by Jane Baskin
The commander, finally getting himself mounted. Shooting so hard and fast from his saddle that attackers fell in a swath before him. Gaining the meadow in one maniacal rush. Gaining …
Access to that red braid.
22.All That Cannot Be, Is
At Darleigh, much the same.
Nayan and Che, leading the mounted charge backing up the footsoldiers in the castle forecourt. Darleigh, constructed a bit differently from Vel or Cha-ning. A newer castle, built in the mansion style. No courtyard with barracks and barns. A huge square fortress, with a small entry court at the very front.
Highly defensible.
Still, as at Vel: northern soldiers, like Cha-ning lions. Silent, crafty, deadly. Nayan, a master planner. Having no choice but a frontal assault … decided to punch holes in the keep wherever he could, in advance. Spies and soldiers inside. Capitalizing, here, as at Vel, on the festival time and the resulting low vigilance. Explosives at outlying locations, timed to be set off at close intervals. Dismantling the deadly roof shooters, same as at Vel. Hobbling the outside barracks; running off ganthas from one of the barns. Blocking up the entrance to the recently restored weapons cache in the dark of night.
So that when the main attack came, it was deadly.
Of course, as at Vel: outnumbered greatly. Darleigh, having an entire first basement used as barracks for their army. As well as the attic. Men, sleeping with their weapons. The fortress, guarded from above and below. The attic: had to be attacked frontally before the roof could be reached. This: a bloody scene. Many northerners lost to southern fire. Even with those … who discovered they could deflect bullets with their minds.
But. A few others, who remembered how they killed the retreating southerners at Cha-ning. Every one, having approached Nayan quietly. And every one, carefully placed by Nayan in second wave forces at Vel and Darleigh. See; look. Defenders beginning to fall. Huh? One captain spinning his head. Did that guy get shot? I didn’t see …
And one advancing on Nayan … one he didn’t see coming … suddenly the man’s gantha rearing, bucking … the shot, going wild …
Just enough. Just enough defenders falling, to enable attackers to break through. To help the discovered and pinned down soldiers hiding in the attic to reach the roof; take out the sharpshooters. Especially with the aid of Zoren-te’s hand held bombs. How powerful they were!
The basement barracks, an easier task. Soldiers, having to come up through staircases to face their attackers. The staircases, numerous. But not numerous enough for those who knew the castle layout. Thanks to Zoren-te … northern soldiers at every staircase, in force. Shooting at defenders as they mounted the stairs.
Look at that!
I see it.
They’re not killing them!
What do they say? Like shooting fish in a barrel.
What do you mean?
Look, my old friend. My dearest friend and maker of the very best arguments. My conscience. See the seed in action.
You think this is the seed?
I know it is. See, how they’re holding them back … but not killing them.
Because it’s too easy?
That, yes; and because they know it’s wrong.
You’re certain of that.
Well … mostly.
A small group of northerners, able to hold down a large force of defenders, imprisoned by steady fire – most of it over their heads. Southern soldiers: ferocious, but not insane. Would not run straight into live fire with zero chance of survival.
Nayan, remembering well. Back at Cha-ning. Back when they were planning this particular action: “That’ll teach them to treat their soldiers like dogs. Putting them in the basement, where their exit can be so easily blocked.”
“It’s a half basement. There are windows.”
But Zoren-te, as ever, had prepared them. “The windows are barred. I’m pretty sure they haven’t been opened in so long, the hinges must be rusted shut.”
Now, outside: a different matter. Nayan and the mounted soldiers, facing defenders running in from the outside barracks. These, comprised of a very large building and a smaller one. The smaller one: finer. Clearly, officers’ quarters. Nayan and Che, focusing fire on the more elegant building. Leave them leaderless.
But the larger building: holding as many soldiers as Nayan’s entire force. These, pouring out now, their clothes awry, their weapons barely functional. Nayan and his riders: able to pick many of them off. Forming a precarious line before them.
