by Erik A Otto
Timothur started pacing again. He cast a sideways glance at Paulo. “I haven’t met many Fringe, Purveyor. I never thought I would say this, but I’m glad to have a naustic like you in our midst.”
Paulo’s eyes widened. He wondered if Timothur’s compliment was sincere. The Fringe took what they could get, though. “I appreciate that, General,” Paulo said solemnly.
Timothur continued, “And that’s why I want you to lead the foray. The odds of this clandestine attack may not be high, but this may be our one shot, and I should think our odds will be improved if the smartest man among us, the man who hatched the plan, the man who knows how to destroy the dikes, is there, in the flesh.”
Paulo felt a weight in his chest and considered objecting. He had limited military experience, and he didn’t consider himself to be any kind of warrior. But Paulo overrode his emotion. Timothur was right, and they might all be dead soon anyway if they were to fail. Besides, if Paulo said no to leading the mission he’d suggested, Timothur might take issue with the mission itself. He might be testing Paulo’s confidence in the whole plan.
Paulo only clenched his teeth and said, “I will go, General.”
In the small hours of the night, Paulo waited patiently in the courtyard as the barricade between the two inoperative gates was temporarily dismantled by his Fringe men and the garrison. Paulo’s ramolon breathed between his legs in a spasmodic sort of way. The beast seemed so wound up that it could unleash its fury at any time.
Paulo decided he would never want one as a pet.
He sat far to the rear of the beast, ensuring there was enough space between him and the powerful hammerhead trunk. As he examined its strange physiology, Paulo wondered why such a beast existed. If this was one of the unnatural creatures Sebastian had spoken of, created of a mash of woodpecker, hummingbird, and rhinoceros, why had it been created? It didn’t seem to serve a purpose in their world like the bone chuckers and gargoyles. Even the wyg lamps served a purpose. The mosqueros didn’t seem to have a purpose either. Why did the creators of their world make monsters such as these?
But this wasn’t the time to contemplate these questions. He would ask Sebastian when he returned—if he returned.
He looked over to his right to see Darian whispering to himself. He had offered to ride the other ramolon. Paulo couldn’t think of anyone better.
There were no mosqueros in the group. They decided to leave them behind on account of the shrieking noise they made. It would be too easy for the Cenarans to collapse on them in the dark with that noise as a beacon. The mosqueros weren’t particularly fast either. They were mainly good for close-range battle and instilling fear.
Horses could be quiet and fast, however, particularly the Pomerian breeds. Aisha had volunteered one of her senior officers, Colonel Mahrtan, to lead the group of twenty horses that would go forth to carve a path for them and fend off any assailants. Paulo looked back, and Mahrtan nodded to him. He looked ready enough.
Behind Colonel Mahrtan’s group, waiting near the stable, were a hundred more cavalry, snorting and stomping in the night. These would be used as a diversion from the attack on the dikes.
Looking up, Paulo sought out any sign of the gargoyles and their riders on the keep roof. He couldn’t see them but had to hope they were ready.
Paulo tried not to analyze their odds of success, but that just wasn’t who he was. He couldn’t help himself.
Besides the simple fact that they were vastly outnumbered, there were so many ways they could fail. They might never make it to the dikes, or they might fail to break through them, or they might get washed away when they did break through. Even if they succeeded in breaking the dikes, the gargoyles might be shot down trying to hoist them back to the keep. This was where the odds were even more harrowing. They would use only four gargoyles out of the remaining seven, because Timothur wanted to ensure they had three for the keep defense or as future messengers. These four gargoyles could bring back only one extra man at a time, and each round trip for a gargoyle to and from the keep would take at least five minutes. So basically, unless he was in the first round of gargoyles to hoist survivors, he could be stranded, waiting up to thirty minutes on the dikes, while over a hundred thousand savage Cenarans bore down on him.
The men around him spoke bravely of victory and celebration after the mission, but Paulo wasn’t so naïve. While there was a glimmer of hope for survival, for the most part it was a suicide mission.
