Dies the Fire

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Dies the Fire Page 57

by S. M. Stirling


  That was well done, Larsson thought, wincing slightly. Still … ouch.

  He'd gotten case-hardened since the Change—his mind suppressed memories of the night of blood and screams in the ranger cabin with an effort so habitual that he didn't even have to think about it.

  But this isn't just a game of engineers, the way business was a game with money for counters. Or if it is, it's a game with human beings as pieces.

  On the heels of the thought came more distant sounds from the castle: six together this time, tunng-tunng-tunng-tunng-tunng-tunng.

  "The first one was a ranging shot!" Larsson shouted. "Heads down, everyone!"

  More black dots came floating out from the castle, from the tower and along the wall. Deceptively slow-looking at first, then gathering speed. Larsson dropped to the bottom of his hole and looked upward. Something went overhead in a blur, and there was a hard whack! sound of metal on metal, duller chunks as steel spearheads buried themselves in wet dirt. There were shouts, but no screams.

  Larsson shouted himself: "Everyone stay in their holes until I say you can come out!"

  There was no quaver in his voice; he was proud of that. He knew the javelins probably couldn't hurt him … but his gut and scrotum didn't seem to know that, and they were sending very unpleasant messages up to his hindbrain. When he thought about what he was going to do next, his sphincter got into the action.

  And I can come out myself whenever I want. I don't want to, but I'm going to do it anyway.

  He launched himself out of the trench. The loop at the end of the firing lanyard was about a dozen yards away; the point of his hook sank into the dirt in the middle of it, and he let his backward slither pull it taut.

  Chang-whack!

  The boulder arched out towards the Protector's castle; before it was halfway the multiple, musical tunnng of the dart-throwers sounded.

  "Now I understand why they had so many sieges in the Middle Ages, and why everyone hated them," he muttered to himself as he tumbled back into the protective embrace of his foxhole.

  "Hit!" someone shouted, after the javelins struck. "Broke off a section of the palisade this time!"

  He could hear the crew cheering from their trenches and felt like shouting himself … until he realized that he'd just probably pulped several men into hamburger with a three-hundred-pound boulder, and equally probably mutilated and crippled several more.

  "But I'm not going to get bent out of shape about it, as Mike says," he murmured to himself, his lips thinning. "So many dead, and you cretins are adding to the total, when you could be helping. If your Protector had organized to get people out of Portland—"

  He yelped involuntarily as one of the man-length darts plowed into the dirt near him; it sank a third of its length into the hard-packed rocky soil and quivered with a harsh whining sound that played along his nerves like a saw-edged bow on a violin. Three more banged off the steel framework of his rock-thrower.

  And we are not going to stand around cranking Mr. Tre-buchet down again, he thought, swallowing an uneasy mix of terror and exhilaration. Hmmm … next time, really big, thick movable shields to protect the crew?

  "All right!" he called out aloud. "Next flight of javelins, one of us runs back—you, Jackson, the minute they hit you get out of your hole. We've given the Protector's men the kick in the ass we promised 'em!"

  The crew cheered again. Larsson nodded, looking at the luminescent dial of the mechanical watch he'd found. Just before sunset—though with this overcast, it was hard to tell; it was definitely getting dark, though.

  He looked towards the castle—and saw only mud, because he certainly wasn't going to risk his life for a gesture.

  "When you want to set a man up for a punch in the face, get someone to kick him in the ass," he muttered to the dirt.

  Thanks for getting Astrid off to that bunch of Wiccans, Mike, he thought, not caring to share the thought even with the wall of his trench. Just the thing to keep her fascinated.

  With a wrench like a hand reaching into his chest and clutching:

  And take care of Pam and my kids, you hear? My strong and beautiful kids. Christ, why did it take a disaster to realize how great they are?

