At least for the time being.
34
Blondie managed to get his sorry ass into trouble at a local watering hole.
As it turned out, Blondie hooked up with some young, drunken gal who just happened to be somewhat married.
And as expected, her big, drunken, burly husband–they never seemed to be small and scrawny–did not take very kindly to finding the two of them together and half-undressed in an upstairs room.
Militia troops from the bar came and got Mason and Thulkara where they were eating in a nearby mess tent as soon as the trouble began. The two of them came running.
When they reached the room in question, the woman was jumping up on the bed in her underwear, cursing at everyone present.
Her big husband finally had Blondie where he wanted him, held between two of the guy’s buddies on either side.
“I swear,” Blondie said. “She didn’t tell me she was married. How was I supposed to–”
“You rotten bastard!” the big, drunken oaf snarled, and punched Blondie right in the face. Then another fist to the gut. Blondie choked and doubled over.
“All right, that’s enough,” Mason said.
The drunken oaf ignored him and drew a big bowie knife out of his boot. “Pretty boy…prepare to get neutered!”
“Thulkara,” Mason said, “don’t make me kill this idiot.”
The barbarian giantess nodded and stepped around Mason. She flung the husband through a wall with one hand, stripping him of his knife with the other in the process.
The man’s two buddies holding Blondie froze where they stood. Their mouths dropped open and they stared up at her as she shoved their heads back through the drywall with a grin on her face.
Mason slipped in and caught Blondie before he sagged to the floor, his nose and mouth bleeding.
“Okay, let’s get you out of here. You really need to stay away from the married ones, Blondie.”
“She…didn’t tell me she was…married. I swear.”
“Sheesh, did you even ask?”
“Well…no…there wasn’t time.”
“Look for a ring, damn it. On the left hand, second finger from the last.”
“She wasn’t wearing any rings.”
The drunken wife started cursing them, since they were the only ones still standing.
Thulkara shoved the woman down in the bed. “Shut up, you dumb slut. You’re half the problem here.”
“You can’t talk to my wife that way,” the husband said, trying to crawl back into the room.”
Thulkara rolled her eyes. “Mace, get us out of here. These people are so stupid, I might accidently step on their heads or something.”
“Don’t do that–trust me–it’s not worth the trouble it will cause you. Follow me and let’s get out of this hole.”
They reported the incident to the militia night watch. The drunken couple wanted to file charges, of all things, and have Blondie and Thulkara arrested for assault and battery–and, attempted rape, of all things.
Major Avery found a blunt but diplomatic way to tell them both to drag their sorry, lying asses straight to hell and remain there for the duration. Then he ordered that dive shut down. It had been a source of many problems.
Blondie cleaned up all right. As usual, he was tougher than he looked. He was more worried about his nose and his looks than anything else, and kept checking his pretty face in mirrors.
“Mace,” Blondie asked, “why didn’t you just shoot that big bastard in the leg or something?”
“I might have slipped up and cut both of his legs off. And he was her husband, after all.”
“So what? We didn’t even do anything.”
“For what, a lack of time?”
“Well, yeah. So…were you going to just let him kill me, or castrate me right there?”
“Nope, the man had a right to punch you, and he did so. He didn’t have a right to cut you, neuter you, or kill you. That’s why I sent Thulkara in. She took care of things quite nicely, I’d say. I sure wouldn’t want her thumping on me.”
“I still wish you would have shot him.”
“The situation did not require killing. My guns spit death, Blondie. They aren’t very good at just wounding things, if you haven’t noticed. While it was true that those people were dumb buttholes, but they didn’t deserve to die, or even get maimed. It was as much your fault as well for getting tangled up with them. You have plenty of stupid women who aren’t married chasing your dumb ass. For what reasons, I do not know, nor care to know. That is between you and them. But I would strongly advise you to–”
“All right, point taken. From now on, I promise–no married gals.”
“Thank you, Blondie. That will make all of our lives a lot easier, and perhaps a bit quieter from now on.”
“My head hurts, Mace, I really need a drink.”
“You can’t, you sot. We’re on duty soon.”
“Damn it to hell. This entire night has been a bust!”
#
Later that evening, the enemy mercenaries hit South Bend from the south, at the same time the monsters hit the city from the west.
The militia held their positions for three hours. Then they began to give ground.
The field of battle was simply too wide, too spread out. And the enemy still possessed a great advantage in numbers–what seemed to be endless numbers.
That fact alone was staggering, frightening, and very demoralizing.
Where were the enemy getting such numbers? It didn’t seem possible. Not only were the defenders still facing the formidable monster hordes, but now they were also facing down trained, disciplined armies of skilled soldiers for hire.
Mason and his unit of defenders pulled back to another area of high ground at the next fallback position, the secondary line of defense along the patchy remnants of Mayflower Road.
Fortunately, due to the monster attacks, most civilians had already evacuated the far southern and western areas of town–or else they had been wiped out to begin with. The militia was using those areas now as killing fields–a no man’s land–to attack and reduce any enemy numbers who exposed themselves out in the open.
