Baen Books Free Stories 2017

by Baen Books

  Every Roman hesitated a moment, glanced back at the walls to see if more were coming.

  “Run!” Wannas shouted. “Run for the river!”

  They were ahead of the Imperials who had confronted them.

  Wannas and the other twenty pulled ahead.

  These were the fastest men of the city. Winners of races. Handy shots with the bow, also. most men of the city were decent archers, no matter what their standing among the clans. It was a point of honor to a Powhatan man to be able to go outside the city walls at least once a year to hunt. They might not be professional archers, but most could also hit a moving target at twenty or so paces.

  Obotassaway clan was in the rear. That was the plan. This was because they were the best archers among the runners. They kept up a harassing fire to the rear as the others charged onward.

  This slowed the Romans down. But it also slowed the Obotassaway.

  When the pursuing Romans caught an Obotassaway man, the result wasn't pretty. Romans were professional butchers. Their favorite meat to cut up effectively was man.

  One by one, the men of the Obotassaway clan were caught and cut down. Their screams of fear and cries of agony pursued Wannas and the others. The sound echoed eerily among the rocky outcrops of the Great Falls shore line.

  But the Obotassaway sacrifices served a purpose. Every man the Romans stopped to kill slowed them further.

  We’re doing it. We’re going to reach the river, Wannas thought.

  We’re going to win the race.

  Then he saw the finish line, the river’s edge, and he realized it didn’t matter.

  Four

  The Roman centurion, the one hundred soldier commander, hadn’t needed to be fleet. He’d been smart instead.

  And figured out where we were heading, Wannas thought. Curse it. Curse it to the Underworld and back again!

  There were Romans in all the canoes. Just sitting there waiting.

  Some were even smiling.

  Curse them.

  The other half was now done with the Obotassaway rear guard and was closing in from behind them.

  The runners were caught. About to be smashed.

  Or, worse, captured.

  Tortured.

  Maybe even forced to devour the Talaia herb along with the blood of the Roman commanders . . . and turned . . . into Talaia dominates. Bloodservants.

  Slaves.

  Both physically and mentally.

  I’ll go down fighting, Wannas thought. I’m sorry, Wawetseka. So sorry. Looks like I’m going to leave you as a widow after all. No divorce. You’ll have to wait years to marry your miller. If they even let you marry him at all.

  The manitous would have their fun with his human vanity. His father had been right all along.

  Wannas took the strung bow from his shoulder. Its beau d’arc heartwood shone redly. His fingers deftly found an arrow in the quiver. He felt the fletching. A single notch in one feather. Not a bodkin, but a barbed point on this one.

  All around messenger of death.

  He nocked the arrow. Drew as he breathed in. Picked out a Roman running toward him. Released.

  And missed.

  Curse it.

  The arrow had shanked off somewhere to Wannas’s right.

  Should’ve picked the bodkin, Wannas thought.

  He had another arrow nocked before he’d taken his next breath, and this one was a bodkin. He’d made sure.

  The Imperial he’d sighted on before was now three paces away.

  Three paces away from making it a very bad day for Wannas Kittamaquand.

  Three paces and just a moment too late.

  Wannas let fly.

  As it happened, the arrow didn’t need to pierce armor. It caught the man under the chin and tore up and through, exiting out the back of his head. Somehow this didn’t stop the Roman’s motor function, but by the time he’d run up to Wannas, the Roman’s eyes were blank.

  The intelligence was gone.

  Wannas reached out and gave the man a vicious glancing blow with his fist and arm. The other collapsed. The arrow had done its work to the brain.

  Before Wannas could think or even breathe again, another Roman crashed into him. The two of them tumbled into a heap. The Imperial warrior remained calm even as he fell and managed a half twist which left him on top of Wannas when they slammed into the ground. The weight of his soldier’s iron armor on Wannas’s chest, protected only by a deerskin shirt, was crushing. The Roman raised his sword for a fatal downward strike.

