His defense carried him closer to the mage, and he firmed his mind within the flow state. Robert raised his pistol and fired. The blast ripped through the mage, but did not harvest his soul. The mage's ghost stood upon the steps, and watched while his body fell beneath him.
The Dreadnaut swung about, corrected its course and dropped in elevation. Along the Devin river it charged, with the potential of its engines realized in the pulsating roar of pistons. Magical constructs illuminated the hull and slowed the enemy projectiles, so they bounced harmless against the steel plate. The cargo bay doors opened, and Zephyrs dropped from the hold, while the rockets upon their backs cushioned their descent. Grenades thumped from their shoulder mounted launchers, and machine guns peppered the field with lead.
The bombing racks descended and hung ready for release. The enemy artillery came within range, and the bombs slid along their tracks to plummet to the earth. Rows of incendiary explosives tore through the batteries and ignited the powder to create chains of mushrooming fireballs.
The battlecruiser rose from the field, its prow pointed toward the heavens, and traced a slow arch back the way it came. The cannons reloaded, and another rack of bombs slid forward.
What soldiers still survived, fell back toward the main entrance, pushed by the unrelenting horde. Up the last flight of steps they went, and extracted copious amounts of blood and lives for every inch they surrendered. A volley of muskets fired, and several defenders fell. Some died with the initial strike, whereas others collapsed into the enemy who tore them asunder. The souls of the Patheranian soldiers stayed with the retreating force, without being siphoned into the cycling chambers.
A musket ball pierced Robert's shoulder, and another tore into his side. His pistol fell from his hands, and his legs buckled beneath him. He slumped against the railing, and left a smear of blood across the stone. A foe charged at him with his bayonet. Robert batted the weapon away with his sword, followed through with the swing, and thrust through the opponent's chest.
The stranger tumbled away, and another Aeresian pushed the corpse aside. He leveled his musket. A puff of smoke billowed forward, before the crack of the explosion sounded. A fist of agony slammed into Robert's abdomen, stole his breath and doubled him over. He started to fall, but several sets of hands grabbed him and hoisted him up the stairs.
Soldiers took his place in front of the horde.
He fought to breathe. The blade of his sword bounced off every step, but he kept his fist locked around the hilt. He kept his other hand pressed against his gut in an effort to staunch the bleeding.
"Almost there, My Lord," one of the men holding him said. "Hold for just a bit."
They passed beneath the cavernous arch of the main entrance. The portcullis stood at the apex of its position, lifted high to allow easy passage beneath. Why would that be, Robert wondered. The enemy was so close? The portcullis should be closed. A great river of men rushed out of the keep screaming in the face of death, some afoot, and others on horseback. Zephyrs ran within their mass, their weapons raised and machine gun barrels beginning to spin. At first, Robert could not comprehend what he saw. But then, he focused on what they wore. These soldiers wore bright blue coats with red upturned cuffs beneath their armor. The enameled steel reflected the same light blue, but crisscrossed with bands of white. Nowhere were the black leather of the Dreadnaut's crew, or the dark blue of the 101st.
The colors of House Raen'dalle's coat of arms took the field.
The reinforcements arrived.
Whelan shoved his way through the crowded halls of the keep. Once spacious and vast, the corridors echoed with space. But now, with the bloody Patheran army crammed into every conceivable nook, he had barely room to walk straight.
The infirmary clamored with activity, and he ignored every order for him to step out of the way and move aside. He had more important concerns than the damaged egos of some physicians trying to save a few pointless lives. He only cared about one.
Ahead, just outside the private operating theater, stood an older man in a crisp uniform. His broad shoulders bore a hint of a stoop, and his gray hair and beard had a thin, sparse look to them. A surgeon stood before him in a deferential posture.
"There is simply too much damage," the surgeon said. "He's lost too much blood."
"There's nothing you can do?" A note of pleading dominated the old man's voice.
"We can keep him comfortable, My Lord," the surgeon said. "I'm sorry. A Fren'gal mage could heal him, perhaps. But it is beyond my ability."
The old man clapped the surgeon on the shoulder and nodded his head.
"Thank you," he said. "I appreciate your efforts. See to those you can save."
The surgeon stepped back, bowed, and hurried from the room.
Whelan approached, but kept a healthy distance between them. A glance inside the theater showed Robert on the table, with a host of ghosts crowding close around him. Whelan blinked in surprise. There had to be at least a hundred souls in the entourage. Almost all of them soldiers from the 101st, except for a Demort'gal, a female aeronaut, and a Tarekien mage. How in the Seven Hells were so many not sucked into the cycling chambers?
The damned fool must have held them all back, drawn them to himself when they died. Whelan shook his head. Leave it to the son of House Raen'dalle to keep his word. He did promise Lyle he would not let any of them go. Whelan wished he knew how sane the boy's future would be.
"My son," the old man's voice broke, but the words called him out of his reverie. Whelan turned to him, but his wrinkled face remained fixed upon the still form on the table. "My boy. They say it's because of him the fortress still stands."
Whelan nodded.