But no one was sure how well that strategy was working.
The enemy also began fighting smart. They weren’t simply surging in, out in the open, just to be cut down in vast numbers.
In fact, even with the help of the Shooting Stars, the militia continued to give ground. The mercenaries fought and moved relentlessly. They proved themselves to be expert, disciplined soldiers–professional soldiers. They were hard to beat in a straight up confrontation.
The main problem, once again, was the fact that the battle lines were so extensive. The Pistolero and the Shooting Stars could help defend only a very small tactical area. Even their amazing efforts could be rendered statistically irrelevant in the course of a massive campaign across vast battle lines.
Realistically, the defenders needed someone like them posted with the militia at about every half mile of the front lines. Mason and the two girls were, in fact, just like artillery. But it was like an army that only had two cannons to defend an entire city.
They couldn’t be everywhere at once.
The defenders waited to be attacked. The defense was static. The enemy could choose when and where and how to strike, coordinating their attacks.
They played the game all night long. The militia fought stubbornly, but continued to give ground. It was a delaying tactic, nothing more. Survive to fight another day.
They bled the enemy, and the enemy bled them.
By the time the enemy broke off their assault at dawn, the defenders were close to surrendering the third defensive line at Ireland Road to the south, and Bendix Avenue to the west.
Everyone waited to see what the mercenaries would do. Unlike the monsters, they could keep fighting during the daytime.
But would they? By all reports, they had the numbers to do so.
Two hours passed. Oth
er than holding the lines after the monsters melted away before dawn, the mercs halted their advance and saw to their dead and wounded.
The defenders did what they could for their casualties that they could reach.
Yet it was learned that the mercs took prisoners, at least, even though they enslaved them and used them for hard labor and whatever else they saw fit. In their own opportunistic way, they weren’t wholly without honor.
That was still better than the monsters, who used anything that was meat for food. At least the defenders might be able to free those slaves, someday.
The dead could never be brought back.
Mason went to Captain Avery and asked him point blank, “If we keep on like this, how long can we hold them off? How long before they drive us back behind all of our defensive lines?”
Avery met his eye. “The current estimates are three weeks, a month at most, if things go our way. Then they’ll have taken all of South Bend and begin to hit the lines at Mishawaka.”
Mason nodded sadly, looking down at the ground. “So, it’s a campaign of attrition.”
Avery let out a deep sigh. “Affirmative. Either we wear them down, or they wear us down. And we can’t expect any help from Elkhart. Even Mishawaka can’t send us much. They’re too afraid of leaving their positions vulnerable. The enemy has the advantage in numbers and can strike wherever they want to, but it’s pretty clear that they plan to roll us up first–in order from west to east, and up from the south.”
Mason hammered his fist against an old telephone pole. “Yeah, it doesn’t exactly take a military genius to figure it out. South Bend first. Then Mishawaka. Then they’ll push on and do the same thing to Elkhart. Brilliant on their part.”
“It’s a solid strategy–for them. If our roles were reversed, we might do the very same thing. We must somehow be in their way,” Avery noted. “In their world, there was nothing here but wilds. Now we’re here, messing up their plans–whatever they are. If I were Napoleons, like they appear to be, and I had all of these mercs and could control these monsters, I’d sweep east and lay siege to Detroit and Toledo. I’d take it all. Our foes have conquest on their mind.”
Mason grunted. “You said Detroit and Toledo–you mean Tornhold and Kellendra.”
“Yeah, whatever the Tharanorians call them. I just wish we could get some help from those city states.”
“Captain, I agree with you. I think all of this is part of some big, master plan that we don’t fit into. But I’m guessing that those other city states are just as up to their necks in their own troubles as we are.”
“You’re probably right, Mace. I’d bet they are. You’d better join your people and get some rest, my friend. I foresee another long night ahead of us.”
Mason went back to his tent.
He noted that Thulkara had her own tent. He could hear her snoring loudly inside of it.
Blondie also had his own tent by now, but Mason swore he heard the distinct sound of feminine giggling within as he walked by. Blondie attracted women the same way Mason attracted trouble.
At least this new gal wasn’t screaming…or hitched, hopefully.
Mason was too tired to care or investigate. Blondie was a big boy, and was going to spend his off time whatever way he pleased, with whomever he pleased.
In a way, Mason was happy for his friend. At least Blondie always seemed to have someone to be with and comfort him. Even it was a different someone every few days or so. They were now at war. Any of them could catch an arrow in the neck and die gargling on their own blood, or get blasted to dust by enemy magic, or devoured alive by rabid monsters.
Mason went to sleep in a dark mood, missing Tori and feeling very sorry for himself, although he knew all of that was pretty selfish.
He just wasn’t that great of a person, and war often made people very petty and selfish. Whatever you had in you that was the worst, war brought it out and magnified it for everyone else to gawk at.
35
David and Jerriel went into a nearby meeting room at the public library to talk to another bunch of experts. The latter wanted to know as much as they could about Jerriel, Tharanor, magic, and anything else she could tell them.