Timothur walked over to Paulo. “They are ready, Purveyor. We will remove the end of the barricade as you approach.”
Paulo only nodded grimly.
“Good luck,” Timothur said, and he made to pat the ramolon on the behind but then thought better of it. Instead, he simply took a few steps back and gestured with his fist in encouragement.
Paulo manipulated the fins on the beast’s back. It lurched forward slowly.
The area under the gates was just big enough for him to pass through with the ramolon. He watched as the garrison men pulled away the last slab of composite wood and bone that made up the barricade. Then Paulo and his beast ventured out onto the promontory. Men followed from behind him to bring gangways to lay over the moat.
As he pushed the fin on the ramolon’s back to its fullest extent, a rush of nervous adrenaline channeled through him. From this point on, it would be a race against time. The ramolon picked up steam and drove ahead over the moat. Paulo looked back to see Darian’s ramolon and Mahrtan’s cavalry following closely behind, also picking up speed.
Paulo abruptly turned the ramolon steeply to the right, onto the plain.
The Cenaran perimeter wasn’t defined by any defense posts or other boundaries, which meant almost immediately Paulo was striding through their lines of tents. His ramolon breathed loudly and pounded its feet heavily into the ground, and so it was no surprise that wyg lamps came to life around him. Behind him he could see Colonel Mahrtan’s men riding in earnest, following Paulo’s every turn. They rode with bows out and arrows notched. A few loosed arrows at men who emerged sleepily from the tents. Many were hit before they even saw the beasts ride by.
A voice rang out in alarm, saying something in Cenaran, then another voice, and another. Paulo tried to urge the ramolon to move faster. He wove through the array of tents. More wyg lamps were illuminated around him and ahead of him.
To the rear he could see the diversionary force pour out and engage with the gathering numbers of awakened Cenarans nearer to the keep. More cries broke out, bells rang, and a Cenaran horn rumbled through the night air.
A hairless man with a sword ran in front of Paulo. Paulo urged his ramolon toward his assailant and trampled him, the beast’s huge forelegs easily bringing him to the ground. More men came out of the dark, running toward him. Arrows from behind Paulo took many of these Cenarans down before they reached the ramolons. On his left, Darian rode on in earnest, darting left and right, unfazed.
Finally they reached the open stretch he’d seen from the battlements. It had taken much longer than he’d hoped, but otherwise they were on track.
There was a good minute of hard riding without confrontation. Noises seemed to grow more distant. Paulo glanced behind. They’d lost only one horse so far. The rest ploughed on.
The ramolon’s footfalls suddenly became awkward and imbalanced.
“Stop!” Paulo said, and the company came to a halt. “There’s bog here. Follow me carefully.”
They moved to his left, toward a ramp in the terrain that took them to higher ground, where the ramolon’s footfalls became sturdier. Then he pushed forward again, driving as fast as he could.
No one was sleeping in the next array of tents they came across. Lights were on, and men were donning armor and weapons. But they still didn’t expect to see two ramolons and nineteen horses stampeding through their ranks, far from the keep.
More screams in Cenaran rang out. Some backed away, but others ran at them. Still others loosed arrows.
The ri
de through this block of tents seemed to last much longer than the first. Much of it was a frenzy of arrows and blades, ducking and swerving. When they broke out into the next open channel, Paulo looked around to assess the situation. Darian’s ramolon had taken an arrow in its side. An arrow was also jutting from Darian’s leg. He was holding his thigh, with teeth clenched, but his focus held forward. Despite his immobile jaw, his lips moved, whispering quiet words to himself.
It was hard to tell with Darian, but he looked in good enough shape to continue.
The cavalry behind them were less fortunate. The Cenarans had been able to shake off their surprise and take action against the tail of the column. Several Cenarans had engaged them directly with swords, toppling at least two of the horses. Four other horses were missing, downed by the increasingly numerous arrows.
But they would at least make it to the dikes. There should be little impeding them. Whether they had enough time when they arrived was another question.
