by John F. Carr
And it was a beaut, his men had agreed.
Lancer Dolman carried his squad’s support weapon, usually requiring him to engage the enemy at a distance. This morning, however, he sat on a rock in the mountains several klicks from the Citadel with the rest of his fireteam. He and each of the other Saurons looking into their pack mirrors and grimacing.
“Aargh,” Dolman said. No. That wasn’t right, he decided. He tried again, “Aargh!”
He turned his head to one side, tried a snarl. “Argh-arrh…Arh!” He finished with very little confidence in his acting ability.
Around the circle described by Dolman and the other members of his squad, Assault Leader Mav stalked like a panther held at bay only by a campfire’s feeble glow.
“Fierce!” Mav exhorted his men. “Make sure they see you. Get in their faces with a snarl that’ll freeze their blood. The Survey ranks have established that these Havener indigs are especially tough. Their bush fighters are tougher still, but they’ll be depending upon support from what’s left of the cities and towns. The survivors of our invasion who are still in those cities will, therefore, be the weak link in the resistance. Our job is to impress each and every one of them that we can be more savage then anything they’ve ever seen on this mudball moon they call a home.”
Mav reached out and grabbed Dolman’s chin and turned the young Soldier’s face up to him. “You call that a snarl?”
Mav jerked Dolman’s jaw around to point at a line of animal corpses laid out on the rocks. Each beast’s head was facing the members of Mav’s squad; each beast had been killed by him personally the day before. Each beast was as savage an example of Haven’s fauna as Mav could locate in one day’s hunt: two stobors, a cragspider, one large cliff lion, a tamerlane, two drillbits and a land gator.
Dolman looked as if he thought it was a pretty good cross section of things to avoid.
“Look over there, Dolman. The locals call that thing a tamerlane. See those teeth? You should have seen its eyes in the light of Byers’ Star. And that one’s a cragspider—you’ve seen what they’ll do to a muskylope. It has an almost-human face, hasn’t it? Those big borers with the shiny teeth are the worst; they chew through stone. They don’t even notice when a man’s guts get in the way. Think about that, all of you. Use that, and let’s put the fear of a Sauron nightfang into the next bunch of cattle we find cowering in the ruins of their towns, ruins we made!”
Dolman sighed. It was tough trying to follow the Survey ranks’ orders to present a “fierce face” to the Haveners without Mav’s biology primers and amateurish exhortations to non-existent Sauron “primal instincts.”
The biggest problem was that Dolman, like almost all other Saurons, simply did not have any idea of how to be “fierce” in battle. Human norm propaganda to the contrary notwithstanding, Saurons were not killing machines. They were civilized men and women who were the very best at what man, as a species, excelled at. They made war, and “making war” was a function of intellect and intelligently applied force.
“Ferocity,” on the other hand, was a function of ego. And Saurons had long since perfected a concept unique among all human civilizations: The subjugation of the ego to the battle plan. A Sauron at war was a perfect soldier, executing his training in as ideal a manner as could be hoped for in an environment of chaos. Exhibiting “ferocity” in such a situation was, by definition, a waste of energy and a detriment to concentration. Other, lesser peoples needed some outside impetus to charge themselves with adrenalin; Saurons were born with the conscious ability to control such combat-enhancing organs.
The Survey rankers, therefore, weren’t trying to tap into some lost capability of the Sauron psyche; they were trying to get blood from a stone.
Dolman caught a look on Mav’s face that was very much like despair. He felt badly for the Assault Leader, he really did. Mav should have known that his men were incapable of endangering the mission by “play-acting” at children’s games when they were working…
Surprised at his own thoughts, Dolman blinked. “Assault Leader Mav,” he called out.
“What is it, Dolman?”
“What’s our mission, Assault Leader?”
Mav put his hands on his hips and stared at him. “What?”
“The mission’s object, Assault Leader, what is it?”
Now Mav blinked. After a moment’s consideration during which Dolman realized that Mav had simply accepted the Survey rankers’ objectives without analyzing them. “To impress upon the cattle of this world that Saurons, as a race, are the most utterly ruthless and dangerous opponents they have ever encountered.”
