by Jay Allan
“Minth! We have to do something!” Kleren was clearly scared, but he wasn’t paralyzed by it like Samis. “Minth!” He grabbed his commander and shook him hard.
“I don’t know,” Samis said, his words choked with tears. “I don’t know…I don’t know…” He kept repeating himself, even as his words slipped into unintelligible sobs.
Samis saw a shadow, a familiar face. Winn Salvas scrambled over. “We’re in trouble,” he said. “Everybody else is down. There are at least two dozen guards, maybe more. We can’t hold them…maybe if we can get back to the autocannon…”
“No,” Kleren said, his own voice starting to show signs of panic. “We’ll never make it.”
“Then what are we going to do?” Salvas stared over at Samis.
“Minth? What are we going to do?” He paused, peering around the edge of the transport before snapping his head back. “Minth? Minth?”
But Samis just leaned down into a fetal position, crying uncontrollably.
* * *
Blackhawk eyed the terrain, a whole series of outcroppings slowly climbing the slope up to the rugged ridgeline. Dozens of places to hide. His training was there, a constant reminder. Patience. It was patience that won this type of battle. The first man to give himself away was lost. That didn’t hold true in all situations, but it was almost always the case between two masters.
Blackhawk knew he had the edge, at least in inherent ability…but it was an uncomfortable one. The sniper had the advantage of ground…but he also had to deal with Cass’ people, and when he fired he risked giving away his position. Blackhawk knew that meant using the Grays as bait…but he also knew it was the only way to get the sniper.
He waited and watched, breathing regularly, deeply. His rifle was in his hands, his eyes fixed on the rocks, scanning constantly, relentlessly. In all likelihood, one of Cass’ people was about to die…and if Blackhawk didn’t use that, if he allowed his enemy to get off a shot without giving himself away, that loss would be for nothing.
He could hear his heart beating in his ears, feel his mind focusing, ever more tightly, on his purpose. His other thoughts receded, slipped away. There was his target—and his rifle. Nothing more. Silence. Concentration.
Blackhawk had been in many fights, felt the call of battle more times than he could easily recall. He could have been on any of a dozen worlds. More. It was always the same. The focus. The cold blood of a killer…
Then he saw it, barely visible, the rustling of a clump of tumbleweed. It was nothing, the slightest move, something he’d have blamed on the wind in most cases. But not when facing a master sniper.
His rifle snapped around, targeting the rock. And then he saw. The muzzle of a rifle. And a shot. He felt the bullet himself, not literally, but in sympathy for a comrade he suspected was now dead or dying.
Maybe even Cass…
But there was no time, and his mind clamped down, maintained its focus. He knew where his enemy was, but he was blocked, with no shot. He weighed his options, and in a fraction of a second he made his decision. He knew patience could win the fight, but he wasn’t willing to pay with the deaths of more of his allies. He lunged forward, flipping the rifle to full auto, spraying the rock and the area all around the sniper. He knew he wouldn’t hit his enemy, but he might keep him pinned for a few seconds. And that would keep Blackhawk alive as he made his move. He was running forward, crouching, using what he could for cover, but emphasizing speed. He had to get around, find a spot where he had a shot.
He kept track of his shots…he couldn’t burn the whole clip. He wouldn’t have time to reload. And he had to be in position before he stopped firing. Or he’d be dead.
His legs pushed, driving up the hill. He let his finger relax on the trigger, ceasing fire for half a second before squeezing it again. He could feel his inbred abilities, mixing with training and conditioning. His body functioned with extreme efficiency, running faster than any normal human, dodging around rocks and rugged terrain, all the while firing at his hidden target with almost perfect accuracy. But he was running out of time…and he still had a distance to go to get to a place where he’d have a shot.
He felt the battle trance, the strange feeling of both calm and tense awareness that came over him in life and death situations. His legs moved faster, pushed harder…driving him up the hill. His head snapped around, and he could see his enemy. Moving, already trying to escape. But Blackhawk was too fast. His rifle snapped around, his eye staring down the barrel, aiming, adjusting for his target’s movement, for the wind.
