The Doomfarers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  The early evening moon was quite bright as they hurtled down the meadow, and the Prince wondered if the noise of their approach wouldn’t alert the enemy in Erub. Lobo slowed until it merely crawled along. The vibrations coming through his boot soles made Springbuck’s feet itch, but he quickly forgot about it. When the track had come to a stop and its engine fell quiet, he could hear, in the new silence, cries, shouts, screams and curses. Evidently, the Erubites had decided in their desperation to fight back at the ravaging troops.

  “With all the racket, I don’t think they’ve noticed us,” Gil said. “We’re still over half a mile out and we came in without even blackout lights. Springbuck and I will go in and look around. You guys stay put in this gully unless you hear shooting, in which case I would be deeply grateful if you’d come and inquire after our health.”

  “Why don’t we just take the track in?” Handelman wanted to know.

  Gil, removing his headset and helmet, shook his head. “I don’t like the way that town looks—narrow streets and more likely than not all twists and turns. I don’t want to chance getting Lobo stuck or lost. Besides, don’t you think we’d attract attention?”

  He slung Shorty over his shoulder. The son of Surehand followed him over the side of the APC and jumped down next to him in the sand of the gully. They set off toward Erub, the open terrain making the sergeant ill at ease, a swipe of memory from his days in Recon.

  “Where do you think she’ll go?” he asked Springbuck.

  “It would be the healer’s house, in the very center of town,” was the considered reply.

  “Swell-oh.”

  They went on for a time and, when they were closer to the edge of Erub, stopped behind a tree to study it. Gil took a strip of camouflage cloth out of his pocket and tied it around his forehead to keep hair and perspiration out of his eyes and cut any telltale gleam in the darkness. Then he remembered that his companion wore gleaming leathers and had large areas of light, exposed skin and shiny metal. Too late to rectify that now.

  The fighting seemed to be concentrated in the other end of the village. The two entered the fringes of town undetected, shadowed against walls by the fires that had been set there. They occasionally saw bodies lying dead or injured in the streets, most of them civilians showing sword cuts or lance wounds. Women bore signs of abuse and at least one child had been ferociously mistreated. Gil said nothing, but his face was filled with revulsion and anger, and the Prince’s was not good to look upon in its loathing.

  They moved cautiously toward the center of the village. Weaving in and out of doorways, ducking into alleys, they encountered no other living thing until they stood at the brink of the plaza. Springbuck found it hard to believe that the battle which seemed to him now to be so long past had transpired here only the preceding afternoon.

  Gil, for his part, reflected on the impossibility of the scene and his predicament. But, as in his encounter with Neezolo Peeno, the order of precedence drilled into him took over—first, survival; watch your tail and do the job, son; introspection later; one thing at a time, or you’ll never live long enough to get anything done.

  “There,” said his companion, pointing to a two-story house bordering the square. Two horses were hitched in front of it. “That is the house of Gabrielle’s daughter, as Andre described it to me. It is almost certain that there are soldiers in it. Whether or not she will be, I cannot say.”

  They were at the walls of the house in one dash; Gil could see no reason to make their approach by the numbers since the other could not provide cover fire for him. Perhaps he should have brought Pomorski, but he hadn’t wanted to leave the track any more undermanned than was absolutely necessary.

  He leaned up and peered over the sill of a low, opened window, He could see no one within and drew back down to think for a moment.

  “Now we go in. I’ll take the downstairs and you check upstairs. If anything happens I yell and you move out—and you do it right away, read me? Good. Your redhead is probably on the second floor if she’s here at all, so look it over tight, but don’t take all night doing it.”

  The Prince nodded, irritated by all this ordering, but a curious little spark of pleasure ran through him with the words “your redhead.”

  The American settled his belt and shifted on his haunches. He said, “Right.” Then he was up and on his way. Springbuck followed once again wondering if the single word had been a mere signal or the other’s war cry.

  Gil swung the door open and covered the empty room, a large kitchen-living-dining space. The Prince went up the rickety wooden stairs three at a time as Gil started to search the rest of the house. The sergeant was about to go into a room at the back of the building when he nearly ran into a cavalryman coming the opposite way.

