by Chris Walley
Evidently catching his gaze, she fingered the hilt. “I really hope we don’t need this,” she said.
Merral nodded. If the Krallen get this far through our lines, we are in trouble.
“Any specific instructions, sir?”
“Captain, only what has no doubt always been issued to snipers: make every shot count and keep a lookout for prize targets. But these flying beasts—slitherwings—I’d like to see them hit.” He paused. “And I hate to say it, but there are men with them who probably coordinate the fighting. They will probably be in these armored contraptions. If you get one in your sights, don’t hesitate.”
A look of disquiet crossed Karita’s face. “Okay. I guess it has to be done. I’ll pass the order along.”
“Good.” It was time to move on. “Talk to you later, Captain.”
They saluted.
As he followed the colonel down the path, Merral wondered darkly whether he would indeed talk to the captain later. How trite our words seem at such moments: “See you later.” “Take care.” What should I say?
A dozen meters below Karita’s snipers, they came to the second line of the defenses, a wide strung-out line of men with mortars and XQ rifles.
Alerted that the front of the Dominion advance was now only two kilometers away, Merral and the colonel found a vantage point on a rocky spur from which they could see the entire gorge mouth and out onto the marsh. They stood gratefully in the shade of a lone Montezuma pine.
As the colonel called up units, confirming their location and readiness, Merral drank water and surveyed the scene. They were just twenty meters or so above the floor of the gorge. Just below lay the ditch and ramparts of the first line of defenses. The activity there was intense as soldiers adjusted armor, laid out spare ammunition, and checked weapons, including the axes and sledgehammers to finish off damaged Krallen.
Merral gazed at the south side of the gorge, wondering how preparations were going there. Overcoming a certain reluctance, he called Zak.
“Colonel Larraine here.”
“Zak—Colonel—everything in place there?”
“The south side is ready, Commander. We’re just looking forward to carving up these Krallen.” Hearing the confident enthusiasm in his voice, Merral felt a pang of guilt over his own uncertainties and fears.
“What’s morale like?”
“No problem. The soldiers here will hold firm. I think they are more afraid of me than the enemy.”
Merral considered saying something, but held his tongue. Zak seemed beyond changing. “Very well.”
“Have a good fight, sir.”
“And you.”
Merral scrutinized the defense preparations again. Behind him the reserves were lined up, squatting under the shelter of the rocks and trees. Below, to the rear of the defense earthworks in the gorge, the ambulances lined up along the road with their doors open. All was ready.
For a race that has had no military experience for over eleven millennia, we appear to have returned to the business of war very quickly. Have we relearned old skills or did we never lose them?
Looking out beyond the trenches and the embankments toward the marsh, Merral could see the long line of Krallen shimmering in the heat at the foot of the looming crags. Above them the slitherwings performed their leisurely aerial patrols in the dusty air.
Merral’s stomach squirmed. At Carson’s Sill, I had no time to think about fighting. At Fallambet, I hadn’t really understood what it involved. Now, I have neither excuse.
Merral’s apprehensive scrutiny of the scene was interrupted by Vero’s urgent voice in his ear. “My friend, things are coming together. Anya’s picked up a reorganization in the Krallen ranks. Around two thousand seem to be separating out and moving to the front. Betafor confirms this. She says she can hear around one hundred and fifty units getting ready. Azeras reckons they will attack with a small forward party, leaving the main body of Krallen and the equipment in reserve. A probing attack, he calls it.”
“So how long have we got?”
“Azeras reckons they will charge. From where they are, they will reach you in four or five minutes. They will hit fast. Hang on.” There was a pause. “Betafor estimates they will launch the attack in two minutes.”
Six minutes before we fight. “Okay. Thanks. Let me handle it here.”
“We’ll be watching. I’ll restrict communications to what’s absolutely necessary.” There was a moment’s silence. “Keep safe, my friend.”
“I’ll try.”
“Keep safe”—what did Perena say to that? “I’ll try. But I have to do what’s right. And in the end, that’s safe.” Merral sighed.
