Ahead of them came the clamour of war, men shouting, the blowing of flutes, beating of drums, then, faintly, the sound of great vessels in the vanguard ramming into each other, screams as men fell into the water or were speared, knifed, clubbed, or axed.
Stafford ordered that his craft ignore the Kramerian fleet, if possible, and head for Fides. He also commanded that signals be sent by his watchman to the other Albionian boats.
“Let the duke and the Cornishmen and the Huns take care of the enemy on the water!” he said. “We’ll storm ashore as planned!”
As the sun cleared the mountains on their left, it disclosed a high earth and rock rampart on top of which was a wall of upright logs extending as far as the eye could see. At its base the fog was a woollen covering, but this would soon be burned away by the sun. There were thousands of helmeted heads behind the wall and above them the heads of thousands of spears. The huge alarm-drums were still booming, the echoes rolling back from the mountain behind it.
Amidst the deafening bruit, the flagship, Invincible, pulled up alongside the main gate, just past the end of the piers, and loosed, one by one, great stones from its catapults. These smashed in the main gates. Other boats, in Indian file, came up and loosed their boulders. Some struck too high, some too low. Nevertheless, five other huge holes were breached in the wooden walls and a few defenders smashed.
Instead of turning around to use the catapults on the other sides, a manoeuvre that would have taken much time, the boats sailed along the banks. They had to tack some to keep from grounding and so being rammed by those behind them. When the flagship had gone far enough to give room for its followers to stop, its sails were dropped, and its bow turned toward shore. Anchors, large stones tied to ropes, dropped into the shallows. At once, the small boats were launched, and since there was no room in them for all those aboard, many soldiers leaped into the water.
They swarmed ashore under a hail of spears, clubs, slingstones, and axes onto the strip of land between the bases of the ramparts and the edge of the banks. They ran toward the smashed gateway, many carrying tall ladders.
Mix was among those in the lead. He saw men fall in front and on both sides of him, but he escaped being struck. After a minute, he was forced to slow his pace. The gateway was still a half mile away; he’d be too tired to fight at once if he ran full speed. The strategy of Stafford and the Council didn’t seem so good now. They were losing too many men trying to amass at the breaches for a massive assault. Still, if the plans had gone as hoped, they might have worked quite well. The other fleets were to sail along the walls and throw the big rocks at intervals above and below where Stafford’s vessels were. Thus, fifty different breaches could have been stormed and the Deusvolentians would have had to spread out their forces to deal with these.
If only Kramer’s fleet hadn’t decided to set out just before the big attack came. If only…that was the motto of generals, not to mention the poor devils of soldiers who had to pay for the if-only’s.
As he ran he glanced now and then toward The River. The fog was almost gone now. He could see…
The deafening thunder of the copiastones erupting almost made his heart stop. He’d completely forgotten about them. They were inside the earth walls, set within log wells. At least the enemy wasn’t going to have time to eat breakfast.
He looked to his right again. Out in The River were at least fifty vessels grappled in pairs, the crews of each trying to board the other. Many others were still manoeuvring, trying to run alongside the foe so that they could release missiles: fish-oil firebombs, stones, spears hurled by atlatls, clubs, stones tied to wooden shafts. It was too bad that there hadn’t been time to make boomerangs and train men how to use them. They would have been very effective.
He couldn’t determine how the battle on the water was going. Two ships were on fire. Whether they were enemy or friend, he didn’t know. He saw a big warcanoe sink, a hole in its bottom made by a boulder cast by a catapult. A frigate was riding over the stern of a large catamaran. It was too early to say on whom Victory was smiling. She was a treacherous bitch, anyway. Just as you thought you couldn’t lose, she slipped in something that resulted in you running like hell to get away from the defeated-suddenly-become-conquerors.