He had a second, no less…a fraction. But in his mind everything moved in slow motion. He saw the target, focused…then he fired.
He saw the sniper recoil, stumbled backwards and slip out of sight. He’d hit the target, but he knew he hadn’t scored a kill shot. He could grab some cover, wait, see how badly he’d wounded his enemy. Or he could charge now, take advantage of whatever time he had, gamble his wounded adversary couldn’t get up and back into position before he got there.
He felt his legs tense…then lunge forward, his decision made, almost without conscious thought. He raced over the broken ground toward the spot where he’d seen his enemy. He knew his gamble might fail at any moment, that the sniper could leap back up and put a shot in him while he was in the open. It felt like an age before he reached the rock outcropping, though he knew it had only been a few seconds. He leapt over the rock, rifle extended, held in one hand.
There he was! The sniper. Lying on his back, his left side covered with blood. But he was alive, and he had his rifle in hand. He brought it around, his eyes focused hard on Blackhawk. His maneuver was death, and Blackhawk knew it. But the sniper was too slow. Just.
Blackhawk’s rifle cracked loudly. Then again. And again. But the first shot had been enough. The soldier lay on the ground, a bloody hole where his eye had been.
Blackhawk felt a wave of fatigue, but also of elation. It was far from his first victory…or his first desperate battle. But the feelings were always the same. He was a creature of the battlefield, and however hard he tried to fight it, he felt something primal after a fight. There was something about killing. He could regret it later, feel guilt for his actions. But on the field, he felt like a predator standing over its kill. It was natural. On a level he detested, but one he couldn’t help but acknowledge, it was where he belonged.
“Ark! Are you okay?” It was Cass, scrambling up the hill with half a dozen of the Grays. There was concern in her voice. He found it gratifying, but the affection he heard gave him concern too. He liked her…he liked her a lot, and he could imagine feeling more. But the feelings he’d just unleashed had jarred him, the fury, the cold-blooded killer, willing to sacrifice comrades as a diversion. It shook him to reality. He had changed, and he’d sworn he would no longer wander from place to place, seeking solace in whatever bottle he could find. But staying with the Grays, with Cass…and going back to the Galadan with her, to tend a farm…house, home, love. He knew that was impossible for him. If he’d had any doubt before, the feelings that had surged through him in the fight put them to rest. The thing he had been, the ruthless, cold-blooded killer…it was still there, inside him. He could control it, at least he thought he could. But house and home was not for him. Not now, at least. Someday, perhaps, though he had doubts.
“I’m fine, Cass. Is the convoy secured?”
“Yes,” she said, clearly relieved to find him more or less unscathed. “We’ve got it all. The others are organizing, loading the best cargoes onto a dozen transports. We should be out of here in twenty minutes, maybe less.”
“That’s good.” He paused, and when he continued his tone was darker. “Losses?”
“Four dead,” she said, her own tone becoming grim. “Three more wounded.”
Blackhawk just nodded. He knew those numbers were high for Cass and her people…but he was also aware that was their new reality. They had made themselves too great a threat…and now they would have to face
real resistance. He knew it would destroy them, that the losses would tear them apart. Some would flee…and the others would fight on, weaker, suffering increasingly severe losses until the Grays were gone.
The thought made him sad. He wanted to save Cass, to get her to give up her raids, convince her she had done enough for the people back home. But he already knew that was doomed to failure. She was a warrior…as he was. And he knew she could never give up the fight.
Chapter Seventeen
Marshal Carteria’s Palace
The Turennian Archipelago
Equatorial Celtiboria
Carteria’s eyes moved over the dispatch. Normally, he’d have allow his steward read it to him. It was all part of the show, the great Marshal, surrounded by attendants and servants, at the head of the largest army on Celtiboria. But now he was in his office, seated at his antique desk. There were legends that the ancient wooden desk was the same one used by the last king of Celtiboria nearly nine hundred years before. Carteria knew all about those rumors…because he had started them. He wanted more than to be the dominant Warlord, more than to make the other generals kneel down and subordinate themselves before him. He wanted to reinstate the monarchy, establish a dynasty that would rule the planet for a thousand years. That would require power…and a certain amount of showmanship as well.