  It may have been that the man had heard him coming and was waiting for him; he jumped out and almost caught Gil on his spear. The American dodged backwards desperately, the quarters too close to get off a shot, but the spearblade slid along his side, slicing open his flak jacket. Somehow, it hooked in the submachine gun sling; as the man brought his weapon up sharply, the chopper was torn from Gil’s grasp and sailed across the room.

  The cavalryman yelled a warning to some unseen companion but did not take his eyes from the business at hand, which was Gil.

  The business at hand dropped into a defensive crouch. He didn’t realize it at the time, but he was lucky; his opponent hadn’t carried his sword when he’d dismounted. When the next thrust came, Gil did the only thing he could think of; he took it on with tactics dictated by the manual on combatives against a rifle bayonet: block with the forearm—he got sliced doing it; a deep, oblique step with both hands on the foeman’s weapon, turn and twist—and he was honestly surprised when his antagonist went flying past him. The other was no slouch, however, as Gil found out. He was on his feet with a bounce, a long dirk in his hand.

  The sergeant shifted his grip on the spear and jumped in close, swinging at the man as if he held a baseball bat. The other ducked as the spear whistled over his head and cracked against the wall beside him and retaliated with a vicious slash. Again the American barely avoided the disembowling stroke. The spear’s head and a full third of its shaft had broken off. Gil threw the stump at his foe and reached around with his right hand, snatching out his survival knife from the back of his belt, and went on guard. He would have tried for the chopper but doubted that he could get to it before he was stabbed; the other might not know what the submachine gun was, but he wouldn’t let such an opening go unexploited.

  The man’s armor and helmet gave him a tremendous advantage in the fight, even allowing for Gil’s flak jacket. Too, knife-fighting is an ignored art in the U.S. Army. But one of Gil’s training cadremen had been a Ranger who, loathing the flashy, impractical street styles, insisted his men learn the proper handling of edged steel.

  Gil attacked his opponent in a forward crouch, sidling and crow-hopping, knife held close to his side in a fencing grip, left hand extended to block and parry, knees bent and stomach clenched back, left foot foremost. It discomforted him when his enemy took approximately the same position—a knowledgeable antagonist. Gil closed watchfully, alert for an opening and keeping in mind the twin objectives of speed and aggressiveness. The two circled, making feints and hand cuts, each careful that he wasn’t backed into a corner. Gil was beginning to wonder if an opening would present itself, if he would be able to deal with this horse trooper, when a thumping ruckus reached his ears and he realized that it had been going on for some time. He let his eyes stray to the stairs, for the commotion was coming from the second floor, and in that instant the other made his move.

  It was dangerous, expert; a swift, upward thrust, a snapping try for the soft abdomen; and the American didn’t know if his fiberglass flak jacket would have stopped it or not. He blocked instinctively with the outward edge of his left hand and forearm, twisting to the right and using a poised left leg karate-style as a backup. The hand block missed—the ga
sh he’d caught from the spear was bleeding badly now, slowing his left-hand moves; but the forearm connected with the other’s wrist and arrested the thrust. Gil delivered a simultaneous knife chop to the cavalryman’s left wrist, opening it to the bone and rendering it useless. Though the wound was far from lethal, the pain and shock put the man off balance. The American followed up instantly by driving the heel of his left hand up hard beneath his enemy’s nose, a deathblow. It was only later that he learned that many helmets featured nasal guards which would have made his move ineffective.

  As the armored man reeled backward with a moan, Gil pursued him with a slash to the stomach to make sure; the only dead enemy was one you could stomp your foot on. But hauberk turned the knife and the sergeant stood over the body, wondering if it were dead and for what reason he’d had to kill.

  A wailing horn brought him out of his unaccustomedly careless inattention. He spun to confront another dragoon. There was no question of being able to say alive with a knife any longer. Gil backed to the wall where the submachine gun lay. He dropped his blade and had Shorty in his hands before the knife hit the floor. The first burst caught the dragoon in the midsection and folded him up like a cot.