Then – all gods – a rider leading a big gantha ... carrying Zoren-te’s deadly automatic gun. This, set up quickly on the ground. The line, parting. Then … oh. Soldiers literally mowed down, en masse. Stepping outside the barracks doors: greeted by mountains of wounded, dead.
Then the explosions: as at Vel, coming in quick succession from the direction of weapons caches. Soldiers on foot; those who had managed to wrangle a gantha: taking off in that direction.
Some, hesitating. Never before such loud explosions. Fearful, that.
So many defenders. Those who escaped the barracks, even a few who escaped the cellars – pouring into the field, driving Nayan’s groups backward.
But the northern sharpshooters who had finally gained the roof: spraying bullets all over them.
Now, as a Vel: sharpshooters firing from under the brush. From trenches surrounding the meadow, trapping the defenders almost inside a circle. Nayan’s riders, turning the gun, sprinting off to the side, so as to avoid the crossfire. The defenders, caught within it.
So much killing! Defenders, mostly on foot, falling in droves in the middle of the field. Screaming, crying as they fell. Knowing, even as they reached the field, that they had no chance. Between the spray of bullets from the castle roof, from the trenches, from the astonishing huge gun … now and then from the riders madly charging back and forth along the sides … no chance at all.
Nayan, stopped far to the side. His gantha, still as stone. His mind, on fire. Thinking: This is wrong. This is wrong. This is murder.
He hesitates.
That’s why he’s the seed.
Are we certain this has to be done?
(Smile) Of course we’re not. When does death ever have to be done? It was his decision.
And hers.
And hers.
But. Suddenly into his head: the image of his parents, the dark red blotches on their foreheads, lying still on the great hall floor. Glancing over at Che, who rode with silent fury like death was sitting behind him in the saddle. Understanding that his mind also: filled with the sight of his mother, dead beside the lords. And next to Che: his father. An expression on his face that Nayan could barely read. All the love in the world now turned to hate, emerging from the barrel of his long rifle.
Nayan, shaking his head. Unable to evict the image of his parents … Ania-te … something like a loud snap inside his head. Then suddenly spurring his gantha forward. Herding defenders, driving them toward the middle of the field where the sharpshooters could pick them off. Almost suicidal, that. Che: waving him back. Don’t get too close. You’ll be shot. Accidentally or otherwise, it won’t matter. And in fact, more than one bullet whizzing by his head. But … driven. No more than a headshake when a bullet took out a piece of his leather cap, over his ear. Seeing nothing – but the corpses in the great hall at Cha-ning. Judgment: dead to him. Danger: dead to him. Now setting his mind … to that place. That he did not fully understand ... but had resolved to use.
Unbelievable … that he wasn’t killed. Unbelievable … that bullets traced weird patterns around his head, but never hit him. Unbelievable … that a giant southern footsoldier got through, ran up to him, fired in his face … and the only man to fall was the southerner.
His mind is clouded.
Twisted, would be more accurate. He sees only his dead. He feels only … the violation.
That’s the trouble with C2’s. They succumb to passion.
Yes.
It’s the duty of
civilized humanoids to master their passions.
Yes, of course. But … would you not be a little deranged if your own beloved parents were slaughtered?
My kin would never be slaughtered.
Precisely my point.
Now: the field, red. And yes; silent, but for moans of the wounded, the dying. Nayan, stopping his gantha. Looking over the acres of entrails. Feeling … nothing. His mind, almost starting to engage again …
But there. Look. Mounted southern soldiers, now returning from the explosion sites. Racing past the outbuildings toward the meadow. Whooping and hollering as they came. Waving rifles. Obviously enraged at the trick that called them away … and allowed their brethren to be slaughtered like food animals.
Northerners, turning now to face them. A smaller group. But ready. And still silent.
When the two groups engaged: oh. A clatter of hooves, gantha squeals, gunfire. The defenders, sliding their rifles into scabbards. Preferring to use swords in close contact. More blood. Liked it that way.