Now the attackers had joined in front of the gateway or before the other breaches. He had to catch his breath, and so did most of the others. However, men who’d landed from boats that had stopped close to these were already storming up the rampart and going through the holes in the walls. Trying to, anyway. Many dead or wounded lay on the slopes and in the entrances. Above them the Kramerians cast spears or hurled stones or poured burning fish oil from leather buckets into down-tilted stone troughs.
Tom cast his spear and had the satisfaction of seeing it plunge into one of the faces above the pointed ends of the log wall. He pulled his heavy axe from his belt and ran on.
Only so many defenders could get on the walkways behind the walls, and many of these had been struck by spears or large, unworked stones attached to wooden shafts.
On the ground behind the walls would be massed many soldiers, far outnumbering the invaders. At first, they’d crowded across the gateway, but now, as the first wave of Albionians crumbled, the Deusvolentians retreated. They were waiting for the next wave to come through. Then they would spread out, surround them, and close in.
A major shouted for the next charge to begin. Mix was glad that he couldn’t be in that. Not unless those ahead of him were so successful that everybody got in.
Stafford, standing near Mix, shouted at the major to hold the attack. Two frigates were coming in. They’d be able to throw their catapults over the anchored ships and over the walls and into the men beyond them. The major couldn’t hear him in the din. If he had, he wouldn’t have been able to stop. Those behind forced him through the gate. Mix glimpsed him getting a spear in the chest, then he toppled forward out of sight.
Presently, Tom was being forced ahead by those axemen behind him. He fell once over a body, was kicked hard several times, struggled up, and began climbing up the steep slope of earth. Then he was through the gateway, walking over bodies, slipping, catching himself, and he was in a mêlée.
He fought as well as he could in the press, but he had no sooner engaged a spearman than he was whirled away, and he was fighting somebody else, a short dark man with a leather shield and a spear. Mix battened the man’s shield aside with his axe and knocked the spear downward. He brought the axe upward, striking the man on the chin. The fellow reeled back, but something hit Mix’s wrist, and he dropped his axe.
Quickly, Tom pulled out his tomahawk with his left hand and leaped on the man, knocking him down. Astride him, he brought the weapon down, splitting the skull between the eyes. He rose, panting. An Albionian staggered back and fell against him, flattening him. He writhed out from under and got to his feet. He wiped the blood from his eyes, not knowing if it was his or the soldier’s who’d fallen over him. Certainly, he hadn’t been aware of any head wound.
Panting, he glared around. The battle was going against the invaders. At least a fourth were casualties, and another fourth would soon be. Now was the time for a strategic withdrawal. But between him and the gateway were at least one hundred men, facing inward, their spears thrust out, waiting. The invaders were trapped.
Beyond them, at the other breaches, the fight was still going on. There were, however, so many Kramerians between him and the entrances that he couldn’t make out the details.
Stafford, bloody, his helmet knocked off, his eyes wide, gripped his arm.
“We’ll have to form men for a charge back through the gateway!”
That was a good idea, but how were they to do it?
Suddenly, by that unexplained but undeniable telepathy that exists among soldiers in combat, all the Albionians came to the same decision. They turned and fled toward those blocking the exit. They were speared in the back as they ran, hurled forward by clubs and axes from behind, or knock
ed over by weapons from the sides. Stafford tried to marshal them for a disciplined attack. He must have known that it was too late, though he tried valiantly nevertheless. He was bowled over by two men, rose, and fell again. He lay on his back, his mouth open, one eye staring up at the sky. The other was pierced by a spearhead.
Slowly, pulled by the weight of the shaft, his head turned, and his one eye was looking straight at Mix.
Something struck Tom in the back of the head and his knees loosened. He was vaguely aware that he was falling, but he had no idea who he was or where he was, and he had no time to try to figure it all out.
Chapter 11
Tom Mix awoke, and he was sorry that he had.
He was lying on his back, a throbbing pain in the back of his head and a twisting in his stomach. The face looking down was blurry and doubled, wavering in and out. It was long and thin and hatchety, dark, black-eyed, a grim smile showing rows of white teeth in which the two front lower were missing.