  Gil sprang to the foot of the stairs and called, “Springbuck! God’s sake, let’s go!”

  * * * *

  While the outlander engaged the guard on the first floor, the Prince dashed up the stairs, grabbing for the hilt of his sword. He reached the landing with Bar and his parrying dagger ready. A commander of cavalry, a full-ranked rittmaster, had been standing guard, waiting with a broad-bladed rapier in hand.

  Springbuck engaged him and the rittmaster proved to be a marvelous swordsman, lithe as an otter and strong of wrist. Their blades wove and danced, contested for right-of-way and warded each other in a dialogue of light and ringing metal. The Prince remembered little of the match, worried as he was about Gabrielle. Overturned furniture, shouts and curses mixed with an appallingly fast interplay of points which left Springbuck’s left leg bleeding; all these things were confused. But the rittmaster bore only his rapier, and so, inevitably, Springbuck blocked with his parrying dagger and found clear way for Bar. Once again the strange blade bit flesh with a preternatural keenness, cleaving muscle and tissue as if they were custard.

  He seized a handful of the dying man’s tabard and pulled his face close. “Where is Gabrielle deCourteney?” he demanded.

  “Gone with Ibn-al-Yed, who left me here to do you murder, my Prince, and I have failed. Well fought, sir, though if you’d been without your main-gauche this day, I wonder—” And the rittmaster died.

  The victor was suddenly aware that a female corpse reposed on the bed. The dead woman was perhaps thirty, with graying temples and a peaceful face which held lines of laughter and kindness. Her throat had been slit. He stared down at her for a moment, knowing that this must be Gabrielle’s daughter Foraingay, and was brought anew to awareness of the enchantress’s age. Then there was a burst of gunfire, and he heard Gil’s yell. “Springbuck! God’s sake, let’s go!”

  He wasn’t sure which god the other was calling upon, but complied at once.

  * * * *

  Gil met him at the bottom of the stairs, his knife returned to its sheath and weapon cradled nervously. He looked at the Prince, who was grim-faced, with his sword covered with blood, and whistled softly. “Find her?” Springbuck shook his head. “Me either,” Gil admitted. “C’mon.”

  They plunged into the street and were off the square when the dragoons, drawn by the horn and the submachine gun blast, charged into it from the opposite side. They ran furiously toward the corner nearest them, from which the sergeant sprayed the remainder of his magazine and fought a fresh one into the weapon while he ran. A roaring came to his ears but he lacked the time to identify it. They raced around another corner, screaming cavalrymen closing on them rapidly despite the gunfire. Springbuck knocked Gil to one side as an arrow zipped into the rutted dirt street. Gil spotted the archer on a nearby rooftop and stopped long enough to shoot him.

  “Listen!” shouted the Prince. Without giving the sergeant a chance to, Springbuck dragged him off at right angles to their previous course. They skidded to a stop as they beheld Lobo bearing down on them, source of the roaring. Woods pulled APC to a stop as Pomorski leaned over the .50 cupola and deadpanned, “Want a good time, sailor boy?”

  “Run!” Gil bellowed, shoving Springbuck forward. He then spun and bracketed the fast-approaching cavalry in his sight blades and emptied the full magazine, pitching men and mounts to the ground in agony, and jumped for the track. He got a helping hand from Olivier as Woods slewed Lobo broadside in the cramped street and Pomorski and Handelman opened fire. Gil spotted the grenade launcher on the floor of the APC, grabbed it and let fly a round at the massed riders. He missed; the flip sights had been set for much longer range.

  After seconds of withering fire the terrified dragoons withdrew in a rout They’d had the APC explained to them by Ibn-al-Yed as a mere machine, but this was nothing that they could cope with. Gil and Pomorski tried to talk coherently as Woods headed the track back toward the castle. They’d barely left Erub when Olivier barked, “Here they come again.”

  Gil could never figure out how anyone could convince those men to face Lobo again, but evidently someone had done so. In fact, there were over a hundred men coming breakneck after them. Without instructions, Woods veered Alpha-Nine to the right.

