Bellator: An Anthology of Warriors of Space & Magic

by A. L Butcher

  Like life had paused for a moment, they all stopped as the chopper fluttered and began a quick fall as they heard the sound of a shot penetrating the hull. McPherson’s fingers flew over the display as frantic movement overtook the shock of the hit. “Captain, hull breach, she got hit in the belly. It doesn’t look like anything major was damaged, but the shields are fluctuating.” He twisted in his seat and made an adjustment to a system next to him. “There, stable again.”

  The beast that was normally tame in the captain’s hands responded again as the shields settled. It was common with the deflective nature of shield technology for gravity to adversely affect the choppers when their shields failed. A historian in town once likened the effect to a game ancient humans played where a round puck was supported on air and would glide across the surface until time ran out, then it would just lay there. No crew ever wanted their glide time to run out.

  Redder turned the chopper to the side again, gritting his teeth. Pulling up, he prepared for another run. “Hope they are almost loaded.” The words sounded edgier than they had a moment before.

  Looking across the body of the chopper, Avery’s eyes scanned the beach and saw the other ship and its crew in their uniforms on the ground, reflective strips catching the light from the fading day as they ushered the trapped science team aboard. “In process, sir.” She could only see shadows from the people being rescued as they were moved from behind cover. There was no way to know how many were left in hiding.

  Redder’s top lip broke into a cold sweat as he pressed down on one pedal, a small muscle flinch as he let the pressure off and shifted down on the other pedal to adjust the machine and control the sideslip, allowing for the tight bank. It was time to make another run, but even lower. The last thing they needed was one of the ghosts to break line of sight with them and start snapping shots off at the rescue chopper.

  Every movement of his ship was like a dance controlled by a puppeteer, especially in combat. Balance, counter-balance, wind shear and other factors all effected the delicate control he had trained his life to learn. These moments were where he shined, and not even the shot that had ripped through his foot could be allowed to distract him. More than his life was in balance. More than his crew, two civilian crews were hanging in the balance of his keeping control.

  The enemy shots were slowing. Whether they were changing tactics or if their attacks had made the impact, it was hard to tell. This pass saw fewer of the tracers in their path, but no one on his crew relaxed. They kept working to keep eyes on the Ghosts and to clear the forest. A softer bank this time, adjusting for the tension that suddenly flared up in his injured leg. Redder took a deep breath and brought the tree line in sight again.

  In the deepening gloom, one could see the damage to the soft rock of the forest, smoldering holes where bullets had tracked through. There were shadows of bodies on the ground, and the front line of the Ghosts seemed to have fallen back, but then a figure cut through the middle, an anti-aircraft gun pulsing red as it charged to fire. The weapon would be deadly if it connected, but was slow charging and lacking in accuracy. But at this range, point and shoot could still be deadly.

  Simpson saw the Ghost at the same time Redder did. His call of “Climb, climb” rang through everyone’s headset, even as their captain had already begun the ascent. The steep grind into the sky had everyone hanging on as they heard the loud shot ring out. The yellow of the weapon’s discharge could be seen as they turned left and leveled out. The shot flew past and they knew they had to make a decision before it had time to charge again. “Simpson and Avery, all your focus on that gunman. Take him out before he takes us.”

  Simpson swung across to the other side, securing the hook that would hold him in place as the chopper turned again and began its descent. Avery was a movement behind, pulling out her sidearm after she was locked in place. The firework-bright lights of blue tracers shot across the sand. One of the guards from the rescue area had moved forward and begun to fire. A guttural growl barked from the Ghost holding the anti-aircraft weapon and dark shapes moved forward. The rescue chopper had been spotted and the Huourk were advancing, not wanting their prey to break free.

  “Now, Simpson!” Even as Redder spoke the command, the gunner had begun to shoot the eried cannon, his grouping much tighter on the solo target. The mix of the black and white sand shot up in the face of the advancing Ghosts, halting their movement slightly, but the red light of the weapon’s charge that could shoot them from the sky had almost filled the meter. As Simpson shot round after round, the Ghost stood there, beginning to aim at them. PING. A soft, high-pitched sound echoed in the cabin, a startling contrast to the deep chugging noise of Simpson’s weapon. McPherson turned just in time to see the body of the Ghost recoil and drop backwards through the open side door, caught through the smoke that billowed from the barrel of Avery’s sidearm.

  “Hallelujah!” McPherson’s call poured across the in-cabin com. Simpson’s eyes flew from the beach to Avery as she tucked her sidearm back into its holster, then grabbed onto a support next to her. He nodded to her, then began to change his pattern to holding back the other Huourk that were in the clear.

  Only five of them were moving. One saw the other Ghost fall and his hand raised, three clawed fingers cutting through the air as it growled to its companions loudly enough to be heard over the noise of battle. Packs of Ghosts had been known to retreat when their leader fell and one could only hope that was what was happening. Five of them were still enough to take out the remaining people on the beach. The other Ghosts slowed as well, more grumbling and barking, then a step forward.