  * * * *

  The trail was doubly dark, with the overcast night and the branches overhead. It smelled cold, and wet as well—it hadn't started raining yet, but the wind from the west had a raw dampness to it, a hint of storms to come. They were nearly a thousand feet above the castle at Echo Creek, and the air was colder here, closer to the approaching winter.

  Mike Havel grinned to himself in the darkness, an expression that had little mirth in it, placing each foot carefully on rock and damp earth.

  Which means we better get this done soon, if it's to be done at all, or we winter at Pendleton. Which would be goddamned chancy for half a dozen reasons.

  He walked slowly but quietly, listening to the quick panting of the burdened men ahead—locals from the CORA force, hunters who knew the deer-tracks over these hills as well as their home-acres. He didn't, and neither did Sam Aylward, but they moved almost as easily, instinct and the faint reflected light and the whispering of air through trees and around rocks giving them clues enough. Both were dressed alike, in loose dark clothes and boots and knit caps and dark leather gloves; Havel had his sword across his back with the hilt ready over his left shoulder, and his bow case and quiver slanting to the right.

  Aylward had a take-down longbow resting in two pieces beside his arrows, all muffled so that they wouldn't rattle and under a buckled cap. Neither bore armor, besides buckler or targe.

  "Wish we could have practiced this more," the Englishman grumbled softly.

  They didn't need to keep absolute silence, but quietness was a habit in circumstances like this.

  "Too much chance they'd have heard about it," Havel answered in the same tone—not a whisper, which actually traveled further than a soft conversational voice. "That camp leaks like a sieve. Hell, I didn't tell you what I had in mind, until I learned you'd done a lot of hang gliding, did I?"

  A soft chuckle. "Run me down on the others," he said. "I presume they're the best—or I bloody well hope so."

  "They're the best who happened to have the necessary experience; it's not a sport your ordinary Idaho plowboy takes up," Havel said. "Pam's cold death with a sword, and she's learned the rest of the business very fast. Eric and Signe are pretty good, they've had seven months hard practice and they're natural athletes, and I've seen them both in real action. Good nerves and good muga, both of them, and coming along fast."

  Aylward nodded, unseen in the darkness. Muga was a term they were both familiar with from unarmed-combat training; it meant being aware of everything around you as a single interacting whole.

  And I wish to hell Signe was knocked up and off the A-list for now; we're going to be married soon, for Christ's sake, he thought, then pushed it away with a swift mental effort.

  Can't afford to get worked up about that, or I'll make mistakes and get us killed. Christ Jesus, that's likely enough anyhow!

  There was a little amusement in the Englishman's voice: "And this is probably the last chance you'll get to go off on your own, away from the paperwork and the all those cloudy decisions, eh? Corporal to general—and if you knew how hard I'd fought to keep the same bloody thing from happening … "

  Mike shrugged. "Maybe not. Things are different now. No Pentagon, no brass."

  And how. There's probably nothing but bands of Eaters haunting the Pentagon, he thought. Sort of. what did Greenberg call it? A literalized metaphor?

  He'd loathed the place and the city it was located in at long distance every day of both hitches.

  Idly: I wonder what happened to the President? He'd never liked the man much. Probably the Secret Service got him out, and he's still running things.in about a hundred square miles around Camp David, maybe.

  He went on aloud: "Hell, what was that Greek king, the one who got all the way to India—"

&n
bsp; "Alexander the Great?"

  "Yeah. Always the first one in … here we are."

  The hunters had brought them to the clearing on the crest of Echo Mountain, and carried the hang gliders as well, bearing them lengthwise up the narrow trail. Aylward went forward to check them over, using a tiny metal lantern with a candle within and a moveable shutter. Havel did his own examination, and then went the other way, up the sloping surface of the open space until he reached the steep up-curled lip facing southeast.

  That made a natural slope to lie on with only his head above it, until all the others had gathered behind him. He used the time to see what could be seen of the castle, matching it to the detailed maps he'd memorized.