A team of linguists and historians were assigned to learn about Jerriel’s language and culture as quickly as possible, with Danielle and Theo heading up part of the language team. These were the same two grad students they had met before.
Jerriel outlined and detailed the grammar of the two languages that she knew best: Sylurrian and Marandorian. She filled up the white board over and over again with sample sentences, verb tenses, word lists, and basic language knowledge, such as numbers, greetings, etc. She taught them a few Tharanorian children’s songs, and they sang them together and wrote down the lyrics.
Then she wrote down the incantation for a simple light spell, about a half page of words. Then she and the linguists, and sometimes David also, translated that spell into English.
Then Jerriel cast the light spell–in English–and made it work.
A small, blue-white orb of light bobbed in the air until she dispelled it.
All of them tried to cast the spell, but none of them could make it work, in any language.
“Yoo are not wizards,” Jerriel flatly told them. “Only thoose trained to recognize the magic within them can foocus that energy throough themselves and make the spell words woork.
David followed along with the researchers, jotting down notes in his notebooks and making lists of words. The hours went by very quickly.
Later that day David and Jerriel rode their bikes home, just before dusk.
Both of them staggered into their house and locked the door behind them. Jerriel lit a lamp.
They ate some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and powdered lemonade. The easiest thing they could think to make.
The days still grew dark quickly. They were so tired that they stumbled into their rooms and collapsed, still wearing their boots.
Hell, David was still in his same clothing and armor from the day before. He reeked of dirt and sweat. But he felt too exhausted to care or feel the need to do anything about any of that.
#
David spent the better part of three days visiting the families of his fallen troops or writing letters to them.
As their commander, he knew this was very necessary, but also found it very mind-numbing, heart-robbing, and exhausting work.
In two days of intense action, out of hundreds of troops under his direct command, his units suffered one hundred and three killed, and eighty-nine others injured. Half of those injuries had been serious or crippling.
Now he commanded five hundred troops. He had been given a service staff of fifty officers, and mostly supply, transport, and messenger troops. Plus three units of one hundred and fifty frontline troops, each unit rotating duty patrolling and guarding the city and its perimeter every eight hours.
That gave each trooper eight hours of assigned duty somewhere in town each day. Then they had eight hours of rest, and eight hours of training. Troops were given every third weekend off to visit their families and friends in rotation. Each trooper was given a place to stay, food, drink, gear, weapons, clothing, and all the training they could handle. Their families would be taken care of if something happened to them.
David felt incredibly guilty about all of the letters and back paperwork. A lottery that the militia commanders established required that ten percent of the surviving families should receive a direct notification at home. David attempted to explain the difficulties of his situation to Jerriel and some of his staff.
“The militia got cobbled together so fast, I didn’t even know many of these people before we all went out to fight and they were hurt or killed. I barely met them or even saw their faces. What can I say to their loved ones? To their families? What am I supposed to say?”
“Say yoor sorry for their loss,” Jerriel said. She patted his arm. “That is always a good place to start. Yoo are a good man
, Daeved. They will know that yoo mean well.”
Sean Pennel, thirty-two, with a wife and four kids in a house on the south side. Before the Merge, Sean Pennel had worked for a delivery service. He got cut down the night they attacked the enemy camp and freed the captives. Sean was helping hold the line, according to the reports. He took a mor-kahl sword thrust to the neck. The troops with him said he stood tall while they knew him and that he went down during a standup fight with packed forces of the enemy.
David knocked on the door of the Pennel home. A militia sergeant and a chaplain volunteer from one of the local churches stood behind him.
A woman in her late twenties answered. She had short reddish hair, and freckles. She looked like she’d been crying. No big surprise there.
“Yes.”
“I’m Captain Pritchard, from the militia, ma’am. This is Sergeant Barnett. Chaplain Weiman. We’re sorry for your loss.” Then David hesitated and asked, “You are Carly Pennel, right?”
She nodded. “Yes. Please. Come in.”
“Thank you.”
She led them into the living room. Four shocked, subdued kids played quietly in the adjoining family room. A girl about eight or nine, two boys maybe six and three, a one-year-old baby.
David and his companions sat down with the mother on worn but comfortable furniture in the living room.
Carly Pennel didn’t offer them anything. They didn’t ask.
“How did he die?” Carly asked directly. “Did he suffer?”
“No,” David said. “By all accounts, your husband fought bravely, Mrs. Pennel. Everyone who served with him said so. He was wounded in the neck during the battle. He passed out and lost too much blood before he reached the aid station. They couldn’t revive him. Again, I can only say how sorry I am.”
She bowed her head and nodded.
“My unit alone lost thirty-four troops that night,” David said. “Almost twice that in wounded. But we took out several hundred enemies and rescued over eight hundred captives, over half of them children–from a fate worse than death. Little helpless kids like yours, Mrs. Pennel. For every trooper who fell, we saved eight people–most of them kids, like I said. Your husband was a brave man, and he was part of all that.”
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