  Simpson shot then, his weapon sight true as a bullet tore through the leg of the advancing enemy. Grey-green blood shot from the wound and arced to the sand, glowing softly in the fading light. The other Ghosts grabbed the injured one by the arms and began moving back to the trees. A cry rang out on the beach and the guard that had been firing at the Ghosts shot at the sky in celebration.

  Simpson continued to fire, following the Huourk to the trees and watching as they fell back further into the shadows, only leaving the glowing grey-green blood trailing behind. Redder slowed the craft, bringing it around again as his people shifted position. Simpson’s firing slowed but continued, keeping a suppressing fire on the trees until the call came that the beach was cleared and they could see the other chopper take off.

  Later that evening, a debriefing of the day’s events was held in the medical facility after Redder was seen by the medical staff. The bullet had only torn through soft tissue and none of his own crew even realized he was hurt until his leg buckled when they landed. They carried him for help like a hero in an old Earth parade.

  General Buckly sat on the bed next to Redder. The pilot had been his personal pilot until he had requested to be put into combat. He had fast tracked Redder for promotion since that day, and as the word spread of the day’s battle, he could see the young pilot moving up in the ranks even quicker.

  The door to the medical center opened and in walked a huge, scarred man. He wore a suit and carried a small briefcase. “Captain Redder?” The voice was familiar from the radio earlier.

  “Mr. Havenstuck?” It was not Redder that answered, but Buckly. Usually where the other man tread, he brought bad news and tempers to be calmed.

  Havenstuck ignored the general with an air of superiority and advanced on the injured pilot, holding out his hand. “We are in your debt.” A small pause as he shook the captain’s hand, then looked at the rest of the crew. “All of yours.” He lifted the briefcase he held. “That science crew held a new sample, one that could answer the energy problem on many planets. Their lives and others will have been saved today if this pans out.” Dropping that bombshell, he just nodded to them and left as he came.

  “Well, I guess we are the heroes of the universe.” McPherson filled the silence that had followed the man’s exit with a joke.

  “Not us… Avery.” Simpson pushed the small woman at his s
ide with a huge paw of a hand. She stepped to the side slightly and blushed.

  “Universe? That might be going a bit far, but, job well done.” The general stood and made his way out. If what Havenstuck had said was true, operations in this quadrant were sure to heat up and more than one crew of heroes would be needed.

  * * *

  About the Author: Christi lives in Colorado with her husband, two boys and pets. She is a self proclaimed geek girl and enjoys gaming, online and off, kayaking and writing in her spare time.

  Lady Eleanor Reslin stood at the top of the city keep watching the amber rays of the new sun over the crystal blue waters of the lake. The sight was breathtaking in its majesty. Those who had once fled the discontent of the eastern lands called it the “Light of Hope” in the soft, lilting language of those who had first crossed the craggy rocks and deep snows to find this land. Now it was just the Golden Waters, probably more so for the gold brought into the city than the beauty of the sunrise. The discontent their ancestors had fled seemed to have followed them at long last. The early morn had the chill of springtime and whipped the woolen mantle about her shoulders. Cold air nipped fingers but this was the best vantage spot in the town and so she stayed, rubbing her hands and wishing she had remembered to bring gloves.

  As the shadows fell away beneath her, some of the areas seemed dingier than usual. There was a shadow over the docks, a sense of crowdedness she did not recall seeing before. Even the hovels seemed danker, more depressing, although at this distance it was not easy to tell. An unexpected movement caught her eye, and she turned towards the south, leaning over the battlements and squinting at what looked like colored cloth flapping in the breeze. As the light continued to grow, her eyes narrowed and her jaw set. It was not just a cloth, but tents, lean-tos, wagons, and people huddled against the city wall. Perhaps refugees from the war, she thought.

  The winter had been long and hard in the high valley, almost as if the mountains joined her in her mourning that no word had come from the battlefield before the snows set in. She knew that had any word come, any at all, the Council would have found a way to get through to her. As no word had come, as soon as the road was even marginally passable from the high manor to the mountain pass, she had gathered those most dear to her and braved the remaining snow and ice to reach the hidden pass and follow its twisting turns to the city far below as spring began a tentative grasp on the lands.

  Nodding to herself, she climbed down the iron stairs and wound her way to the chambers below, where the elderly chatelaine was busy coordinating the day with the staff. “Excuse me, Alys. What is wrong down in the working district, and why are there people outside of the walls? It is still so very cold out there.”

  “Hmm.” Alys looked up from her books and waved the staff away. “Oh yes, I don’t suppose you know of the decrees the Council has made since the snows blocked the pass, Lady Eleanor. They’ve closed the city to more refugees. Overcrowding, they said. We can’t feed all these new bodies, who contribute nothing to the city. There has never been this many asking for refuge, or this many beggars. Those who can help the farmers, herders, or fishermen are readily absorbed into those communities as the people follow the road from the pass. Those with specialized skills that can be used within the city are allowed in to work, but the rest…” She shook her head as she tisked. “I’m afraid they are locked out.”

  “Locked out? I don’t think the gates have ever been locked in my husband’s lifetime, or his father’s, for that matter, or so he told me before he rode to battle. His Lordship did leave orders to lock the gates if the battle came to our walls, but that was a last resort, to buy us time to get to the far valley, or wait out a siege if that was the only option,” Eleanor said, surprised.