There was a nearly imperceptible susurration as the squad exuded a collective sigh of comprehension.
“Terror tactics, then, Assault Leader?” one of the other Soldiers asked. “Pointless cruelty, occasional decimation of captives, the odd atrocity?”
Mav thought for a moment; Dolman could see his mind working by the expression on his face, which said: Could that be what the Survey ranks meant? If so, why hadn’t they just said so?
Mav looked up. “Yes,” he said. He sounded as if it were a revelation. Satisfied at last to have comprehensible instructions, the squad went back to their mirrors.
Dolman looked into his own mirror and snarled. “Whoa!” he blurted, taken aback. The tamerlane and the cragspider looked positively cuddly compared to the visage that stared back at him.
Not bad, he decided. Not bad at all.
II
Sergei Kamov reined in hard, leaped from the saddle and pulled his horse Mischa down to the sloping ground in a single smooth motion. The animal was superbly trained and accustomed to such treatment, and it barely grunted as its ribcage thumped against the cold, dry Haven soil. It had been a long and thirsty ride and, though he could now smell water, Mischa lay still, his nostrils flaring once as he calmly placed his head flat against the earth. Serge drew his carbine from its sheath and steadied it across the animal’s ribs, then he, too, became absolutely motionless.
Looking down the sights of his weapon, he watched the Sauron patrol on the other side of the river as they moved along the rock face like a lounge of lizards. It was wondrous to behold; the Saurons clung to sheer rock walls beyond the ability of the finest mountain peoples Sergei had ever seen.
Still, it cannot be all that easy for them, or they would surely have noticed me.
Sergei was hiding in dense brush, but he had heard that Saurons could see into the infrared spectrum, giving them a tremendous advantage when searching for the warm bodies of enemies against the low background heat of Haven’s terrain. Surely then, the climb, which was impossible for normal humans, must be difficult for the invaders and must command most of their concentration.
As if to confirm this hypothesis, one of the Saurons upon reaching the bottom of the rock wall—instead of watching the opposite bank for threats, where Sergei now lay—turned back to check on his comrades’ progress.
It must be training of some sort, Sergei decided. He recognized the behavior in the way the Saurons were conducting themselves: each man concentrating on the task at hand, while the Sauron on the floor—apparently their leader—concentrated on performance. Kamov himself had once borne such scrutiny under the watchful eyes of a sergeant major in the Haven Volunteers. Watching the Saurons told him much about what they were about: Their leader has spread them out across a rock face with no place to go should they be attacked. This means they are not concerned with being attacked, which in turn means they must have many friends nearby.
Suddenly, he was beset with a cold chill, colder than even Haven’s harsh weather could account for. He considered his predicament. He calculated that with a quick remount he could be half a kilometer away before the first Sauron forded the river. At forty standard years of age, and having been on Haven since he was ten, he was no longer young. Even so, he was known and respected among his people for the skills he honed over a lifetime.
Squeezing the trigger, he did n
ot wait to see the Sauron leader’s head explode, but tracked immediately to the highest of the five figures remaining on the rock face.
Another shot, but the top-most Sauron’s descent had changed from careful progression to an eerily graceful flow of limbs. There came a rippling crackle of shots from across the river and Sergei saw that he no longer had targets. The remaining Saurons had simply jumped to the opposite river bank, perhaps fifteen meters below, and were now laying down suppressive fire along his side of the river. To his right, several meters of brush were sheared off as if a scythe had passed through them, showering him with leaves and splinters.
They will see my horse! Mischa’s body heat must look like a bonfire to them. Gripping his saddle’s pommel, Sergei threw his weight back and half dragged the horse a full meter. Responding to the familiar command, Mischa grunted and scrambled to his feet as Sergei threw one leg over the saddle. Wheeling, the Cossack was heading away from the river when there was the crackle of gunfire. His horse suddenly screamed and pitched forward, catapulting Sergei over the animal’s head.