The office was empty, quiet. For all the pomp of his court, for the attendants constantly buzzing around him and the silent, respectful rows of officers typically following him around, the truth was sometimes Carteria craved nothing so much as quiet. It didn’t fit with his public image, and most of the people outside his inner circle would be shocked. But he often sat alone in his office, working late into the night. His goals were enormous…and he was always ready to put in the work required to attain them.
He smiled as he read. Ganz Jellack’s report was better even than he’d expected. Jellack had started his service for Carteria the way so many of his other ministers and officers had, conquered in war and offered the chance to serve as a well-compensated subordinate…rather than enslaved, or lined up against a wall and shot. Jellack was a financial wizard, and he had served Carteria well. His skills had been worth millions of ducats, and Carteria had rewarded him. Jellack’s wife and children lived in an oceanfront palace, denied nothing. Nothing save their freedom. For in their luxury, amid the piles of silks and the gourmet means, they were guarantors of Jellack’s loyalty. As long as the financial minister remained true, his family would want for nothing. And if he ever betrayed Carteria…then soldiers would go to that palace, and his wife and children would pay the price for the crimes of their husband and father.
But betrayal was far from Carteria’s mind as he read the dispatch. Jellack had performed well, securing contracts with almost two dozen different companies, almost one hundred thousand veteran troops, fully armed and equipped and ready to march on a few weeks’ notice. It was perfect. Eleher and Ghana would defeat Lucerne…and then Jellack’s mercenaries would march on the Badlands. They would crush the other Warlords in the theater…and then they would ensure that Ghana was eliminated, and his survivors drafted into the new Carterian army on the Northern Continent.
Carteria hadn’t gotten where he was by missing opportunities. Ghana had been given his chance, and his stupidity and incompetence had sealed his fate…and that of the Northern Continent. Carteria was mobilizing his reserves, assembling more forces to ship to the Badlands. By the time Ghana and Lucerne were eliminated, he would have close to two hundred thousand troops in the field…and the conquest of the continent would begin.
The Warlords of the Northern Continent were a fractured and bickering lot, most of them rulers of small areas, with armies twenty to fifty thousand strong. They would be kept apart, prevented from banding together in an effective alliance. Carteria’s agents would travel among them, inflaming old feuds, offering alliances to the best of them, positions within the new Carterian regime. And his army would sweep up the others, crushing them utterly. Their shattered armies would be conscripted, their families killed or enslaved, their wealth and lands absorbed. It would take two years, perhaps three, but then Carteria would be the undisputed master of the Northern Continent. And with that conquest, his power would reach the tipping point. He would be invincible, his domination irresistible. The campaign in the Badlands would be the springboard to the final crusade that would put the crown on Carteria’s head.
Carteria was a selfish man, one ruled by his own runaway ego. But he wasn’t irrational. His conquests hadn’t been accidents. He was sly, sneaky, a master strategist who knew how to use fear and greed to manipulate people. And he wasn’t beyond feeling appreciation. Jellack had done a magnificent job, and he would make certain the finance minister was rewarded. He would be part of the new nobility, the holder of a ducal title under King Carteria, just as Varn Eleher would be if he succeeded in the Badlands.
He leaned forward over his desk, tapping the small control for his com unit. “Get me Bulg Trax,” he said.
“Yes, Marshal,” came the reply. Carteria had three personal secretaries, and one was on duty at all times.
He stood up slowly, walking across the room, stretching out his legs. The years were catching up with him, the endless time spent in vehicles, walking across battlefields. He delegated most of that these days to his subordinates, but Carteria had done his time knee deep in mud and blood. And he carried the scars and pains to prove it.