  But Wannas had managed to get his own hand on the hilt of his knife. He drew it out, then stabbed upward, even while the other prepared to stab the Iberian blade through Wannas’s heart.

  For an eyeblink, Wannas regretted the decision to go without armor. But it had been necessary. It was just a pity the Romans had caught up with the runners now.

  Or had outwitted them.

  However you wanted to look death in the face.

  Wannas’s plunged his knife through a space between two layers of scale mail.

  He felt the tip strike a rib, partially slice into it, then plunge deeper inside.

  Wannas pushed. Twisted.

  Deeper.

  The knife blade was really stuck to the bone of the other man. In fact, it was stuck in too well. He wasn’t going to be able to get it out.

  So he wouldn’t have his knife for the journey after all.

  Another reason to curse the Romans.

  After a long-drawn-out sigh punctuated by a bubble of blood, the Roman on Wannas dropped his gladius. He collapsed down upon Wannas, even as the Powhatan man pushed him to the side.

  Men lay dead all around him. It had been a desperate battle. Only six of his runners were standing. The others were either dead or mortally wounded. But they had taken out the chasing Romans.

  Now all they had left was dozens more. They’d pushed them out a few paces, since each canoe was tied by a rope painter to a rock on the shoreline.

  For the moment, the Romans were unreachable in the canoes. But not for long.

  At a signal from the centurion, the Romans began pulling themselves back to shore.

  Those canoes are our only way across the river, Wannas thought. Our only chance to make it to Shenandoah. Now we have no choice. We’ll have to hug the northern shore of the river, and all they have to do is pursue and pick us off one by one.

  They might make it for some distance upriver. But, in the end, the Romans, would get them all.

  And it would be over. For Wannas. For the Kittamaquand clan.

  For Powhatans. For the great city of Potomak, light of democracy in a world of tyranny.

  An ancient and worthy nation-state conceived in liberty.

  Slaughtered by the riverside.

  The Romans in the canoes sensed victory. A soldier at the bow of each canoe grabbed a painter, and began to pull the canoes in.

  Wannas wearily reached for an arrow.

  And discovered his quiver was empty.

  He’d shot them all without realizing it.

  His knife was stuck in the breast bone of the Imperial he had killed.

  Very well. He’d just have to fight tooth and nail.

  The Romans were smiling as they drew nearer.

  Those who didn’t pull had swords ready.

  Nearer.

  Some had bows nocked.

  No one drew aim.

  They’re not even bothering to shoot us, Wannas thought. They want to take us with swords. It’s a game for them now.

  Closer. Almost in sword reach now.

  Closer.

  Wannas sighed in frustration.

  Then, from behind the rocks of the riverbank, scuttled . . .

  Not men.

  Not human, at least.

  Each was as big as a short human male, true. They wore human-looking clothes. Tunics. Straw hats.

  They had human-shaped arms and legs, albeit covered with a pelt of brown hair.

  But each also had a huge, flat,
naked black tail that protruded through a hole cut in the rear of their tunics.

  Each had the face of an animal. Beady yellow eyes. Whiskers. The blank, wild expression that only others of their kind could read.

  They were beavers. Giant beavers.

  They were also men.

  Beaver men.

  A kind of animal person, or Tier, as the north men called them.

  Those tails were flapping about.

  Slashing from side to side. Pounding the ground in rhythm.

  The beaver men were dangerous.

  And riled up.

  They attacked. They attacked the painters attaching the canoes to the rocks of shore. With a swipe here and there with those massive teeth, the beaver men cut the ropes.

  The canoes immediately began to drift downstream toward the rapids. The centurion realized what was happening.

  “Utere remōs!” he shouted. “Remite, stultī!

  Wannas couldn’t understand him, but he sounded both exasperated and desperate.

  Several of the Romans found paddles in the canoe bottoms and began to row toward shore.

  Those who made it were met by beaver men. The Romans stabbed at the beaver men, but they were unsteady in the canoes, and the beaver men had a way of halfway turning to give a hard swat with the tail that knocked swords to the side. And might very well break an arm, so hard was the blow.