He slung his rifle off his back and turned to Colonel Lanier. “It seems we have only a few minutes. I’m going to say a few words to the men.”
The colonel nodded. “Please.”
Merral thumbed his microphone switch to universal. “Soldiers of the Assembly.” He paused to let the echo of his words die away among the rocks. “This is Commander Merral D’Avanos speaking to you from your lines. We believe that within five minutes there will be an attack on us by a substantial number of Krallen. Obey your training and your orders. Don’t be afraid. Stand firm. Don’t waste a shot. Strike hard and cut true. These monstrosities have come a long way to meet you. Let’s make sure this is where their journey ends.” He paused again and raised his sword high. “For the Lamb!”
“For the Lamb!” The thunderous response echoed and reechoed among the rocks.
And as the echoes died away and the soldiers moved with frantic haste to their positions, Merral heard Betafor’s cold flat voice in his ear. “Commander, the Krallen are attacking.”
For a few moments he didn’t believe her until he saw fresh dust rising across the marsh and felt the growing vibration in the ground.
As the colonel issued a new flurry of orders, Merral knelt down and slid the safety catch off his XQ rifle. He turned to Lloyd, to check his readiness.
Lloyd had an XQ gun strapped to his back, two belts of ammunition draped over his shoulders, a sword at his belt, and was checking the breech of his big double-barreled shotgun.
Merral smiled. “Sergeant, you want to be careful you don’t damage your back with all that.”
Lloyd winked. “Thanks for your concern. I’m hoping to retire soon, sir.”
“Good idea.”
The colonel’s shouted order cut the oppressive air. “Mortars, ready! Hold fire until you’re told.”
The seconds passed.
Soon they could see the Krallen pounding toward them. In a line twelve across, they ran faster than any horse could gallop with their feet barely touching the ground. At first, Merral thought they were going for the center of the gorge, but in a maneuver of breathtaking precision, the column unzipped, with alternate rows veering right and left to create a broad fan shape.
Suddenly, barely two hundred meters away, the Krallen began howling wildly.
A sound that will haunt me to my death—an event that might be quite near.
Just below him at the bottom of the gorge, Merral glimpsed a man, his face pale under his helmet, turn to run, think better of it, and return to his position.
“Fire!” Colonel Lanier shouted.
The ground shook with a pulsing wave of heavy thuds, and bare seconds later, the Krallen lines erupted in fountains of flame, smoke, and dirt.
A great ripple of deafening percussive blasts swept over Merral and bounced off the rocks.
“Mortars, fire!” the colonel shouted.
Even as the debris from the first explosion settled on the ground, there were new showers of debris and more ear-numbing blasts. The colonel shouted another order and, for a third time, a percussive clamor seemed to shake the world to its core.
The Krallen vanished under a drifting shroud of dust and smoke. Then, impossibly, they bounded through the smoke in ones and twos that, without any apparent effort, seemed to link up into threes, fours, sixes, and then twelves.
Their lines reformed and plunged onward.
Above, the slitherwings glided through the smoke, their tails flicking behind them.
“Fire at will!” the colonel yelled.
In an instant, the world seemed filled with a new and appalling clamor of sound: the bass thud and blast of the mortars, the sharp cracking reports of the sniper rifles, the high whoosh of the XQ rounds, the hiss of cutter guns, the yells of the soldiers, and the continuous manic howling of the Krallen. As the furious sounds of war boomed and rolled around the gorge, Merral was aware of the smell of burning, the chemical tang of the rocket fumes, and the acrid odor of sweat and fear.
The gray line continued its charge. Like tremendous dogs they loped along with effortless speed, their four legs running round and over the bodies of their fallen comrades, their coordination so precise that none ever seemed to run into another.
Merral sighted on one Krallen, aimed just ahead of it, pulled the trigger, and followed the smoke trail as the bullet struck its flanks, flinging it sideways. His gratification was short-lived as it wobbled upright and continued on its way. He fired again and again, aware that each time he squeezed the trigger, he was firing at closer range.