Tom groaned. The face belonged to de Falla, Kramer’s ramrod. The teeth had been knocked out by Tom himself while making his escape from this very place, Fides. He didn’t think he’d be doing a repeat performance.
The Spaniard spoke in excellent only slightly accented English.
“Welcome to Deusvolens.”
Mix forced a smile.
“I don’t suppose I bought a return ticket?”
De Falla said, “What?”
Mix said, “Never mind. So what kind of cards are you planning to deal me?”
“Whatever they are, you’ll accept them,” de Falla said.
“You’re in the driver’s seat.”
He sat up and leaned on one arm. His vision wasn’t any better, and the movement made him want to throw up. Unfortunately, his last meal had long been digested. He suffered from the dry heaves, which made the pain in the back of his head even worse.
De Falla looked amused. No doubt, he was.
“Now, my friend, the shoe, as you English say, is on the other foot. Though you don’t have any footwear.”
He was right. Mix had been stripped of everything. He looked around and saw his hat on a man nearby and beyond that someone wearing his boots. Four men, actually. He must have had a concussion, no slight one. Well, he’d had worse injuries and survived to be better than ever. The chances for living long, though, didn’t seem good.
There were bodies everywhere on the ground, none of which was moving or making a sound. He supposed that all but the lightly wounded had been put out of their pain. Not for the sake of mercy but for economy. There was no use wasting food on them.
Someone had pulled the spear out of Stafford’s eye.
De Falla said, “There’s still a battle on The River. But there’s no doubt who’ll win now.”
Tom didn’t ask him who had the upper hand. He wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
The Spaniard gestured to two soldiers. They lifted Mix between them and started to march him across the plain, detouring around corpses. When his legs gave way, they dragged him, but de Falla came running. He told them to get a stretcher. Mix didn’t need to ask why he was being so well treated, relatively speaking. He was a special prisoner to be saved for special reasons. He was so sick and weak that, at the moment, he didn’t even care about the reasons.
They carried him to where the huts began and down a street and out past the huts to a compound. This was very large, though it held only a few prisoners. The log gate was swung open, and he was taken to an enclosure of upright logs set into the ground. Within this was a small hut. He was in a compound within a compound.
The two soldiers set him down inside the hut and checked on the amount of water in a baked-clay pot, his drinking supply. The nightjar was looked into, and one of the soldiers bellowed out a name. A short, thin worried-looking man ran up and got chewed out for not emptying it. Mix thought that he must indeed be special if such details were being taken care of.
Apparently, the previous occupant had not been so highly regarded. The stench was appalling even though the lid was on the thunder mug.
Seven days passed. Mix became better, his strength waxed, though it did not reach its fullness. Occasionally, he was troubled with recurrences of double vision. His only exercise was walking around the hut, around and around. He ate three times a day but not well. He had identified his copia which had been taken off the flagship by his captives, but he was allowed only half the food it gave and none of the cigarettes or liquor. His guards took these for themselves. Though he had smoked only two cigarettes in the past two years, he now yearned fiercely for more.
Daytime wasn’t so bad, but late at night he suffered from the cold and the dampness. Most of all he suffered from not being able to talk to anybody. Unlike most of the guards he’d encountered during a dozen periods of incarceration, these refused to say a single word to him. They even seemed to be reserved with their grunts.
On the morning of the eighth day, Kramer and his victorious forces returned. From what he could overhear of the guards’ conversation, New Albion, Ormondia, and Anglia had been conquered. There would be plenty of loot and women for all, including those who had not participated in the invasion.
Tom thought Kramer was celebrating too soon. He still had New Cornwall and the Huns to deal with. But he supposed that the defeat of their navies had made them pull in their necks for a while.