  The centurion and another soldier from his canoe did get close enough to leap back to shore. He came at what seemed like the leader of the beaver men with a sneer and a growl.

  The centurion thrust his sword forward. And the beaver man, already low to the ground, ducked. The sword passed over him.

  The beaver man wasted no time.

  His mouth opened to reveal four orange incisors, top and bottom. They met in a straight line across the middle. Each tooth was wide as a hand, and over an elb long. The teeth parted.

  And the beaver man bit into the Roman’s thigh. Deep.

  He shifted once, gnawing even deeper.

  Blood spurted.

  The centurion screamed.

  The beaver man twisted his head, and bit deep. Harder still. He gnawed.

  The Roman slammed the Iberian sword’s pommel down on the beaver man’s back.

  “Solve mē! Animal, solve mē!!” the centurion shouted.

  The beaver man grunted, but did not let go.

  Without releasing his teeth, the beaver man twisted again.

  Found better purchase. Bit deeper.

  Then with a ragged, meaty tearing gurgle . . .

  The Roman’s right leg separated.

  Sinew, muscle.

  Bone.

  The leg came off.

  Leaving a ragged, bleeding stump, mid-thigh.

  That beaver man just bit a man’s leg off, Wannas thought. Right in two. At the thickest part.

  He would never look at beavers the same way again.

  The centurion didn’t die from the bleeding. He stumbled away and managed to balance on his left leg for a moment, or tried to, while he applied a makeshift tourniquet. His left leg was standing knee deep in the water near the shore, however. This near the Great Falls, the Potomak current was quick everywhere.

  The water pushed against his leg. The centurion swayed, fighting a losing battle for balance.

  And toppled back into the water.

  The Roman fumbled, grabbed the side of the canoe. But, unsecure, now the boat itself was drifting.

  Out.

  Away from shore.

  As were the others.

  Romans in full armor did not make good canoe men. They realized the danger they were in, but it was too late. Paddling seemed to do no good. The river was too strong. The canoes had drifted into the main current and were headed toward the Great Falls.

  The last Wannas saw of the Roman centurion he was clinging to the gunwale of the birchbark canoe. His bloody half thigh thumped up and down in the water, as if he were trying to a swimming kick he would never be able to do again.

  Where had that leg gone?

  Wannas quickly scanned downriver.

  There is was, among the rest of the canoes, drifting ahead. It almost seemed as if the severed leg were showing the way.

  Downriver, boys! To the Chesapeake! To the sea! Follow me!

  It floated toward rapids that had killed untold numbers of men foolish enough to try to run them. The other canoes followed close behind it. Then the flailing one-legged centurion took up the rear.

  Soon they were all lost to sight.

  Wannas shook his head.

  Not a dream. Real.

  To the east, the top edge of the sun rose. It lit the rain clouds above with a golden glow.

  Wannas turned back to the beaver men.

  The leader, the one who had bitten off the Roman’s leg, made a gargling sound.

  Was the beaver man choking?

  No, Wannas decided. The beaver man was washing his mouth out with river water, trying to get the taste of Roman leg out of his mouth.

  He spat out a final mouthful of water, then turned to Wannas.

  “Tried to tell ye folks,” he said in a gruff, wet voice. “Take it from an old river smuggler. Canoes are too cursed conspicuous.”

  “But you’re the ones who provided them,” Wannas said.

  The beaver man spat. “Like them Romans say. Caveat emptor. The customer is always right.”

  Wannas chuckled. “Even I know that isn’t what caveat emptor means,” he said.

  The beaver man glanced down river. “And neither does any of them Romans know what it means anymore neither,” he said with a low growl.

  Five

  The beaver men took them onto their flat boats. It was a laborious process, but slowly, steadily, with ten beaver men to a boat, they poled the flat boats upstream, hardly faster than a man could walk.

  “I am Wannas Kittamaquand of Potomak,” Wannas told the man. “I think you know my father.”

  The beaver man nodded. He didn’t seem very impressed.

