Mobius

by Garon Whited

  It was a nice drive, I’ll say that. The road was a bit difficult at first, but shortly it turned into a flat, paved surface, ideal for big rigs. I’m not shy about claiming credit for it. Bronze kept up below thirty miles an hour and her running lights off. I used my pocket mirror to keep track of where we were in relation to the reserves the crusaders left behind. Fifteen minutes of driving and she pulled up, stopped, and swung open the trailer doors. I left the snoozing baby in her hammock-cradle with a sound monitoring spell. If she started to wail, I’d know it.

  Behind the truck, I cast a light spell on the upper edge of the trailer’s doorway. Everyone in back was crouched against the walls as though to hold on. The ride wasn’t that bad, the weenies.

  “Gentlemen. In a few minutes, we’re going to load up a lot of goods the crusaders left behind. You’re going to, I should say. I’ll deal with the bodies of the guards. I know you’re not warriors, so wait here until I tell you it’s okay. Once I’m done with the guards, I’ll help load, too. Any questions?”

  They had plenty of questions, but none they felt like asking. Bronze switched to her horse body, retracted her lariat-tentacle-cable, and scared the hell out of everyone in the back.

  Yeah, now that I’m paying attention, I suppose we have been a bit less than reassuring, sometimes.

  A frustrated vampire, carrying a psychopathic sword, riding a blacked-out metal statue came up on an encampment of undisciplined soldiers guarding a collection of disabled wagons. It did not go well for the guards. I saw the magical auras before anyone knew I was there, so galloping like a derailed freight train through the tent of their only wizard took care of a lot of potential problems. Admittedly, it started the waking-up process, but I wasn’t in the mood for a lot of creeping and sneaking. Firebrand alternated between staying dark and flaring momentarily in a bright, searing white to blind people. Either one would have been less effective, but switching back and forth really screwed the humans up. Bronze bit, kicked, and tail-lashed anything in front or behind. I tendril-touched anything to my left, massing them in that direction so I could devote most of my attention to hacking and stabbing with Firebrand.

  Bronze reported she had blood crawling up her legs again. It had been a while.

  When all was said and done—and we’d finished chasing down those who tried to flee—we went back to the truck, drove everyone and everything up to the wagons, set up the long boards as a ramp, and started the guys to loading the trailer. Bronze and I collected bodies.

  Bronze’s jumper cable is attached to the front of the saddlehorn. It snakes out like a lariat and she can tow things like a rodeo horse. Dead bodies, wheel-less wagons, trees stumps, small hills, you name it. I have to make do with two hands and slogging. She was a big help with the loading of the trailer. She dragged empty wagons away and full ones closer, reducing the walking time. Very convenient. Very thoughtful.

  I did some head-severing, armor-stripping, and weapon salvaging. The weapons and armor also went in the trailer, but I kept the heads in a pile.

  With my work mostly done, I took a quick trip up the road to see if anyone was racing toward us. Nope. Either they weren’t spending a lot of time monitoring their reserves… which, come to think of it, they probably weren’t. How many scrying mirrors and crystal balls did we crack or shatter in the last month or two? They might not do more than check in every morning. I keep defaulting to thinking of this bunch of loosely-allied fighting men as an army. They are not. They are slightly more than a mob and far, far less than an army. An extremely well-armed mob, to be sure, but they aren’t disciplined and regimented. They have poor-to-awful command and control. They are fighters, not soldiers.

  Lucky for me.

  I went back and helped them load the rest of the supplies. Most of it was food, since the crusaders gave priority to their creature comforts. They did have to devote some space on the working wagons to foodstuffs, leaving behind some furniture, a few musical instruments, some rugs, and the like. We loaded it all up anyway. Stack things well and a semi tractor-trailer rig can hold a stunning amount of stuff.

  With everyone and everything crammed into the trailer, I shut the doors and immediately reopened them on an empty trailer. The trick wasn’t going to earn me any goodwill with the laboring class, but screw goodwill. Everybody already thinks I’m terrifying. I’m rapidly approaching the point of not giving the back half of a giant Sumatran rat.