Sergei rolled into a crouch, turning to see Mischa frantically kicking his front legs, trying to find some purchase to stand. Disemboweled by a burst from a Sauron weapon, the horse’s hindquarters dragged uselessly behind, leaving a vast smear of red in its wake. He aimed at the center of Mischa’s head, and was about to fire when he saw a figure appear on the ridge directly behind his dying mount.
Without thinking, Sergei lifted the barrel a few millimeters in automatic reaction even as he squeezed the trigger. By nothing but great fortune, the bullet struck the approaching Sauron beneath the chin, doing what only cross-cut rifle slugs could to a human skull. His next shot gave Mischa a merciful death. Then, during the time it took him to duck down behind a big rock, he realized that the Saurons had already crossed the river!
I never had a chance of killing some, and then getting away…
He could smell Mischa’s blood in the thin air. In a moment, he knew his own blood would add to the scent, bringing tamerlanes and other Haven predators down from the hills to feed. The rest of the Saurons would be on him any second.
III
John Hamilton saw a large dust plume rise over the upcoming slope. He reined his mount over to the side of the dirt road, next to a stand of oak, and slipped his carbine from the saddle holster, levering a shell into the chamber. His four Guardsmen dismounted and followed suit.
John was relieved to be out of the constricting confines of Whitehall, where he had been forced to live side by side with the woman he craved but could never possess. His head still ached from his concussion, but other than that he was as fit as ever—on the outside.
While his patrol was still within Hamilton territory, there had been more people on the road today than at any time since the troubles with Castell City. Many of the dispossessed had lost their homes when Wheelock’s Raiders had sacked their towns and were headed to Greensward for protection and housing. Some were refugees from cities, like Tampa or Redemption, which had been bombed by the Saurons, while others were fleeing from bandits unleashed by the breakdown in what had passed for law and order in the central Shangri-La Valley.
All were looking for refuge or housing. Most of them would be turned away. Other than machinists and trained craftsmen, his orders were to turn everyone away.
This band was probably friendlies. The border guard wouldn’t have let a large group pass without signaling Whitehall. Still, these were unusual times. It was possible that anyone sent from Whitehall to notify them might still be on the road or been taken prisoner.
When half a dozen all-terrain vehicles, bristling with rifle muzzles, topped the rise, John felt his pulse quicken and his trigger finger tighten. Then he recognized the insignia of the Haven Volunteers, a green land gator with an arm in its mouth, and raised a hand in greeting. It was hard to imagine any other outfit on Haven not under Sauron domination with that much ordnance and rolling stock.
“Hello, John,” a familiar figure called, as he drove the lead vehicle over to the side of the road, next to John’s horse. The stocky Militiaman stepped out of the vehicle and held his hand out for a handshake.
“Major Hendricks! What are you doing out here?”
“Reconnaissance and survey. Brigadier Cummings wants to know if there’s been any Sauron presence in this area.”
“Not yet. Their ship made a flyby just after the initial attack. Not many targets out here, and fortunately they overlooked Whitehall.”
“Good. Just what the Brigadier expected. This is a big Valley for just one ship.” Hendricks paused to take a drink out of his canteen.
“Then there is only one?”
“So far. We’ve lost all of our imaging equipment and we have no way of communicating off-world, but the level of Sauron activity is about right for a single battle cruiser. This is about the only good news that’s come out of this fiasco.”
“How’s the fort?”
“Fort Kursk was evacuated, with a token force left behind. The Saurons overran the defenders. They occupy it, for the moment. The Brigadier’s abandoned Fort Fornova, too, and is keeping on the move with the Falkenberg Irregulars, to keep the Saurons from discovering his position. He’s looking for a new staging area, far enough away from the Sauron landing site near Evaskar to go unnoticed, but close enough to do some harm.”
“What about the Fighting First?” The Brigade, the Haven Volunteers, was comprised of two regiments, the Fighting First and the Falkenberg Irregulars. The militia dated back to the CoDominium era, pre-Patriotic Wars.
Hendricks smiled. “The First is still dispersed or in hiding, waiting for the counteroffensive. After that we’ll need a bolthole.”