The other prisoners, about fifty, were hustled from their repair work on the ramparts back into the compound. Sounds of jubilation came from the area around the main gateway, drums beating, flutes shrilling, cheering. Kramer came through first—even at this distance Mix recognised the fat body and the piggish features—on a big chair carried by four men. The crowds shouted their greeting and tried to swarm around him but were pushed back by his bodyguard. After him came his staff and then the first of the returned soldiers, all grinning widely.
The chair was deposited in front of Kramer’s “palace,” a huge log structure on top of a low hill. De Falla came to greet him then, and both made speeches. Mix was too far away to hear what they said.
Some naked prisoners were marched in at spear point and double-stepped to the compound. Among the dirty, bruised, bloodied bunch was Yeshua. He sat down at once with his back to the wall, and his head sank as if he were completely dejected. Tom yelled at him until a man asked him whom he wanted. The man went across the compound and spoke to Yeshua. At first, Tom thought that Yeshua was going to ignore him. He looked at Tom for a moment and then let his head hang again. But after a while he rose, somewhat unsteadily, and walked slowly to the circular enclosure. He looked through the spaces between the logs, his eyes dull. He had been beaten about the face and body.
“Where’s Bithniah?” Tom said.
Yeshua looked down again. He said, hollowly, “She was being raped by many men the last I saw of her. She must have died while they were doing it. She’d stopped screaming by the time I was taken to the boat.”
Mix gestured at some female prisoners.
“What about them?”
“Kramer said he wanted some alive…to burn.”
Mix grunted, and said, “I was afraid that was why they didn’t kill me. Kramer’s going to get a special revenge out of me.”
He didn’t add, though he was thinking it, that Yeshua would also be in the “privileged” class. Yeshua must know it, anyway.
He said, “If we start a ruckus, we might force them to kill some of us. If we’re lucky, we’ll be among the late unlamented.”
Yeshua raised his head. His eyes were wild and staring.
“If only a man did not have to live again! If he could be dust forever, his sadness and his agonies dissolved into the soil, eaten by the worms as his flesh is eaten! But no, there’s no escape! He is forced to live again! And again! And again! God will permit him no release!”
“God?” Tom said.
“It’s just a manner of speech. Old habits die hard.”
“It’s tough just now,”
Tom said, “but in between the bad times it’s not so bad. Hell, I’m sure that someday all this fighting will stop. Most of it, anyway. It’s a time of troubles now. We’re still getting straightened out; too many people are behaving like they did on Earth. But the setup’s different here. You can’t hold a man down. You can’t tie him to his job and his house because he carries his own food supply with him and it doesn’t take long to build a house. You can enslave him for a while, but he’ll either escape or kill himself or make his captors kill him, and he’s alive again and free and has another chance for the good life.
“Look here! We can make those buggers kill us now so we don’t have to go through all the pain Kramer’s figuring to give us. The guards aren’t here now. Pull back the bar on the gate and let me out. As you can see, I can’t reach through to do it myself. Once I’m out, I’ll organise the others, and we’ll go out fighting.”
Yeshua hesitated, then gripped the big knob at the end of the massive bolt and, straining hard, withdrew it. Mix pushed the heavy gate open and left his prison within a prison.
Though there were no guards within the compound, there were many on the platforms outside the walls and in the towers. These saw Mix leave, but they did not object, which, Tom thought, meant that they knew he had to be released from it soon, anyway. He was just saving them the trouble of opening the gate.
It wouldn’t be long before the prisoners would be herded out of the compound.
He called to the others, about sixty, to gather around him.
“Listen, you poor bastards! Kramer’s got you marked for torture! He’s going to put on a big show, a Roman circus! We’re all going to wish soon we were never born, though I guess you know that! So I say we should cheat them! And save ourselves all that pain! Here’s what I think we should do!”
His plan seemed wild to them, though mainly because it was unheard of. But it offered escape of a sort which once would not have been regarded as such. It was better than just sitting there like sick sheep waiting to be slain. Their tired eyes took on some life; their exhausted and abused bodies lost their shrunken appearance, swelling up with hope.
Riverworld Short Stories Page 9