He’d had a plan before, of course, one that led to his placing the crown of Celtiboria on his head. But he’d guessed it would take at least another ten years…and the Northern Continent would be the last to fall. But Ghana’s plea for help—followed by his utter failure and need for even more aid—had created an opportunity. The Northern Continent was fractured, worse even than the rest of the planet, its Warlords almost constantly at each other’s throats. But it was big…and wealthy. Control of its resources and manpower would make him invincible…and move the timetable to total victory up four or five years.
He heard the sound at the door, a loud clumsy knock. He’d know that sound anywhere. “Enter,” he said, turning around to face Bulg Trax. The soldier wasn’t just large, he wasn’t just strong and powerful. He was a colossus, a veritable mountain of a man. And he was Carteria’s creature, body and soul.
“Marshal,” he said in his deep voice, snapping to attention as he stood just inside the room.
“Come in, Bulg. Close the door.”
Trax turned, slid the door shut. Then he walked toward Carteria.
“I have a job for you, Bulg…an important one.”
“Yes, Marshal. Whatever you command.”
Carteria motioned toward a chair…the largest one in the palatial office. “Sit, Bulg.” Carteria moved to another of the plush seats. He could see Trax had moved next to the chair, but he was still standing. He was about to motion for his subordinate to sit, but then he decided it was just easier to plop himself down first. Trax took loyalty to often absurd extremes, and Carteria knew how uncomfortable his subordinate would be sitting while he still stood.
“Bulg, I have a cargo to transport, a very valuable and vital one. I must be certain of its security, of its safe arrival.” Carteria leaned back in his chair, watching his minion stare back in rapt attention. Trax wasn’t the sharpest blade in Carteria’s arsenal, but there wasn’t a man in his service who could match the giant’s pure, unabashed loyalty…or his raw power in a fight. “I want you to command the escort, to ensure that it arrives on time…and safely.”
“Yes, Marshal…as you command.”
“You will be transporting coin, Bulg, forty million ducats to pay the mercenary forces Ganz Jellack has hired.” The disorganized and fractured state of Celtiboria had rendered the various electronic currencies almost valueless. Paper money wasn’t any better, widely scorned by soldiers who had endured far too many inflationary devaluations. To quickly retain the numbers Carteria had wanted, Jellack had been compelled to promise pa
yment in silver coin, six month’s wages upfront. And that was a lot of currency to transport to another continent.
“I will protect it with my life, Marshal.”
“I know you will, Bulg.” There weren’t many people Carteria would trust to take that much money across an ocean, but he knew Trax wouldn’t pocket so much as an errant coin that fell to the ground. He was the perfect man for the job, perhaps even the only one.
“I want you to take one thousand men, Bulg. Your pick of the guard.” Carteria rarely committed his elite guard to any mission. He tended to protect the veteran soldiers, never forgetting they were his last resort in any emergency. But the entire plan to conquer the Northern Continent depended on getting this shipment of coin through.
“Yes, Marshal.” There was surprise in Trax’s voice. Carteria’s parsimony with the deployment of his guards was well known in the army.
“You will fly to the edge of the Badlands, but we cannot risk travel by air over the battle zone…there is too much AA capability on both sides, and Ghana’s forces cannot know what we are doing. Even if we could risk moving by air, the river cities would inspect any cargo landing at their airfields. While they allow the mercenary companies to operate, I think it is unwise to test their restraint when such a sum is in play. We will have to meet the mercenary commanders at a designated place at the edge of the Badlands.” Forty million ducats was a lot of money, even to Carteria.
“You want us to move by land, Marshal? Through the battle zone?” Carteria knew Trax would have jumped from the highest battlement in the palace if he’d commanded it, but he could hear the doubt and concern in his henchman’s voice. “Isn’t that just as risky?”
“Yes, Bulg, it is. That is why I am sending you. And my guards. Varn Eleher and his troops will be engaged with General Lucerne when you arrive…and you will move behind their lines. That should insulate you from contact with the armies…and a thousand of my guards will be a sufficient force to protect against any raiders or other threats. With any luck, a convoy across the desert will slip by undetected…a flight has no such chance.”
