who delivered smuggled cargo to enemies of the Western Alliance for trial under Britannian law.”
“And if we comply with these demands?”
“Full diplomatic and trade relations will be restored, the embargo will be lifted, and Scandi vessels will once again be welcome in our ports.
“I see,” he said, taking the message.
“You are dismissed, Captain. Your ship will be the only Scandi vessel permitted to leave Devnum harbor, to ensure my message reaches Scandi leadership promptly. Every other Scandi vessel in any Britannian port is, as of this moment, impounded until we receive a response.”
“I will deliver your message, but I cannot predict how our Council will respond to such... demands.”
“That is not my concern, Captain. My concern is protecting the lives of my soldiers from weapons illegally sold to our enemies. How your government responds will determine whether Scandi prospers or suffers in the months to come.”
Comments
Dwight Palmer
I don't know, you may be correct. If only a few are in on the treason, then the majority may accept execution as a way to redeem their honor. It's your story so I will defer.
Travis Starnes
Maybe, but if the goal is to bring their country into the fold and keep them from openly joining your enemy, that probably wouldn't be the way to do it.
Dwight Palmer
I'd be executing all involved in the treachery.
Eric Blumenfeld
Many thanks! Keep 'em coming!