"He adjusted the cycling chambers," he said. "Made it so we didn't run out of ammunition. Led the men in their darkest hour. He's lived up to the honor of his name, Banton."
Count Banton Raen'dalle fixed Whelan with a mournful stare. He stepped forward, and peered into Whelan's face. He started in surprise, and shook his head.
"It's you," Banton said. "Why am I not surprised to find you here, you old devil? Please tell me there is something you can do for him?"
Whelan nodded.
"Of course, my friend," he said. "But I can't be too thorough. It'd raise suspicions I'd rather not saddle him with."
"So long as he'll live," Banton said.
Whelan entered the operating theater and waved away the spectral congregation. He paused beside Robert, and laid his hand on the boy's forehead. He'd grown quite attached to him, far more so than he expected to. The lad had an earnest tenacity to him, which kept him moving forward when everyone else gave up. The way he approached a problem, and in the company he surrounded himself with gave evidence to his nature. He refused to let the boy die.
Robert's pulse fought to move blood through his damaged body. Whelan looked around to make sure no one watched. He extended his sin'del, his life force, and enfolded Robert in it. He manipulated the boy's energy field, encouraged it to heal, and repaired the worst of the damage. The wounds knitted together beneath the bandages, and the seepage of blood stopped. He refrained for erasing the injuries, and left the process far from complete.
Robert would be months convalescing, but Whelan knew he would live through this to fight again.
"For king and country, no doubt," Whelan said. "And I'll be there by your side throughout."
He kissed Robert's forehead.
"He'll live," Whelan told Banton, and the old man sagged with relief. "But his soldiering days are suspended for a while."
"Thank you," Banton said. "This is another debt in a very long list I'm afraid I can never repay."
"Think nothing of it," Whelan said. "I'm a member of the Protectorate. It's what I do."
"Rastef -" Banton said, but Whelan cut him off with a raised hand.
"Don't use that name," he said and moved closer. "I'm Whelan here. Boatswain onboard the H.M. Dreadnaut."
Banton chuckled.
"I
don't care what you call yourself," he said. "I'm just glad you are my friend. And now my son's friend as well. I pray you continue to keep him safe."
"As I said," Whelan looked back to the theater, and noted the increase in Robert's coloring. "I belong to the Protectorate, and you're a Raen'dalle. What else is there to know. If he needs me, I'm there."
Epilogue
Robert stood on a cleared field, the rows of crops shorn close to the earth with the harvest. The far off sun sank behind the clouds obscuring the horizon, and the darkness swelled with its departure. An eager stillness settled about the world. Night fell with unusual swiftness, and raced ahead of the torrential rains. He watched the near solid wall of rain race across the land, and witnessed the first strikes of lightning lance through the skies. Behind him, a walled village rose before the surrounding forest, its bulk solid and imposing, with oversized lanterns lighting the palisades.
A sharp, poignant and intense unease washed over him. The echoes of Sharil's Forde whispered in his mind. He somehow clung to his mortal coil then, but it felt the same here. He bowed his head in acceptance of death's arrival.
"Such is the way o' the world," the woman said beside him. She slid her hand into his, and together, they watched the rain approach. He knew her, had always known her, and her touch brought a comfort that soothed his weary soul. Her nearness inspired a deep fundamental peace. "Such is the cruel reality o' the flesh."
He squeezed her hand, took in the exquisite shape of her face, and savored the lilt of her speech. Lifetime after lifetime he gazed into those eyes, and it always brought a smile to his face.
"We are born but to die," she said, voicing the ancient liturgy of her people.
The Extipana creed. She was one of the witches.
He should have been shocked. He should have been outraged.
Instead, he spoke the remainder of the words with her, for he always knew them in his heart.
"And from death we are incarnated, again and again upon the wheel of life."
They gazed at each other in silence. She was the woman from his vision beneath Caliban's Crossing.
"Tis' me home," she said, and faced him. "Tis' me village."
"How am I here?" His sense of happiness deepened to look on her, despite his confusion. "I was wounded. In the war."
"We're nay here, my heart." She ran the backs of her fingers down his cheek. "We're in the Dream Time."
"This is a dream?" he said, and looked about him. The world moved in fits and starts, a wind-blown leaf bouncing with a languid grace streaked across half a field in an instant, where it once again resumed its unconcerned rhythm.
So it was.
"So much ye've forgotten since ye left us last," she said to him. Sadness and concern shown in her eyes. "And so much more ye've learned."
Full night fell without warning, where a moment before it had been an angry dusk. The clouds crowded around them, and dumped rain in a torrent that smeared the world from focus. Lightning beat through the sky, but even the arching chains of celestial fire could do little to illuminate the unfolding scene.
Not so much as a single drop touched them.
"We're observers," she said to him, "here ta witness what the Goddess desires us ta see. We're nay part o' the dream."
"What are we supposed to see?"
"Aye dinna know," she said. "Watch wit' me, and we'll discover together."
Horrible, bestial cries echoed through the night, although nothing moved save the rain and lightning.