  There was more light over there than you'd expect; he hadn't seen anything like the actinic glare of the searchlight since before the change. The beam flicked out, traversing slowly back and forth along the parapet.

  "Puts them in the limelight, doesn't it?" Signe said from his left.

  Havel grinned in the darkness. Literally in the limelight; lime burning in a stream of compressed air, with a big curved mirror behind it. That was what they'd used in theaters to light the stage, before electricity. His father-in-law's education was coming in really useful.

  "Don't look at it," he said, turning to repeat the order on the other side. "It's supposed to blind them, not us. All right, now take a good look at that tower. Match what you're seeing to the maps you studied."

  He did himself. The enemy had obligingly put torches all along the palisade of their motte-and-bailey castle, which would give them a better view of the first ten yards and kill their chances of seeing anything beyond that, even without the searchlight stabbing into their eyes.

  "Amateurs," Aylward muttered.

  Havel nodded; the best way to see in the dark, barring night-sight goggles, was to get out in the dark, well away from any source of light. It was a lot easier to see into an illuminated area than out of it. If he'd been in charge of that fort, he'd have killed every light, and had a mesh of scouts lying out in the darkness and damn the cost. The CORA men hadn't been able to threaten the fort, or get much past it … but they had been able to discourage the garrison from walking around after sunset.

  The torches outlined a round-shouldered rectangle with Highway 20 running through it from east to west. There were buildings on either side of the roadway, and the circular cone of the motte halfway between the corner and the gatehouse. Obligingly, the Protector's men had a big iron basket full of pinewood burning on top of the tower.

  "Everybody satisfied they know where they're going?" Mike said, waiting for the nods.

  Aylward's had an edge in it: We should have practiced this more, chum.

  Havel's reply: We should have, but we couldn't. Pray hard.

  "There's a nice updraft over the lip of this cliff and we've got better than fifteen hundred feet of height on the target, so there's not going to be any problem with that. Come at the tower from the west, with a bit of height to spare. If you miss, just keep going—we've got people out there in the ground between our lines and the creek. And do not—I say this twice—do not launch until I'm down and give the signal."

  He caught Pamela's eye, and Aylward's; they could be counted on to restrain any adolescent foolishness. Eric was grinning, despite all that had happened since the Change …

  I told him he'd be a dangerous man once he got some experience, and Christ Jesus, I was right! Havel thought.

  It wasn't that his brother-in-law had a taste for blood, but he did like to fight.

  Signe and Pam were ready, both looking tautly calm. Good. They both know this is serious business. Aylward's calm was relaxed; for a moment Havel felt a bitter envy of Juniper Mackenzie. God, I'd give a couple of fingers for someone with his skills and no ambition to be numero uno!

  It was time.

  Chapter

  Thirty-one

  Two of the ranchers brought Michael Havel his wing. They helped him into the special quick-release harness as well; nobody could have made it before the Change, for fear of lawsuits.

  Well, the world may have collapsed into death and darkness, but at least we don't have lawyers and nervous Nellies trying to encase us in bubble-wrap, he thought. Hurrah, not.

  He gave a slight chuckle at the thought, and found them staring at him in awe as he tested his grip on the steering bar of the hang glider and the bundle of rope lashed to the frame above his head.

  It's not courage, boys, just realism, he thought sardonically. It's a little late for the 'Christ Jesus, this is crazy, run away, run away!' reaction.

  One of them handed him a pair of goggles, and he slipped them down over his eyes.

  Then: "Remember the guide-lights. See y'all soon!"

  Four steps forward and leap …

  Wind pouring up the slope caught the black Dacron above him and jerked him skyward; the lights below dwindled, and the air grew yet more chill, making his cheeks burn as his body swung level in the harness. A great exultation flowed through him: Flying again, by God!

  In a way, this was even more fun than piloting light aircraft. Less power, but you were one with the air and its currents, like a fish in water. Pull back on the control bar and tilt yourself to the right; the nose came down, the right wingtip tilted up, and you went swooping across the night like an owl. You weren't operating a machine; you were flying, as close to being a bird as a human being could get, barring magic. Once you'd learned how, you didn't have to think of controlling the wing any more than you did of directing your feet.