He glimpsed a slitherwing flap by overhead—the looming diamond shape, the long moist slit of the mouth agape, and the whip of a tail tracing leisurely curves through the air. Suddenly a hole appeared in the right wing and the creature banked unsteadily away.
Merral glanced up from his rifle to see that the first Krallen were almost upon the ditches in front of the defenses. Behind them, heedless of the mortar craters and the scattered smoldering fragments of their kind, more Krallen raced after them.
The first line of Krallen plunged into the ditches and, barely slowing, surged upward against the ramparts. They struck the walls like the waves of a winter sea breaking over a rocky shoreline. Soldiers screamed as the claws lashed out and teeth bit. Now, for the first time, there was the glitter of blades.
Merral held his fire, choosing instead to watch. Now is the test. Now we see whether Vero’s ingenuity in forging swords and armor has worked. If it has, we have hope. If not, we are lost.
Blades rose and fell amid new yells and screams. Just below him, a man struck a blow deep into the neck of a Krallen. It toppled backward, inert. Next to him another beast keeled over as a blade was thrust into its belly.
Merral began to dare to hope.
“Those swords really work!” the colonel cried, relief in his voice.
Merral turned his gaze wider, trying to determine what was happening around the gorge mouth. The scene, partly obscured by smoke, was one of a confused and angry melee. Through the smoke it was plain that the Krallen charge had slowed. The narrowing of the gorge, the ditches, and their own fallen had clogged their advance. Around the entire length of the defenses, an ash-colored mass of Krallen, perhaps eight or ten deep, seethed against the ramparts.
In the air, the slitherwings were in trouble. One spiraled down, its wing torn. Another was aflame and, as he watched, a third cartwheeled into the ground.
Yet just as hope surged in Merral’s mind, it began to fade. All around the arc of the gorge mouth it was plain that the defenses were in danger of being overrun.
Merral was suddenly aware of Colonel Lanier standing next to him.
“What do you think?” the colonel shouted, trying to make himself heard over the noise. “The lines are barely holding.”
“Send the reserves in!” Merral shouted back.
The colonel gave an order. As Merral fired a dozen rounds into the midst of the Krallen, soldiers rushed down the slopes to join their fellows.
Suddenly, Merral heard Anya’s voice in his ear. “Merral, we have you on screen. There’s a Krallen, pack moving in—down to your right. By the rock spur, fifteen meters away. Looks like it may be unopposed.”
“Thanks, we’ll deal with it.” Soon he spotted twelve forms moving purposefully through the chaos in front of the ramparts toward a rocky projection.
Merral looked around, only to see that there were no more reserves. He grabbed Lloyd, who was pumping round after round from his XQ rifle into the enemy ranks with a steady rhythm, and gestured to where the pack was scampering up the projecting rock. In seconds they would be able to circle behind a handful of soldiers who were preoccupied with the foes pressing upon them.
Lloyd grunted, swung the barrel toward the new threat, and fired, the white trails of the rounds carving furiously through the air. First one, and then a second Krallen spun off the rock. Merral fired, and a third toppled over.
But in seconds the remaining Krallen were off the rock and heading silently behind the soldiers.
“Swords!” Merral yelled, throwing his gun down and running down the track. He heard Lloyd following as he raced down the rocks. They half leaped and half tumbled into the defensive excavation.
“The Lamb!” Merral cried, as he swung his sword down on the back of the nearest Krallen. The creature whipped its head toward him, but as it did, the blade struck the tough skin, stuck, then slowly penetrated. The creature twitched, the burning red light in its eyes faded, and it toppled onto its side.
The remaining Krallen—seven or eight—turned round and Merral had a brief and horrid vision of over a dozen fiery eyes gleaming at him. As he raised his sword again, Lloyd charged, moving like a mighty mythological figure of vengeance, his shotgun in his left hand, and his sword in his right.
As a Krallen bounded at Lloyd, he stuck the gun in its mouth and fired, sending a cloud of fragments hissing around. A moment later, Merral glimpsed another falling under Lloyd’s sword before his own attention was required by two Krallen, eyes ablaze, approaching him with perfect coordinated symmetry from the right and the left.