Che to Nayan, in the split second they had to converse. A strange, mean grin on his face. I guess they’re pretty pissed off.
Then just the defenders’ screams, the sound of steel on steel; the squelching sound of steel on flesh. The sounds of ganthas smelling blood, losing riders, jumping over corpses and each other to get away from the scene. Nayan, driving his mount relentlessly into the enemy. Until the animal almost picked up his bloodlust; began to rear and strike at any gantha near him. Caused several to rear and buck, drop their riders. These, picked off quickly. Nayan, using his sidearm; picking his shots carefully. Knowing he didn’t really even need to see to shoot. Just putting red spots on foreheads. Like Mother … like Father. Just … like. Blood, oh. On his body, on his face, even in his mouth. Maybe the taste of it, making him even angrier than he was.
But.
As he had feared … as he had known … too many defenders. Around him, a roiling sea of men, all mad for his blood. The blood of his friends.
Saw it coming. Would be overwhelmed. Soon.
There. One defender breaking through … so close … So. Stopped shooting. Just stopped. Reined in his gantha. Sat. Still. Very still.
Then … started killing. Without moving. Just staring. Southern soldiers falling now, two and three at a time. Four, there. Bleeding weirdly as they fell. From their mouths, their ears. Their noses. Falling. Dead. So dead.
Took a little time. But not much. For fighters to notice the sea of bodies beginning to encircle the young northern lord. Che, one of the first. Knowing the mind of his friend. Like he had just stepped into it. And couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
All gods, Nayan! What are you doing?
Still, men fell.
Nayan!
Che, spurring his gantha toward Nayan. Leaping the dead.
Now, beside his friend. Shouting aloud: “Nayan! Nayan, what are you doing?”
Reached across his saddle. Grabbed Nayan’s arm. Shook him. Nothing. Reined in his dancing mount. Finally reached over, punched Nayan hard.
Only then. Nayan, as if waking up from a nap. “Huh?” Looking at his friend. “Che?”
Nayan, what are you doing?
Nayan, shaking his head. Seeing the dead around him. Seeing the nearest wave of combattants, staring wide-eyed. Stopped. Still.
In that tiny pocket isolated from the fury … silence. Fear. Wonder. Terror.
Che: “Let’s go.”
Both young men, turning their mounts, riding toward the mansion bridge.
This is horrible.
Yes.
The seed … how can he do this and still – ?
It’s early, yet.
Nayan and Che, riding to the side. Drawing the attackers out. Diverting any attempt at a flanking maneuver. Not easy, that. Northerners, still outnumbered.
Use your mind, Che.
Like that, back there?
Yes. Like that! But keep moving.
All gods, Nayan!
We’re outnumbered, Che! We knew we would be! Do you want to live?
Yes, but …
No time to argue. Nayan and Che, starting to kill. Without weapons. And oh. Sending a terrible message: To anyone who can do this, start now.
The message: received. Like the intensity of the moment made a thought into a shout. Maybe not that many northerners with that particular ability … but enough.
Now southern defenders, falling in droves. Dead. Weirdly dead.
Might have stopped right there. Could have stopped right there. But for the sharpshooters in the trenches, having abandoned the brush to run back for their ganthas, then pouring out of the wood in a silent horde. Leaping the trenches. Quickly flanking the defenders, then splitting them. So that Nayan and Che’s group – now returning to conventional fighting – could dispatch one block of defenders, the sharpshooters the other. The field, now filled with so many dead the ganthas had to jump almost constantly. Many, going down; taking riders with them.
At last, the defenders, driven back. Many, running away. Giving attackers space to get into the castle itself. Didn’t need too many. The main force of defenders – unbelievably – still trapped in their basement barracks. So many of them!
So much of the southern population, given over to war.