  You just went where you wanted to go, down the mountainside and over the tall pines, out into the valley …

  There.

  The oval of the castle lay eastward, with the great beacon fire atop the tower on the motte. He banked, leaning and pushing leftward, inertia pressing him against the harness as the hang-glider swerved. And beyond it, beyond Echo Creek, six more big fires; set by Ken Larsson, in a line that gave a precise bearing if you kept them strung like beads behind the beacon.

  And don't forget altitude, he told himself, lips peeling back from teeth despite the cold wind in his face.

  Too high, and you overshoot and the mission fails. Too low, and you bugsplat on the side of the tower or land right in the middle of the bailey.

  Wind cuffed at him, pushing him away from the line of lights. The darkness rushed past … he imagined a line through the night, a line drawn straight towards the beacon fire and tried to keep to it; like a landing approach at night, but without instruments.

  Suddenly it was close. The beacon fire wasn't a flickering point of light in the darkness any more; it was a pool of light, then a mass of flames spitting sparks upward, with the black lines of the basket outlined against the ruddy embers … and slightly too low. He was headed for the side of the tower, the rows of narrow arrowslits.

  Up. Push at the bar, bring the nose of the triangular wing up … just a little, just a little, feel how she turned speed into height but don't slow down too much, or you'll stall and drop …

  There was a checkerboard of machicolations around the top of the tower, unpleasantly like a gap-toothed grin with square teeth. They loomed up at him as he approached, swelling faster and faster.

  Mind empty, he felt for the currents of air. They turned rough and choppy—heat rising from torches and fires and hearths bouncing him up and down as he sliced the air over the castle; it made things a lot harder, since he couldn't judge his angle of attack as well. Fabric cracked and thut-tered along the rear edge of the hang glider.

  Nobody looking up, he thought, with some corner of his consciousness that wasn't in use processing the information that flowed in through balance and the skin on the palms of his hands. No point in looking up, not anymore …

  And the moment was now.

  A sentry turned at the last moment; he could see the man's mouth and eyes turn to great Os of horrified surprise. Havel pushed forward on the control bar with all his strength as the edge of the
crenellations passed beneath him. Now he did want the wing to flare nose-up and stall, turning from a lifting surface into a giant air-brake catching at the wind.

  It jerked Havel's body forward with savage force as it stopped in midair, as if he'd run into a solid wall. He let that force pivot him in the harness, booted feet snapping forward as he swung like a trapeze artist. Both heels struck the guard in the face with an impact that knocked Havel's teeth together so hard that he tasted blood despite the tight clench of his jaw. Stars exploded before his eyes; pain lanced through his body at the contact, and then again when he fell to the rough timbers buttocks first and four feet straight down.

  The guard flew backward and landed with his head folded back between his shoulders, so freshly dead that his heels drummed on the wood in a series of galvanic twitches. Havel scrabbled at the release of the harness and flipped himself to his feet while he took an instantaneous inventory; bruises, but nothing torn or broken or too badly wrenched, and the joints worked. The wing fell back behind him, tenting up on the central pole that held the bracing wires.

  Someday I'm going to pay for all this …

  The other guard turned at the sound of boots meeting face and the jangling thump of an armored body falling limp as death. He stood goggling at the black-clad man from nowhere for a crucial three seconds, then brought his shield up and drew his spear back for a thrust.

  Havel drew the puukko from its sheath in a backhand grip with his thumb on the pommel, the thick reverse of the blade lying along his forearm. By then he was charging in a swift silent rush, and the spearhead jabbed out to meet him. He ducked under it with a motion as precise as a matador's, and the edged steel hissed past his left ear; he felt something cold touch him there, too thin and sharp to be pain, and a hot trickle down his neck.

 

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