The men he had chosen for the raid were his second-best dozen; he looked them over as he spoke a brief invocation, carefully kept non-denominational out of respect for the doctrinal differences between True Worder, Chosen, and Truechurcher. They seemed sound enough, reassuring him of his earlier selection. He did not care to increase the risk of failure by using men who might panic and freeze or flee, and he was confident these men would not. Although they grumbled, when he announced, “In the Name of the Lord, amen!", they echoed him promptly and followed him readily enough as he led the way out into the driving rain and up the hillside toward the Citadel.
Visibility was poor; the sun was still above the horizon when John broke out the rolls of string he had brought to link the men together and prevent them from getting lost in the dark. As long as each was tied to his string, the twelve of them would stay together; if any of them got lost, they all would. He had originally chosen string because a lantern would have been too easy for the Heaveners to spot, but he blessed his choice now because he doubted a lantern would have been enough in the downpour.
They struggled on, some of them complaining loudly, the others persevering in silence that could be either determination or simply resignation, and an hour or so after sunset they spotted the lights of the Citadel ahead of them.
They were approaching from the rear, with the intention of doing what damage they could to the fortress without involving any native Godsworlders. This side was not guarded, so far as anyone knew; the cliff below the fortress was presumably thought to be guardian enough. That was a major reason John had chosen it, instead of the “airport", for the first attack.
The cliff, however, was not really that bad at all; he had investigated it himself a few days earlier. It was steep, true, far too steep for horses or vehicles, but by no means sheer, with plenty of handholds and ledges, not a very difficult climb for a healthy man.
Of course, John had not climbed it in the dark, in pouring rain. His companions balked at first when they reached its base.
“Come on!” he said. “It's easy!” He snatched a rifle from its owner. “I'll show you myself!” He began marching up the slope, using one hand to steady himself, the rifle clutched in the other.
When he was twenty feet up he heard the scrape of boots on stone and knew that his men were following him. He kept moving, and only when he was almost halfway up the hundred and fifty foot climb did he glance back to be sure they were all there.
They were. “Safe-in-God's-Hands, come get your rifle,” he called.
The Chosen soldier scurried up to where John was waiting and accepted the return of his weapon. The rest of the climb was made in silence.
The slope levelled off as they climbed, and they soon found themselves standing on a gently-rising hilltop below the fortress wall.
The fortress loomed above them, its windows glowing golden through the gloom; the lowest were a few feet above John's head.
“All right, Safe,” he said. “Let's see what you can do with that gun of yours.” He gestured at the windows.
Silas Safe-in-God's-Hands lifted his rifle, selected his target-they had hoped to find a Heavener to snipe at, but he saw no sign of anyone in the windows-took careful aim, and fired.
Instead of the sound of breaking glass, however, his shot was followed by the whine of a ricochet. Embarrassed, he lowered his weapon. “I must've missed, sir,” he called. “But I don't see how. Must've been the rain."
John had been watching the window, and thought he had seen it shiver as if something had hit it. “You were close, anyway. Here, move right up next to one and try again."
The range had already been short, but Silas obediently took a few steps forward and aimed at one of the lowest tier. He was so close that he was thrusting the rifle up more than forward. It was absolutely not possible for him to miss at this distance; he squeezed the trigger.
Again, the bullet whimpered away as a ricochet, and the window remained intact. John stared up at it for a moment, then stepped up as close as he could and studied it intently.
There was a narrow scratch on the glass, dead center. He motioned for the men to move in.
“Here,” he said, “someone lift me up and let me take a look at this."
Two men crossed arms to form a seat, and John was lifted up until his eyes were level with the bottom of the window. The scratch was definitely there. Peering in, he could see that the room was full of machinery quietly whirring about its business; he saw no sign of any human inhabitants.
He reached up and tapped the pane with one finger, then closed his fist and rapped on it with his knuckles.
“Darn!” he said. “It's not glass!"
“What is it, then?” someone called.
“I don't know-but whatever it is, it's bulletproof. Let me down."
He was lowered to the ground, where he stood staring resentfully up at the warm glow of the window.
“What do we do now?” someone whispered.
“Well,” John said, “maybe we can't shoot out the windows the way we planned, or pick anyone off, but we've still got ourselves enough explosives to blow a hole in their wall, I'd say.” He looked around for the Truechurcher blacksmith.
The smith's name was Thomas Across-the-Jordan. “Jordan,” John called, “let's see what you can do with that stuff."
“All right, Captain, but I'm not too sure about the fuses in this rain."
“Do your best."
The smith set to work. While he unpacked his knapsack, John announced, “If any of you have any ideas or suggestions, I'd be glad to hear them; I was figuring half of us would be inside by now, not still out here in the rain."
After a moment of uneasy silence, someone suggested, “We could work our way around the walls and go in the front, couldn't we?"
“We'd have to go over the old town wall,” someone else answered.
“We could head out to the airship port,” a third voice said.
“Could we?” John asked. He turned to look at the building's corner and consider the possibilities.