“Whitehall would be perfect. To the Saurons it’s just another old stone fortress, so they’re not likely to come back any time soon. We have enough troops to be useful.”
“That’s what I told the Brigadier before he left for Fort Fornova. He didn’t agree. It’s too far from Evaskar for his plans. He’s in command of the Falkenberg Irregulars for the moment; Colonel Harrigan was killed by Saurons in an ambush.
“I caught a ride out of Fort Kursk with a unit going to help in the evacuation of Redemption. We were too late. So I thought I might stop by for a chat with my old friends. It’s my opinion, and that of some of the other junior officers, that the Irregulars are going to have a full-time job just keeping out of the frying pan, that close to the Citadel—that’s what the Saurons are calling old Fort Stony Point.
“Meanwhile, Whitehall would be an ideal headquarters for the Fighting First. Just because the Saurons have established their home base in the north doesn’t mean we should abandon the Central Valley. With your help, I’m sure we can convince Brigadier Cummings.”
“Is the Brigadier planning on returning to the First?”
“Yes. He’s got something up his sleeve. Nobody knows what. Brigadier Cummings gives out information on a need-to-know basis only. Keeps leaks to a minimum.”
John nodded, thinking to himself: If the Brigadier were to use Whitehall as the command center for the resistance, there isn’t anything the Baron could do to stop me from joining the militia. Of course, that meant there could be problems if Ingrid talked to her father, but he couldn’t see her as a tattletale. Nor was she the type to run to daddy.
“Anything wrong, John?”
“No, but the Baron might need some convincing. I think he wants to sit this one out.”
“Ha, fat chance. No one on Haven’s going to sit this one out. There are no neutral parties in this war. To the Saurons all humans are the enemy, or as they call us ‘cattle.’”
“I agree, Major. I pledge my support.”
“Excellent, Lord Hamilton. I’ll go on ahead and talk with the Baron. We can share a drink later at Whitehall.”
Chapter Six
I
“Pah dak. Ta ma kuhk sa.” Under-Assault Leader Ogme barked the commands in the Battle Tongue. An ambush and Assa
ult Leader Mav had been the first casualty! Ogme restrained an urge to shake his head in dismay. The probabilities had shifted against them; or, as First Citizen Diettinger was sometimes heard to say: “Bad luck.” Either way, Ogme and the other survivors of his squad were in a very bad position. He had watched as Blooder Wyren, the squad’s lone rookie, reached the top of the ridge along the far riverbank only to be cut down almost instantly.
The cattle must have seen Blooder Wyren crossing the river; which implied that they had marksmen in the high ground on the other side. The low number of shots Ogme heard bespoke excellent fire discipline, to say nothing of impressive accuracy. For a moment he wondered if his patrol had blundered into another ground patrol of Saurons, but that was plain nonsense. No patrol of Saurons would fire on another without a damn good reason.
Ogme was well-trained; abruptly finding himself in command of a unit which had suffered two casualties without ever seeing the enemy. He made exactly the proper decision based on what little information he had. Moving with superhuman speed and grace possessed only by Saurons, he and two of his men withdrew from the river. Skirting along the base of the rock wall in cover that only they could have exploited, Ogme’s unit was well away from the killing zone in minutes. One minute after that, Ogme was calling in a report.
II
Sergei frowned. Where were they? He had chanced moving twice and was now almost fifty meters away from his dead horse and the body of the last Sauron he had killed. He had expected to be dead long since, but the hail of fire had not come. He couldn’t understand why the Saurons hadn’t killed him already; he knew that he would never see it coming. No Haven alive could sense the approach of Saurons when they chose to move by stealth.
Suddenly, inexplicably, Sergei was seized with terror. That was why he couldn’t hear them! They were not rushing to kill him; they were closing in to take him prisoner. Through him, the Saurons would find his village and obliterate his people. Again, acting on instinct, he bolted away from the rivers. Only occasionally did he stop to look back, and, each time, the very lack of evidence of pursuit convinced him that the Saurons were closing in on him.