  “In the early days everyone was allowed in and sent to the docks to find work: manual labor, cooking and…entertainment, things the unskilled do. It doesn’t take much to haul boxes or gut fish. Soon enough there were too many people and too little work and gates were shut on the district-way-fares which the city guard patrol. There have been those who’ve tried to climb in, cut down from what I’ve heard, mistress. There is a curfew now; once the sun goes down, all good citizens must be behind closed doors or be on legitimate business. The keep dungeons are full of drunks, whores, and curfew breakers, the desperate and the hungry. Children too, so it seems.”

  “Now even most of the traders stay within their ships and bring their own guards when they come to trade. I hear families from afar have stopped sending their sons to study, as well. Many domestics and skilled laborers were able to find rooms with their masters, which, I’m afraid, has only shifted the crowding into other districts, as now sometimes entire families huddle in one small room above a shop or below a kitchen somewhere. It’s a shame, really,” Alys concluded.

  “What of those outside the walls?” Lady Eleanor asked.

  “Oh, those by the caravan gate? Never you worry, the next trader to cross the waters will carry them on to warmer shores. They always do. Although...” A look of concentration crossed the chatelaine’s face as her brows furrowed. “It seems to me that the traders have grown more infrequent of late. It could be they have been waiting quite a while.”

  “I see.” Lady Eleanor nodded grimly, not liking what she had been told. “I thank you for your candor, and for catching me up on the things I missed during the long winter. I shall create a list of supplies to be prepared and then I shall require the great iron key set from His Lordship’s lockbox. I expect all to be ready after the household has broken their morning fast, and the steward to come to me when it is. This would not have occurred in the valley lands.”

  The chatelaine stood and bowed as Her Ladyship exited the chamber, wondering what was on her young mistress’s mind.

  * * *

  Eleanor carefully looked over the baskets and chests that had been lined upon the banquet table containing various herbs, tonics, medicinals, and easily carried foodstuffs from the kitchens. Old clothes, bandages, blankets and some tools had been found from among the keep supplies. Eleanor herself had donated a couple of gowns, a cloak and a long ream of linen she’d thought to use for something else. Now it seemed inconsequential. Nodding, she turned to the steward and held out her hand. “I thank you for your assistance. I cannot believe if His Lordship were home that he would stand for such. It is hard to believe, in a city of scholars and artisans, that none are familiar with the construction of a simple home, let alone a basic hovel. I know not how the winter fared here, but it was long and harsh high in the mountains. I only hope we are not greeted by cairns along the walls or the Council will not wish to hear the words I will have for them.”

  Taking the ring of large, iron keys, she strung it through her leather belt. “Have a servant and that errand boy—Thomas, isn’t it—waiting with the pony and wagon at the head of the high street. We shall join him shortly.”

  Eleanor paused at a looking glass as she strode down the central hallway. The face in the mirror looked tired and worn, for the journey had been long and unpleasant. Her normally peaches and cream complexion was pale, and dark circles hung under green eyes. She had looked forward to a hot bath and long sleep, but such luxuries could wait. Her work was far from over.

  She pulled a warm, woolen hat of forest green over hair of spun gold and found a scarf of black silk, a gift from His Lordship. As she wound it about her neck, her fingers brushed the silver amulet nestled in the hollow of her throat. For a brief moment after speaking with the chatelaine, she had considered opening the large trunk in her chamber and shaking out the ceremonial robes of state which she had been given for official visits within the city, but then she had thought better of it. Such garments were not suited to the job at hand, so she had simply donned clean travel clothes of sturdy, warm wool and joined her companions at the morning meal.

  Her cousin and confidante Lynette, and Gavin, the young captain of her personal guard, were sitting close together. One playing his lute softly, for he
was a musician as well as their protector, and one listening in rapt attention, as Eleanor stopped by the parlor, having sent for her favored companions.

  Seeing Lady Eleanor in the doorway, Lynette patted Gavin’s arm as she stood. “Cousin, we’ve been waiting for you. Something is afoot?”

  Lynette was petite, like Eleanor, but darker of coloring, her brown hair with mahogany highlights perpetually worn in a long braid, and her skin olive. She had given up her life in their distant town when His Lordship had taken Eleanor to wife. They were as close as sisters, and Lynette was no mere companion. While she possessed no magic of her own, as Eleanor did, Lynette’s skill with obtaining rare ingredients from both flora and fauna made her poultices and potions the envy of even the most skilled apothecaries in the city.

  Gavin carefully set aside his lute, trading it for a sword which he belted over his colors, the black and gold of the House of Reslin. Rarely did he don his official surcoat which marked him for what he was, but he did not like the changes he had heard about in town as he chatted with the household staff. It paid to be prepared. He was known well enough among those of rank in most circles to not need to advertise, so the crest upon the scabbard and the black and red woven sash over his leather armor were usually enough to alert others that he was a member of His Lordship’s household. Gavin thought to himself such behaviors within the city would never have been tolerated from the Council if His Lordship had been here. The war had lasted longer than anyone had anticipated.