“Sure! If we stay right under the walls, no one will see us coming; we can slip right in and wreck the place, maybe cut the Citadel off."
John nodded. “I wasn't planning to do that tonight,” he said, “and I'm not sure we can get past the guards without a fight, but it's as good an idea as we're going to get. Soon as Tom here blows out that wall, we'll make a run for it; the mess here should keep the Heaveners too busy to stop us.” He glanced back at Across-the-Jordan, then at the corner. “In fact, why wait? Tom, you can handle this by yourself, can't you?"
Across-the-Jordan looked up. “I reckon I can, Captain,” he said.
“Well, I'll leave two men here just in case you need them, and the rest of us will head for the airport. Silas, you've used up your bullets; you stay here and help out if you can. Simon,” he said, indicating another man, “you stay here as their lookout. Soon as that wall blows, the three of you come along after us; we shouldn't be too hard to find."
The three men selected all nodded acknowledgement, and John led the others around the corner and onward toward the airport.
They had just reached the juncture of the Corporate Headquarters and the old town wall when the explosion roared out behind them.
“Sooner than I expected,” someone remarked.
John said nothing, but he was suddenly worried. The explosion had, indeed, come sooner than expected, much sooner; he hoped nothing had gone wrong. He heard nothing after the initial blast, no sound of settling rubble; that was bad.
Then the sky lit up, greenish-gold, turning the rain into a shower of glowing sparks. John looked up.
The light was coming from an airship hovering over the headquarters building; it was roughly triangular, barbed and evil-looking, and a dozen sections around its edges were ablaze with light. John estimated it to be thirty or forty feet long.
“What's that?” one of his men hissed. John shushed him. “I think we better get out of
here,” he said.
“Back the way we came?"
“No,” John said, looking appraisingly about him. “That's where the airship will be looking for us. Down the slope right here and head for home."
“What about Silas? And Simon and that Jordan?"
“Hope for the best,” John said. “I think the explosion got them; it came too soon. We can't afford to wait and see if I'm wrong.” He headed straight out away from the town wall, moving at a fast walk, half-crouched.
“Hey!” An unfamiliar voice shouted; John glanced back and saw someone standing on the wall, holding a gun.
“Run!” he called, suiting his own actions to his command.
Five of the others obeyed; one had frozen, one was running back toward the site of the explosion instead, and the last raised his rifle.
The man on the wall fired first, with the rattle of a machine gun; the man with the raised rifle fell.
A guerrilla commander could not leave wounded on the battlefield; John knew that. “Get that sentry!” he called, as he turned and ran back for the injured man.
Three men raised their rifles; two of them fired, the third went down in a spray of bullets. Another went down after squeezing off a shot; the third fired his second shot, then turned and ran for cover.
Someone had scored; the man on the wall also fell, and did not reappear. John thanked God for that small favor as he scooped up the man who had been first to fall.
He was unconscious, with red oozing from his scalp and running from his side. John dragged him down toward the cliff.
Beside him, the man who had managed to fire both bullets was on his feet again, struggling to lift another wounded man. The man who had frozen by the wall joined them; the other two men had already fled out of sight.
“Head for home!” John called. He lifted his burden up across his shoulders and broke into a stumbling run.
The other two unhurt guerrillas followed him closely, each with a wounded man. One was able to hobble along with minimal support; the other was dragged like a sack. John hung back and looked at the dragged man; he did not like what he saw. When they were out of sight of the wall, all panting heavily, John checked the man out.
As he had feared, the man was dead, had probably been dead when he first hit the ground, with half a dozen bullet holes in a line across his chest. The man John had carried was still breathing, though badly injured; the other had taken a bullet through the meaty part of the thigh, but was otherwise unhurt, and could hobble along, using his rifle for a cane as needed.
Leaving the corpse, they struggled onward, down the slope and heading for home, alone in the darkness and rain.
Somehow they made it eventually, all five of them, reaching the roofed-over gully late in the afternoon. The man John had carried remained unconscious for the entire journey, and the three uninjured men took turns carrying him.
The two who had disappeared into the night, ignoring John's order to turn and shoot, never turned up; John never saw either of them again, nor any of the four who had been at the back of the building. That made one dead, two wounded, six missing, out of a party of twelve men; John guessed that of the six, three were killed by the explosion, one captured, and two deserted.
It was a very bad beginning, but in the following month the situation only got worse.
Chapter Fourteen
“If the spirit of the ruler rise up against thee, leave not thy place; for yielding pacifieth great offences."-Ecclesiastes 10:4
****
After that first debacle John had expected it, but it still hurt to admit it-his biggest problem was desertion. Late in the afternoon of All Saints’ Day he looked down the slope at the mostly empty interior of his base and admitted to himself that the pitiful handful of men who had stayed with him, loyal as they were, would not be enough to accomplish anything during the winter. He could not expect to recruit more men while the cold lasted-it would be hard enough feeding those he had, and keeping them warm. The cloth-covered gully did not hold heat well.