The skies above them lightened and the clouds parted, although the rain continued to fall unabated at the peripheral of their vision. A brilliant moon, heavy and full, hung in the revealed sky, alone in the night; its smaller twin conspicuous in its absence.
Robert blinked, and the world sped past. They stood now in the center of the village, and he looked back to the sturdy walls, this time seeing them from the inside.
From the corner of a building, almost hidden beneath the murk of the churning night, a figure stood. Clothed in shimmering crimson and black he exuded a supple, unyielding sadness, and stood contemplating the moon from the shadows, his eyes as black as the surrounding night.
The man in the shadows of the building raised his hand, and touched the face of the moon, tracing a finger along the silver surface. His hands, the white fingers of which tapered to cruel points, curled as if to grasp the glowing orb hanging low in the sky.
"Whelan," Robert said.
"Ye know him?" The woman did not turn from the image, but he felt her attention on him.
"Yes," Robert said. "He the Boatswain onboard the Battlecruiser Dreadnaut. We fought together at the Forde. But he looks different here."
Another figure, an echo of the first in image and bearing stumbled from the door of a tavern that had never been erected within the confines of Red River. Sinking to his knees, the figure threw back his head, revealing features too perfect to be human. Around his neck a collar of blackened iron met the links of a crimson chain that trailed off into the distance. From the folds of his lace-ruffled shirt hung a small sphere that glowed in tandem with the moon above. He too reached for the heavens then, yet his arms were weighted by the clasp of chains and fetters. The silver light of the moon intensified when both figures strained to reach its source, but then became convulsive and erratic. Within the space of a breath the silver moon shattered, and the darkened clouds rushed in to fill the void left by the streaking fragments. Once more, the world embraced the folds of night.
Robert could still see, although the surrounding buildings stood silent and still. He drew a breath with lungs that needed no air, and schooled his mind to discipline.
"Accept the vision without regret," she said to him. "Dinna attach the failings o' ye mind. Reflection. Reaction. Interpretation. These come later. 'Tis an activity more suited for the clarity of the waking world. For now, just watch."
A raven appeared from the swirling ink, growing larger as it came to land before her. The woman beside him curtsied. He heard her breath catch, and her hand tightened in his.
"Tis me omen," she whispered. "Tis the sign Aye seek."
Blacker than its surroundings, the bird still shown with a midnight radiance that set it apart. Within the preternatural creature's clawed feet lay a simple doll. The woman crouched down, drawn to the poppet. She took it in her hands, and turned her gaze back to him. A look of anguish suffused her beautiful features.
"This canna be," she said, and held the poppet out to him.
Robert reached for it.
The bird fluttered its wings in agitation, and squawked once. The ear shattering sound chilled his soul and cast him out of the dream...
Robert awoke with a start, his heart pounding a mad rhythm of panic. He tried to sit up, but pain gripped his middle and took his breath. He fought through, and rolled to his side.
"Easy, lad," a voice said to him, and a reassuring hand pressed against his shoulder.
He knew that voice.
Through watery eyes, he looked up at his father, who stood by his bedside.
The dream.
The woman.
His thoughts scrambled to seize the fluttering images of the dream. Most faded, lost beyond his grasp. All that remained was her face, and the pleading in her eyes.
"Rest," his father said. "You have been through a great ordeal."
With a gentle pressure, he eased Robert back against the voluptuous pillows.
"Where..." Robert croaked, his throat parched. His father held a cup to his lips, and he gulped the water.
"Easy, lad," his father said. "Slowly now."
Robert nodded, and settled back, his brow furrowed.
"You are home." His father sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the hair from Robert's forehead. "In Covenshire. I thought the air better for your recovery here than in the capitol. The healers say you will make a full recovery, but it will take some time."
"The Citadel?" Robert said, his voice hoarse, making it painful
to talk.
"Sharil's Forde still stands," the Count Raen'dalle said. "In large part thanks to you."
"What happened?"
"We met the Aeresian assault and pushed it back." His father turned the glass and a smile suffused his face. "We broke them. The war is over. The delegation to the peace accord was a feint, an attempt to draw our attention away from their true motive. Apparently, they drew their forces from the Mohar line, and sent them to Sharil's Forde. They thought it an easy target, and I am proud to say, without your presence, it would have been. They planned to push through the pass and sack Ialkan'thor.
"You and your troops held them long enough for us to rally. The King committed the full might of our nation. We conscripted every able-bodied man along the way to bolster our ranks, and brought what was left of our airfleet."
"The Dreadnaut?"
"Badly damaged," Banton Raen'dalle said, "but she survived. She's docked in Ialkan'thor being repaired. Your Captain Stockbridge put up quite the fight. Given her reputation, I am not surprised, but from all accounts, she and her crew acquitted themselves with honor. The King has declared the Dreadnaut the flagship of the line. Not all the crew survived, I am sorry to say, but the loss of life was minimal. Do not be alarmed. Your Captain survived, and has become quite the celebrity. As the widow of the Count of First Haven, she has taken up her duties with his estate. She is the new darling of the social circles, though I fear it is not the life she envisioned for herself."
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