  “Where’s he going?” Gil shouted.

  “Don’t squawk,” Pomorski cut in. “When you left, we set up a surprise, then came in after you. We can shake those cowboys and then head back to the castle.”

  Gil decided to shut his mouth and let the Nine-Mob run things. They dipped into the gully with a bone-wrenching jar and came to a stop in a spray of sand. There was a large oak tree growing by the village side of the gully, and Pomorski jumped down and ran to crouch behind it. “Everybody down,” he called, and they all pulled their heads back inside the APC. Seconds later there was a deafening explosion and Gil knew that his men had set up a claymore mine. The detonation had sent seven hundred steel balls screaming through a sixty-degree arc. None of the pursuers had been within the fifty meters or so wherein they would have been cut to shreds, but many, both of the men and beasts, were wounded and possibly dead. Gil thought about the destruction back in Erub and could feel pity only for the horses. Those of the dragoons still able to do so fled.

  Pomorski returned. As Gil and Springbuck put dressing on their wounds, there was a good deal of whewing and quiet chatter. “You even managed to bring Junior back with you,” Handelman laughed, but the sergeant reached over and partially drew Bar from its sheath. It was still covered nearly to the hilt with the rittmaster’s lifeblood, and they were all silent when they saw it.

  “He does pretty good by himself,” was the only comment Gil made. They looked at Surehand’s son with new respect, and he in turn felt closer to them, initiated to their peculiar brotherhood by violence, thinking that this Nine-Mob was close as people are only in war, joined by necessity or force through laughter, tears, death.

  They went on, rocking and swaying as the APC climbed back up in the meadow. They did not bother to ground-guide. Before Woods had even cut the engine, Van Duyn was at the rear hatch. He and Andre did not have to look within, though, for the expression on Springbuck’s face as he emerged told them that Gabrielle had not been found.

  In halting words the Prince told what had happened. The dumpy Andre looked close to crying and Van Duyn’s mouth became a straight, bloodless gash in his face.

  “I will consult the auguries,” the magician said tiredly at last, “to see if I can perceive whither they have taken her.”

  The Prince sat on the cobblestones, brief laughter forgotten, head buried against his knees, despairing at his failure. The scholar just stared angrily into the night sky. The Nine-Mob looked from one to the other.

  “You’re all very welcome,” said Gil MacDonald.

&
nbsp; Chapter Eleven

  The civilized man is a more experienced and wiser savage.

  —Henry Thoreau, “Walden”

  Dawn came chilly and clear with Gil checking the ammo belt in its tray and trying to ignore Pomorski.

  “Explain it again, MacDonald,” the grenadier persisted. “Why am I the Lucky Pierre who gets to bell the cat?”

  Gil, exasperated, said, “Look, if you don’t think you can do it, don’t. You’re the fastest sprinter in the Nine-Mob and I’m the best fifty gunner, but I’ll change off with you if you want.”

  “Do it?” snapped Pomorski, his nonvolunteer image saved here by chance for indignation. “Do it? I could do this number with my boot in a bedpan and my butt in a cane chair, even supposing this thingie shows. You just make sure you hit what you’re aiming at, MacDonald, and nothing else.”

  “I’m betting this dragon or whatever doesn’t come,” Woods commented. “Nobody’s even seen it. Primitive superstition.”

  Springbuck, seated on an interior bench studying Lobo and doing his best to stay out of their way, said, “I think there will be a dragon, since Andre says there will be. I only wish I could go with you; it’s a man’s place to fight his foes, not watch others do it.”

  Gil shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, pal, but you’d be in our way.” He waved his arm around the cramped track. “You see how limited we are for guest rooms. I mean, we’d take you if you could drive or shoot or something, but from what you told us about your stepmother and what-all, you’ll have plenty of hassling left to do after we finish this little job and leave.”

  “Hey, riddle me this,” Olivier said. “How come we can speak to you people and you can understand us? Why do you speak our lingo?”

  Gil would have echoed the question, but found that he couldn’t quite frame the word for his native language, as if it wouldn’t come into focus in his mind.