They arrived at the safety dike first. It was steep, about twenty feet high and five feet across at the top. The company ran down the length of it and found a ramp that led to the top. Then they rode along the top until they found a way down on the other side. Before descending back down onto the plain, Paulo looked back toward the keep. It was too far away to make out how the diversion had fared.
The occasional scream reverberated in the night air, and a distant, indecipherable cacophony could be heard coming from the direction of the keep. But his ears were mostly tuned in to the trembling murmurs of his ramolon and his own heavy breathing.
They proceeded along the basin to the main dike, which was only fifty yards farther north. It was about the same height as the safety dike but thicker. The waters of the Great Ocean could be heard lapping against the far side. There were no guards here, but he could see lights down the length of it, marking distinct outposts that stood tall above the artificial walls.
He walked the ramolon along the base of the dike, his eyes frenetic, trying to ascertain where the earth was weaker—where they might gain access to the support beams.
He found a distinct indentation, where the wall was thinner and the ground looked to be sandy. Some of the back of the dike had even washed down onto the plain.
“Darian, you strike here.” Paulo pointed at the wall. “Focus on whatever wood support beams have been put in to reinforce it. That will maximize the impact. I’ll be close by.” He pointed down the line of the dike.
The cavalry arrived behind them, looking winded. Some of the men were bloodied, holding open wounds. “Colonel Mahrtan, have your men dig here, in the middle,” Paulo said. “We must weaken the mid point as well.”
“Yes, Purveyor,” Mahrtan said.
Before Paulo moved to his attack point, he witnessed Darian’s ramolon’s first pulse. The beast’s head rammed into the dike, creating a cloud of dust all around him. It would take some time, but Paulo hoped it would break eventually.
Paulo steered his ramolon away, and found a similar indentation down the wall.
Paulo’s beast rammed and rammed. Finally, after several pulses, a small hole had been made, and the support beams were visible. On the next pulse, the planking cracked. Then he broke through to the other side. He pulsed two more times. The hole broadened, the dirt collapsed into it, and a trickle of water started to flow over the top, encouraged by the occasional wave. He directed the ramolon to do one more pulse, which completely shattered the wood support beam along a several-foot span. That would be enough, he hoped. The water would be able to wash through the dike, at least in this one spot.
Sure enough, the trickle turned into a gush as the flowing water ate away at the sandy top of the dike. The force of the water was growing.
He rode his ramolon back to Darian, who was having some trouble. His ramolon had blasted away a wide berth on the dike, but the supports hadn’t cracked. It might have been because his beast was flagging. It shuddered between pulses, and the pulses seemed to be less impactful than those of Paulo’s.
“Let me finish,” Paulo said.
Darian’s ramolon moved away, and Paulo’s went at the wall. After several pulses, the beam cracked. With one more pulse, the whole indentation Darian had created caved in, and water cascaded down. His ramolon nearly lost its feet, but he managed to move it away to the side at the last minute, averting most of the flowing water.
“Back! Back to the safety dike!” Paulo yelled. He circled around to Mahrtan’s men. They’d made the beginnings of a hole to undermine the middle portion between the two fissures on each side. With enough pressure, Paulo hoped the entire mid-section of the wall would be washed away.
“Back on your horses!” Paulo repeated. “To the safety dike!”
Paulo moved perpendicular to the dike wall, then darted across one of the gushing streams they’d created. He didn’t want them to be near the path of the waters when the middle of the dike collapsed, so he made sure they stayed away from the anticipated deluge.
Faint lights danced just above the ground ahead of him. There were Cenarans, perhaps a hundred of them, running along the top of the safety dike. They were taking defensive positions and notching arrows.
Paulo halted his ramolon, and Darian pulled up beside him.
Colonel Mahrtan didn’t hesitate, however. He rode right past them at full speed, followed by ten more of his horses. He yelled only two words as he passed. “Break it!”
Mahrtan’s column of horses swerved to the left. They began exchanging arrows with the men on the wall. Some of the Cenarans ran down the wall to the focal point of the attack, leaving less of them in front of Darian and Paulo.