The creature to Merral’s right lunged for him. In an action that was a pure reflex, Merral slashed down hard with the sword. The blade arced into the face, cutting deeply between the lidless eyes. The creature slumped, spun sideways, and crashed to the ground. As Merral tugged the blade free, silver fluid dripped from it. He caught a strange warm mechanical odor that reminded him of his father’s workshops.
As the second Krallen bounded toward him from the left, its teeth flashing in the sun, Merral swung his sword. The creature was too close and the blow too hasty. The blade hit the skin at an angle and bounced off. A steely claw scythed at him, struck an armored sleeve, and skated off. The creature spun round on its hind legs and reared up toward him. As it pounced, Merral thrust the blade forward deep into its chest. The Krallen struck him, sending him tottering backward, and then, suddenly immobile, fell over.
Even as it slid to the ground, another Krallen leaped over its body toward him. Trying to regain his balance, he tugged at his sword, but the blade refused to budge. Somehow the body of the Krallen had twisted, trapping his blade underneath it.
With increasing desperation, Merral wrestled to free the blade. As he did he saw a gray face in front of him, its jaws gaping wide to show teeth like the blades of a tree saw. The creature raised its right forelimb, extended its bladed nails, and brought them together to make a single chisel-like blade.
The punch to the face, Merral realized with a numbed horror.
As the limb shot out, he ducked. The ferocious blow struck his helmet.
Half stunned, his helmet twisted around so he could only partially see, Merral staggered back, expecting another—and final—blow.
The Krallen paused. Its deep-set, glowing eyes suddenly tracked away from him.
A pair of smoking gun barrels slid past Merral’s ear. He could feel the heat from them.
“You have to ask yourself, do you feel lucky?” Lloyd addressed the Krallen in a slightly breathless drawl.
Merral saw a glint of something—perplexity perhaps?—in the creature’s eyes.
There was a flash, a deafening explosion, and the Krallen’s head disintegrated into a whistling cloud of fragments. A wreath of muzzle smoke drifted past.
“Thanks, L
loyd,” Merral said, as he clambered heavily to his feet. He twisted his helmet back into place and wrenched his sword free from the Krallen. “But we don’t believe in luck.”
Lloyd gave the headless body a kick. “Don’t think it does now.”
Merral gazed around, seeing eight stilled forms, and turned to the ramparts, where the five men left standing continued their struggle against an apparently endless onslaught of claws, teeth, and baleful eyes. Mindful of the swinging blades, Merral edged forward to take his place at the front.
“Thanks,” said a man next to him and Merral glimpsed a wearied, sweat-stained and bloodied face. “Too many goblins.”
Goblins. A good name.
The ditch in front of the ramparts was so full of Krallen bodies that the new attackers had to climb over the fallen to reach them. One leaped toward Merral and he felled it with a single blow to the neck.
Suddenly, the howling changed to a series of weird keening cries. In an instant, the Krallen paused, spun around, and retreated, bounding back over the damaged or destroyed forms of their own kind.
They stopped a hundred meters away beyond the line of smoldering mortar craters and dismembered parts and only a few strides from the edge of the marsh. There, in their mechanical way, they regrouped into parallel lines and then fell still and silent.
Merral took off his helmet, rubbed a growing lump on his head, and wiped the sweat from his face. He could hear noises: screams, a dull pathetic whimpering, and even, bizarrely, cicadas chirping in the pines. Yet there behind it was a great and horrible stillness.
He was aware of the mingled smells of terror, sweat, and death. Suddenly he felt weary, aware that his arms and shoulders hurt.
In front of him lay piles of Krallen, silver fluid dribbling out of their gray shells. Next to him soldiers were leaning on the ramparts, recovering their breath or gulping down water. Nearby, two medical orderlies were putting the still and bloodied figure of a man onto a stretcher. In the next section of the defenses, some soldiers were trying to restrain a man rolling around in agony.
Do you ever get used to this? Does anyone ever come to consider this abomination of war as normal?