  It’s hard to realize nobody likes you. Even we horrific fiends of darkness need to feel loved. In Karvalen, I always knew someone liked me. Here? Not so much. Leisel, maybe. Tessera, possibly. Velina respects me, at least. I have loyalty, I’m sure, and some affection in spots, but does anyone love me?

  This hurts me in ways for which I am not prepared. I’m not sure what to do about it, or even if there is anything I can do. It’s a social problem and I can’t solve those with physics, chemistry, or math. I don’t like it.

  Bronze and I dragged wagons together, piled them up, added some bloodless corpses, and burned everything in a grand pyre. Firebrand encouraged everything to burn and I added some airflow enhancements. We must have made a tower of fire five hundred feet high. I’m sure it was visible for miles, even in the hilly country around us.

  While the tower of fire blazed up into the night, I rigged up a temporary arch for the truck. Brute-force gates are a pain. We then sat around and watched the fire, making sure Smokey the Bear would have no cause to be upset. I also watched the main force of the attackers. It took a while, but they sent a scrying spell to check—I suspect it was a cast spell, not a magical device. I mean, I would prefer to cast a spell if I was running short on mirrors. Nobody came marching back, so I assume they decided there was no point.

  When we were sure the burning was done, I shot down the scrying spell and we headed home. The rig roared into the barn, still under power until we were completely through. The gate closed and Bronze kept going, right out of the barn, out of the keep, and down the road, bouncing slightly as we slammed up sheets of water through the ford and up the road on the far side. Lights came on all over the village as she bellowed through, flames spurting from the stacks. I saw people in the street, staring after us as we disappeared into the dark.

  The baby slept right through all of this. Either my cloak is a great shock absorber or she sleeps like a brick. I’m not sure which. Maybe both. While I was pleased about it, I also realized what a terrible idea it was. I mean, sure, Bronze won’t let anything happen to her. I won’t let anything happen to her. And I defy anyone in that mob to get her out of my cloak. But I really ought to put someone on babysitting duty so she doesn’t have to come along into a war zone!

  Terrible parent? Box thoroughly checked.

  I called Leisel and she called Bridgefort, warning them and relaying orders. When we arrived, the warriors were all up and watching, the drawbridge was down, and nobody was in the way. Bronze roared on through the opening, rumbled over the drawbridge, and braked slowly to a stop at the far end of the main bridge.

  I unloaded the trailer, laying out a line of heads just around the first bend, out of sight from the fort. Whoever showed up tomorrow—assuming the Temple didn’t recall them—would encounter their acquaintances, all neatly spaced at five-foot intervals. It was quite a line.

  My original thought was to put a spell on each head so it would sing some part of a song—Leonard Cohen’s “You Want It Darker” leaped to mind as a masterpiece of both creepy and threatening—but, darn it, while building a whole a capella choir of the things wasn’t too hard, translating the song and tuning the heads to sing together would take too long. I loved the idea, though. Next time I want to intimidate an army, I’ll start sooner.

  With everything laid out for tomorrow, I climbed back in the cab and entertained a now-wakeful little person. Since there was nowhere to turn around, Bronze backed the whole rig across the bridge and through Bridgefort, which impressed me enormously and made me wonder again how she can see anything. Cle
arly, she can look behind herself without actually turning her head, or even having a head. Even more impressive, she can back a full rig for a mile or more without a single bobble. I can’t back a car and a trailer accurately.

  Beyond the fort, we still didn’t turn around. Instead, she parked at a wide spot, where the road ran through a level place. I carried Little Person in my cloak-sling while I cleared some trees and moved a couple of rocks to make a parking spot. Little Person seemed to enjoy the activity, which kept her distracted from feeding time for a bit.

  Bronze switched to her statue and came out the back. The ride back to the keep was another good distraction, but I fed Little Person as soon as I came in the door.