Now northern attackers riding, galloping madly into the castle great hall. Shooting anyone armed. Nayan, riding his gantha like they were both insane. Right up the great staircase, galloping through hallways. Routing civilians from the bedrooms and closets where they hid. Threatening no one but those with guns or other weapons. These, dropping with his sidearm. One man falling, just when Nayan looked at him. Clutching his head, falling instantly.
God Itself. It’s becoming automatic for him. Did you see?
I did. He’s growing.
Maybe their time as primitives is coming to an end.
On the basis of skill, yes; perhaps. On the basis of savagery, maybe not quite yet.
If not for their brethren …
Yes. If not for their brethren.
A clatter of hooves on stone. There. Che, having ridden his gantha up the stairs as well. Pulling up alongside Nayan.
Both of them shouting, now using the southern Vel dialect. This, not far from their own northern speech. Nayan’s orders: Be sure they understand. Now, telling residents to run for their lives. Telling them they were about to fire the keep. Riding madly, back and forth, yelling their warning.
Oh. There. A stocky man coming out of a bedroom behind Nayan. Taking careful aim with a long rifle. A loud retort, echoing in the hall.
Nayan, pulling his gantha to a sliding stop. Seeing – yes – the bullet. As if all the world had settled into slow motion. Seeing the bullet heading straight for the back of Che’s head. Not quite able to believe it … this can’t be happening. Not my friend. Suddenly, reaching out with his mind. Grabbing the bullet – just stopping it in mid-air. Reaching out with his hand, picking it out of its trajectory.
God Itself. He phased!
(Smile) So he did. So he did.
He can alter time!
Come now, we knew that. He’s done it before. And anyway, if an electron can do it, why not our seed? (Smile)
This is what we’ve been waiting for.
Yes. (sigh) But … so much blood.
(sigh) Yes; I agree. Do you suppose they’ll grow out of it?
That’s the hope. IF the gene ripens as we hope it will.
And … we’ve interfered.
Life is rarely clean, my old friend.
Then everything, returning to its former hellacious speed. Che, wheeling in the saddle at the sound of the gunshot. Seeing Nayan reach out, as if he were picking something out of the air. Huh?
No time to contemplate. Continuing to warn castle denizens. Riding up another stair, shouting on the next floor above. Using their ganthas to herd the terrified residents. Push them toward staircases.
Nayan, pausing just for a moment. Looked in his clenched fist. Th
ere: the bullet that was about to kill his friend.
Snapped to attention by northern soldiers on foot. Nayan, telling them to go get the sharpshooters off the roof. Telling them he was going to fire the castle. Now mobs of people – southern residents and northern soldiers – filling the halls, racing down the stairs.
“Get out if you care to live!” Shouting at stragglers. Something about him, his dark eyes, the black hair now released from the cap … something so frightening … southerners would always say Death himself rode through the hallways of Darleigh Castle that day. Finally, when the halls were cleared … tossed a spark into the bedroom of Darleigh himself, mapped out by Zoren-te. Watched the extravagant, highly flammable fabrics light up quickly. Almost stayed to watch them ignite the explosives he knew had been planted by spies in preceding days. But was not – yet – that insensible.
Rode down the huge staircase, side by side with Che. Flames coming now from numerous rooms, all through the upper floors. All these, ready to heat up, to ignite explosives hidden in various places around the castle.
As they raced through the first floor, yelled orders to the attackers blocking the basement stairs. “Release them!” Attackers drew back, allowed the surviving castle defenders to pour up the stairs. Smelling smoke, looking up to see flames in the floors above … these: tearing out the exits without firing a single shot. Dropping weapons as they ran.
Che: All gods, Nayan. Just letting them go? We still have men in the field.
They can take care of themselves. They’ll be all right. I know.
That’s a lot of soldiers, Nayan.
You know what I mean, Che. I know.
Okay then. I guess. Che, quickly picking off one man who foolishly stopped to take aim at him. Followed by ten more who dropped their rifles as they ran. Soon the hall, filling up with discarded weapons.