Paulo pushed the ramolon forward at full speed, looking for openings in the Cenaran line of defenders. When he reached the safety dike, he directed the ramolon to begin pulsing the wall. Darian did the same a ways down.
Paulo quickly penetrated to the wood supports. Cracks were beginning to propagate along the beams.
His hands were becoming raw, his skin blistering from the constant friction against the beast’s control fins. He could only imagine how the ramolon must feel. That is, if such a beast could feel anything at all.
A loud clanging noise drew Paulo’s attention. Down the way Darian was off his ramolon and on the dike, sparring with an assailant. The Cenaran had knocked his sword out of his hand, but Darian managed to seize an injured Cenaran and use him as a shield. Then he took a step back, pushed the Cenaran away, and cowered on the dike with his hands covering his head.
The attacking Cenarans advanced. They looked to the sides and even behind them, but not above—not where the threat was. Huge black claws dug into their shoulders, snatched them up and took away from the dike. One of the gargoyles was lost in the darkness, but the other could be seen ejecting his prey several hundred feet up.
It swept down again.
This time the gargoyle glided down at a low altitude along the dike, just above Darian and past where Paulo was pulsing his ramolon. The oncoming Cenarans stopped in the face of the beast hurtling toward them. They had nowhere to go. Two jumped off the sides of the dike, and one turned and ran backward but was snatched and raised in the air. He became one more Cenaran meteor launched into the night sky.
Slowly, Darian managed to rejoin his ramolon and begin pulsing. Meanwhile, Paulo had smashed the wood support to pieces, and the dike was dipping in where he pounded the earth behind it. Here there was only maybe an inch of water around him, so he didn’t have the force of the water to help him. He would have to hope the water would do the rest when the safety zone filled.
The ramolon splashed its feet as it pulsed. It was such a strange beast. It would get testy if its feet were wet in a puddle of water, but was oblivious to ramming its own head into a wall.
After making a more sizeable hole, he maneuvered down to where Darian was working. Besides the arrow in his leg, Darian also had a large gash in his chest. He looked pale, and his ramolon was no better. Darian would use the f
ins to direct the beast to pulse, but it would just sputter in place and ooze greenish fluids from the top of its head.
Paulo was getting impatient, and for good reason. Mahrtan’s men were falling, and beyond them, a massive surge of Cenarans came along the dike—hundreds of them. And just as these came into view, Paulo heard the nasally shrieking of a Cenaran mosquero coming from the other direction.
Paulo’s ramolon took the place of Darian’s flagging beast and began pulsing. The wall was thicker here and the support beams stronger. Darian managed to dismount his useless ramolon and move onto the dike. He tried to pull himself to a standing position but he seemed unable to maintain his footing. Eventually his strength left him and he fell softly forward onto the slanted wall. His body was still, save for the shaking from the pulses Paulo’s ramolon inflicted on the dike.
Just before the mosquero was upon him, a gargoyle swooped in and clawed at it, halting it in its stride. Paulo could see Sebastian riding it. The gargoyle rose up again and came in for another attack. Its claws tore a gash across the mosquero’s head, removing an eye, but the trunk of the beast lashed up and stuck to the gargoyle. The gargoyle’s momentum was halted, and the whiplash threw Sebastian onto the dike while the two beasts tumbled off the wall together.
Sebastian’s gargoyle offered only a temporary reprieve. Paulo could see another mosquero coming, and behind it, another surge of Cenarans.
There was little time left. Whether it be the mosquero or the surges of men, they would be upon him soon, if the rising waters didn’t engulf him first. And their mission wouldn’t succeed unless they could make a proper hole here. Otherwise the pressure would be minimal, as would be the flow. It was the only way to ensure that a significant portion of the dike wall would collapse.
The wood support finally bent on the next pulse. On the next one, it cracked. Paulo’s ramolon still had strength but it was beginning to make the disconcerting sputtering noises Darian’s beast was making.
The mosquero was closing but wasn’t as quick as a horse. And to his left along the dike, the Cenaran horde had vanquished the remaining Pomerian cavalry, although they had some ground to cover to reach him.