  Now, for the hard part of my evening. I can’t keep calling her “Little Person.” What am I going to name her? She needs a name, just like she needs a family. Should I hold off on the name until I find someone to take her? Or is that impractical? If the local culture is convinced she’s a soulless monster, no one will want her. Even if I persuade someone to take her, what guarantee do I have they’ll actually take good care of her?

  Apparently, she’ll be my responsibility for a while. Like I needed another one.

  Tauta, 2nd Day of Lorinskir

  I’ve never had much input on children’s names. This is probably a good thing. I mean, I named an evil elf “Bob,” simply for my convenience! What the hell do I name a baby girl? I can’t go on calling her “infant” or “Little Person.” Maybe “test subject.” She’s a test to see what this whole soulless-baby-thing is all about. No, I can’t call her that. I rescued her from abandonment and exposure for reasons having nothing to do with a test. She needs a name!

  I’m going to get a computer, copy a massive list of girl-baby names, and have it pick one at random. Hopefully before she has a birthday.

  Lousy human being? Check. Incompetent king? Check. Terrible father figure? Check.

  Fortunately, she sleeps well. My cloak changes shape rather slowly during the day, but it does a fine job as a crib. I’m not sure what a pediatrician would say about a hammock as a baby bed, but I’m improvising. I also have a volume control on my workroom mirror, now. I also have some baby feeding supplies, courtesy of Johnson & Johnson and a grab gate.

  What I do not have is any sort of comfort level involving babysitters. Everybody knows who she is and, so far, everyone who’s seen her has either stared at her or refused to look at her. This is not comforting. It is limiting. Bringing her in the truck where Bronze and my cloak can protect her is one thing. How am I supposed to go do violence to masses of people without a babysitter?

  I miss Diogenes. He would slap together a nanny robot or six and I wouldn’t have to worry.

  The crusaders took quite a while to set up shop. Their scouts found my presents, scrambled back to the main body, and reported. A lot more surged forward to see before orders went out to hold positions. I can only imagine the rumors, mostly because I’m not getting a scrying sensor too close. I’m using an air refraction telescope for a zoom function. I suppose I could do something similar to make a parabolic microphone and amplify the sound, too, but I’m happy with watching them.

  The road runs from Bridgefort’s drawbridge, across the actual bridge, and continues straight for maybe sixty or seventy yards. After that, it has a wide curve leftward around a rocky prominence. The whole thing has a slight downward grade from the fort, deliberately, to improve drainage. The bridge used to have drainage ports in the sidewalls, too, but I closed those when I set up the internal piping.

  Camp Crusader was farther down the road, just enough to be out of sight. The area they chose had a steep slope on one side, but a large grass-with-trees space on the other. They cut down the trees, parked wagons, pitched tents, and sorted themselves out. I’m not sure if they picked the spot because it was the only convenient place or if it was to keep from being archery targets. Possibly both. If I’d truly been thinking ahead, I’d have planted land mines there. Well, next time, maybe.

  Most of the branches on the trees turned into firewood. Portions of the trunks, too. The rest were hacked and chopped and shaped, changed from trees to lumber. I wasn’t entirely sure why, although I had my suspicions.

  They didn’t send any wagons back for the rest of their supplies. I suppose they already sent scouts to confirm what happened. Instead, they arranged their wagons in a barricade fashion, walling off the approach except for the road, itself. There was no gate, of course, but it was a choke point and helpful in the event of a counterattack.

  Once they had themselves sorted out, a contingent of about twenty men marched out. Six were in shining, almost ornamental plate armor. The rest were also polished up and pretty, but they carried shields, banners, played drums, blew some sort of wind instruments, all the trimmings and trappings of ceremony and power. The banners were double. Each pole had a symbol for the House represented, but the peaks of the poles each had eight silken ribbons—seven colors and a white one. They approached along the road and my pocket mirror rang.

  “Yo,” I responded. Leisel looked out at me.

  “I hate to bother you, but there’s a parley party approaching. They’ll want to talk to you.”

  “Can’t you do it?”

  “It’s not the custom.”