  “Aye, aye. Old Chogun’s boy. Well, whoever ye be, ye aren’t Romans, and ye don’t want us for our hides,” the beaver man said.

  “Do Romans really take your skins from you?”

  “Oh, aye. Aye, they do.”

  “Curse them, then.”

  “I do it every day.”

  “My men are headed upriver, and then up the Shenandoah to Raukenrose.”

  “And what do ye intend to do there?" asked the beaver man.

  “It’s a secret mission. But if you must know, I’m going to insist that Duke Otto von Dunstig come to the city's aid and help us break the siege."

  “Insist, are ye?" the beaver man said, “Now that’ll go over well at court, I’m sure. But if you do insist, you'll be insisting to the wrong von Dunstig, lad. It's Lord Wulf, the new heir, who is the chosen of the land-dragon these days. He's the one ye need to convince.”

  “I don't know anything about these Kalte barbarian myths. Dragons under the ground, and gods and such. But it is in the Mark of Shenandoah’s interest to come to our aid. And we desperately need the Mark’s help.”

  “It’s not gods, but divine beings we’re beholden to in Shenandoah. Different thing. I ain't never seen Sturmer or Regen or any of the other divine ones personally.” The beaver man scratched behind one ear with a paw nail. “But I can tell you there is a dragon. It does exist, as sure as there are beaver and bear men, fauns and buffalo people. Ye’ll see ’em all if you journey with us.”

  “With you?”

  “It’s your lucky day! We’re heading upriver, boy. We’ll take ye along if ye’ll do year part and keep a sharp lookout. Stay ready with them bows and arrows. This here’s dangerous country.”

  “We can do that,” Wannas said. “And we would be greatly obliged for the ride.”

  “Like I said. Going that way anyhow,” replied the beaver man gruffly. “We river smugglers need something to smuggle, now don’t we? Nothing like a barrel of good Shenandoah
orinoco or perique to bring a nifty profit per stone’s weight—if ye can get it past the Romans and the ’Haveners and down to the Chesapeake blockade runners, that is.”

  “Well, in any case, we’re grateful,” Wannas replied.

  The beaver man nodded. Then he opened his mouth hugely to show the bright orange incisors again. Oddly, only the fronts of the teeth were covered with the orange protective coating. The sides and, Wannas supposed, the back parts of the teeth were white. A streamlet of Roman blood still stained the front of the beaver man’s left incisor, red on orange.

  Wannas gasped at the sight, and took a step back. Too far. He almost toppled from the raft.

  A strange sound erupted from the deep in the beaver man’s throat. It sounded like a cross between a donkey’s bray and frog’s croak. His man’s mouth stretched even wider. His nasty, hand-sized incisors grew more exposed. And frightening.

  Wannas stared for another stunned moment before he realized that the beaver man was not threatening him.

  The beaver man was grinning. And laughing.

  Finally the gaping maw closed.

  “Hold yerself steady, young Skraeling,” the beaver man said. “Else ye’ll find yerself following them cursed Romans down them falls. And then, by Sturmer, ye wouldn’t be insisting on nothing to Lord Wulf, would ye?”

  Wannas nodded. He carefully stepped across the raft and grabbed hold of a pole alongside a beaver man. With a heave and a ho, they slowly worked their way against the current of the mighty Potomak.

  The beaver man beside him smiled. At least, so Wannas thought.

  “Only forty leagues to go, boy,” he said. “Keep it up, and ye’ll get some meat on those arms yet, I’ll wager.”

  The beaver man began to hum a working song. It was a strange melody, and in the Kalte tongue, but somehow the tune made it just a bit easier to push again. And again.

  Wannas gritted his teeth.

  Pushed.

  Pole up.

  Pole down.

  He pushed again.

  Headed upriver.

  To Shenandoah.

  What We’re Made Of

  Frank Chadwick

  20 December 2133 (D Minus Two Days)

  Aboard USS Peleliu (LAS-16), approaching K'tok orbit, over one hundred light years from Earth