It held odors, though; John himself hardly noticed the stink any more, but the men still always complained of it whenever they returned from any trip outside. Ever since the first rain the smells of the stable and the latrine had simply accumulated, instead of blowing away. That would improve once the cold arrived-but little else would.
And would he be able to keep the horses healthy without solid walls?
He shook his head. Wintering here would not work. It would do no good; they would be unable to harass the Heaveners and then slip away once the snows came, as they would leave clear footprints-even assuming they dared to make the journey across country in the first place. With just twenty-three men and the two women-women who had both shown far more determination than John had expected-left in the camp, staying here was pointless. What would they do if they were stricken with some sickness? Trapped beneath a blizzard? Washed out by spring flooding? What could they accomplish?
Nothing, that was what they could accomplish. It was time to retreat and regroup. He and his handful of loyal supporters would go underground in the surrounding towns, then return in the spring.
They had at least done a little during their stay; half a dozen raids had been made on nearby villages, though they had, as yet, not managed to do any damage at all to the Citadel itself in their four attempts. Not only was the Corporate Headquarters bulletproof and bombproof, so was every other Earther-built structure or craft; the heaviest slugs he had been able to find had simply rattled off the black-painted sides of the airship like hail-and that had been when they had finally managed to get close enough to shoot at it, which had been a major effort.
Even the Earthers themselves were partially bulletproof-John had seen one shot in the chest, at close range, who came away with only a slight bruise. He could not imagine how the thin shirts the Earthers wore could stop bullets, yet they did.
When shot in the face, of course, an Earther went down as quickly and died as messily as anybody else; John had seen that, too, when a sightseer was jumped in the village of Withered Fig that very morning. That was the first confirmed killing of an Earther, ever, anywhere on Godsworld.
One of them, out of a few hundred-and John had lost at least eleven, probably eighteen, men, not counting those known to have deserted or been captured, not counting the six thousand who died in the fusion blast, not counting those cut down by the machine gun at Marshside. Scattering his men through the towns for the winter might actually be a better idea all around-perhaps they could become assassins, picking off Earthers whenever possible, until the survivors retreated into the Citadel and stopped interfering with Godsworld. Even if the assassins were captured or killed, a one-for-one exchange would be far better than he had been doing so far.
Of course, convincing men to become assassins could be difficult; of his remaining troops he estimated that only four or five were fanatical enough for such a role.
Still, whether any assassinations were carried out or not, dispersing for the winter was undoubtedly the best thing to do.
Despite all the logic that led to the same conclusion, he hesitated. If he once broke up the little band, would he ever be able to get it back together again?
He wasn't sure.
He kicked the question about for the remainder of the evening, sitting quietly throughout a subdued supper. He had no one left that he trusted enough to confide in; Habakkuk was back in New Nazareth, Jonas had deserted weeks ago, and none of the others had spoken to him much about anything but military matters. He had to think it through himself and make the decision.
He would sleep on it, he told himself, and decide in the morning. He said his evening prayer for the little congregation, congratulated again the man who had shot the Earther, then went quietly to bed.
He woke up suddenly, unsure what had disturbed him. He listened.
Someone was moving about nearby-several someones. A bright light flashed in his face; he blinked.
“You John Mercy
-of-Christ?” someone asked.
This was obviously not the belated arrival of more volunteers; the man spoke with a thick Heavener accent. John did not answer.
“It's got to be him,” another voice said.
“All right, whoever you are, get up; you're coming with us.” Hands reached down and grabbed his arms; reluctantly, he allowed them to pull him to his feet, wishing he had kept his sword within reach.
The light shone in his face again.
“That's him-right, Sparky?"
“Correct,” an oddly neuter voice said. Remembering Cuddles, John guessed it to be a machine of some sort.
“Let's go, then."
He was dragged up out the upper end of the camp and hustled into an open doorway in a gleaming dark blue wall, a wall that had never been there before; still not fully alert, it took him a moment to recognize it as an airship, probably the one that had hovered over the Corporate Headquarters the night of the first unsuccessful attack on the Citadel.
Corporate Headquarters-his sleep-fuddled mind wondered idly why it was called “corporate". Was there a Spirit Headquarters somewhere? And the Heaveners called themselves a corporation-was that like a congregation? Did they worship the body? Their lives were luxurious enough to make such an idea possible.
It didn't matter. They strapped him into a seat aboard the airship, seated themselves all around, and ignored him for the few moments it took to fly back to the Citadel and set down on the fortress roof, chatting amongst themselves in a strange tongue.
Once the airship was down again he was dragged out of the craft and across a dozen feet of open roof, through a sliding door into a small room, where his guards simply stood, as if waiting for something. A moment later he felt a sudden odd lightening and realized that the room was sinking down into the building somehow.
When the door slid open again he faced a richly-upholstered chamber, only slightly larger than the movable one he was in, with a single door in its far wall. “This is as far as we go,” one of his captors announced. He was unceremoniously shoved forward into the chamber; the doors of the moving room slid shut behind him, and he was alone.
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