  “All right,” I sighed. “Go wait by the door of one of the Bridgefort towers. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I debated what to do with the sleeper. At the time, she went down for her nap maybe a half-hour prior. She should be okay, but I worked up a quick baby-monitor spell and routed it through the main mirror. I would hear her if she woke up and fussed. It doesn’t matter if I’m ten feet or ten miles away. What matters is if I can get to her quickly or not.

  Then I went through the person-sized gate in my workroom, emerging from the door next to Leisel. She bit her lip as the gate closed behind me.

  “What?”

  “It disturbs me to watch that. I’ll never get used to it.”

  “It just takes a while. What do I do at the meeting?”

  “They will ask for your surrender. You either negotiate the surrender or refuse.”

  “From your tone, people don’t generally refuse.”

  “It happens.” She gestured and we walked together toward the main gate/drawbridge. “If you think they’ll have to withdraw before taking the Bridgefort, it’s expected you’ll refuse. Unless they offer really good terms for surrender. It’s complicated by the lack of allies. A relieving force from outside would be a perfect excuse.”

  “They already think there is one,” I pointed out. “Their reserve supplies are ours, now.”

  “That’s what we hauled up from the dungeon?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the armor and weapons? —no, foolish question. I see.”

  “Anything else I should know before telling these jokers what to go do with themselves?”

  “In this one case, being… whatever you are… is probably a good thing. You’re terrifying and in front. Everyone will follow.”

  “Good to know. Sort of. Do I need to be here for the siege, or is it enough to show I’m backing you, my vidat and my First?”

  “You want me to defend Bridgefort?”

  “Do you think you can?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “I think you can, too. I’ll go talk to these morons and see if they’re willing to turn around and go home. If not, we’ll see how many they’re willing to let die.”

  Leisel signaled and the drawbridge tilted out and down. I noticed for the first time how it was raised and lowered. Ropes, not chains, over wooden rollers, controlled it. Somewhere, there were winches to crank it up and down. Several blocks of stone on each side, strung in a line so they were lifted one by one, acted as counterweights. As the drawbridge tilted out, more blocks of stone were lifted by the ropes, counterbalancing it as the vector changed. I thought the arrangement quite clever. I made a note to remember it for all future drawbridge designs.

&nb
sp; Out on the bridge, the plate-armored guys were standing and waiting. The musicians were still playing. The ribbon-banners were still rippling in the mountain breezes. There were no priests with them, but maybe that was to be expected. The warriors were in charge of hostilities, and there were traditions to be maintained. No doubt their employers were back in the camp, awaiting word.

  A couple of guys with several yards of string moved back from the lowering drawbridge. They had knots tied in it at various points. No doubt they were measuring the width of the two stone beams supporting the drawbridge, how far apart they were, and the width of the bridge, itself. I can’t fault them for wanting to know and taking advantage of the situation. Much good may it do them.

  Leisel was ready to go out there with me, along with a whole entourage for show, but I told her to get crossbows ready instead. I might not want to kill everyone on the bridge, but it couldn’t hurt to be able to.

  I strolled out alone and stopped when my boots hit stone. We all stared at each other for a bit.

  “You wanted to talk?” I asked.

  “You are…?”

  “I am Al of House Lucard, the Mazhani of La Mancha Valley,” I told them, ignoring the discourtesy. Normally, people state their own identity as a request for someone else’s. Asking someone for their name without giving one’s own is rude. I learned that somewhere.

  “I am Berenor of Istvan.”

  “You look familiar. Are you one of the warriors’ council in Sarashda?”

  “I am third.”

  “I knew you were one of the best,” I agreed. “Pleased to meet you, Berenor. I’m sorry it isn’t under better circumstances.”

  “As am I. Do you wish to surrender?”

  “I do not.”

  “I am required to ask why.”

  “You don’t have the food to stay here for long and you don’t have the force to guard your supply line. Your employers’ main building—the Temple—has been reduced to rubble by the displeasure of the gods. And if you try to invade my valley, I’ll kill every single one of you.”