by Chris Walley
Is that all he can say? Merral felt gripped with an anger that he could only just restrain. Nearly a hundred dead in the regulars alone, many times that in the irregs, and all he can say is “Thank you for all you’ve done”?
“I’ll have our defenses here boosted,” Clement said. “We have most of the Western Regiment now and the irregulars. If Tezekal falls, we will do all we can.”
“I’m sure,” Merral said, trying to keep his voice flat. “Any news from the Dove of Dawn assault team?”
“I am monitoring it closely, Commander. The team is keeping silence, but I gather everything is going to plan. The assault should be around three this afternoon. But don’t worry about it; you have enough concerns.”
How very true.
“I have ordered an engineering team to go on board as soon as the ship is secured. The hope is that it can be made ready to go to Earth within a few days.”
“Makes sense,” Merral replied, realizing that he derived some comfort from the fact that even if Isterrane and Farholme fell, the Assembly might still be warned. Our efforts might not have been wholly in vain.
“But, Commander, I have every confidence that you will do all you can to defend Isterrane.”
“I will try and do what I can.”
“I know you will. Our thoughts and prayers are with you, Commander.” And with that Clemant gave an awkward smile and closed the link.
Trying to put the conversation with Clemant out of his mind, Merral found a quiet corner of the command center. There he drafted some words to say before the final onslaught and committed them to memory. He then toured the defenses, partly to encourage morale and partly in the hope of finding anything that might boost the feeble forces he had. The only slight encouragement was a slow but steady trickle of exhausted and sometimes wounded irregs coming off the mountain. They were patched up, given spare armor and weapons, and sent up to the new defenses.
By half past one, the temperature seemed to have increased still further. In the still air, a shimmering haze seemed to hang over everything, distorting shapes and distances, and generating dancing mirages.
Only the thousand or so Krallen waiting in silent immobility beyond the mouth of the gorge and the much vaster number marching relentlessly eastward along the mountain ridges seemed unaffected by the sweltering heat.
By two, the first Krallen were visible on top of Mount Adaman and shortly afterward the last of the fliers at the landing strip took off. As Merral watched it leave, he struggled to avoid the feeling of being deserted.
Half an hour later, Merral walked through the village to the ridge amid the olive groves that formed the core of the final defenses. The soldiers were already taking up their places in the freshly dug fortifications. Even with the irregs and those who, like Anya, had decided to stay, he knew that there would be barely a thousand defenders to face a force nearly twenty times as large. The nature of their plight made the disposition of the troops very simple: there were just two lines, a single row of men in front with Karita’s snipers on the slight rise behind. There were no reserves and no fallback position.
Merral stared at the great slope before him, seeing through the haze the worn green of the woods and shrubs slowly turning gray as the Krallen advanced. As if summer has turned to winter. He borrowed a fieldscope and stared through it, seeing individuals moving under the branches of the junipers and pines, and trampling, without concern, through the needles and thorns of the spiny undergrowth or bounding effortlessly across jagged rocks.
Not long now. I ought to call people to attention and say what I’ve prepared. But what can I say when I believe we’re going to lose?
His gloomy thoughts were broken by the realization that his diary was chiming. He pulled it from under his armor. It was Jorgio. His face, bathed in sweat, was a pasty color.
“Mr. Merral, I have a message for you.”
“Go on.”
“I am specifically to tell you, from the Most High, that in half an hour, there will be a strong wind off the sea.”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
Merral felt overwhelmed by a disappointment that bordered on exasperation. “That will be unusual,” he said slowly, to hide his frustration. “The best we might expect at this time of year is a gentle evening breeze. But a strong wind will cool us. Thank you, Jorgio.”
“Tut. My pleasure. The King, though, was very concerned that you should hear it.”
“I’m sure.”
“You were expecting something more?”
Merral looked up at the gray flood moving through the wooded slopes above. “You could say that.” He tried to smile and failed. “But, my old friend, we must be content with what we are sent.”
“Indeed. The King knows best, Mr. Merral.”
Merral considered a sharp response, but decided that this close to imminent death, questioning divine wisdom was probably unwise.
“Jorgio, just in case . . . thanks for all your help.”
“Thank you. But you watch for that wind.”
Before Merral could say anything more, the screen went blank.
Merral was still pondering Jorgio’s words when Betafor’s flat voice spoke in his ear. “Commander, there are orders being issued on the mountain. I think they are going to advance.”
Merral looked up to see the Krallen starting to move slowly downward. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned round to see the tall figure of Azeras standing by him. He carried a large rolled flag on a staff under his arm.
“My prediction, Commander—and it may well be my last one—is that our opponents will advance to about a hundred meters away from the edge of the wood. They will then charge.” He threw his gloved hands wide. “And that will be that.”
“Thank you for that last advice, Sarudar. I take it you are joining us.”
Azeras’s smile seemed formal and mirthless. “I have only my honor left, Commander. For a veteran to flee when novices fight would be shame.” He gestured to the banner. “But I will fight under my own flag. No disrespect to the Assembly, but I remain one of the True Freeborn, even if I am the last of them. I will fight under the emblem of the broken chain.”
They shook hands and Azeras moved some distance away and drove the staff firmly into the ground, but in the absence of wind, the dark blue flag hung so limply that the emblem on it was obscured.
Merral looked up at the slope, seeing the treetops shaking, and tried not to think of the unstoppable wave of teeth and claws that would overwhelm their feeble defenses in seconds. Far above on the slopes, a faint but growing howling began.
Followed by Luke, who had somehow acquired a new uniform, Merral made his way over to the tallest flagstaff on which the large Lamb and Stars banner hung immobile. He adjusted his microphone. “Men and women,” he said, hearing his words roll around the olive groves, ditches, and parapets, “despite great sacrifices in space and on the ground we will, within minutes, face conflict with a powerful and merciless foe. I do not want to offer any false hopes. Unless the Most High acts, our chances of victory today are low. He may yet intervene; that is his prerogative. We must all, though, assume that, within the next hour, our lives may be demanded of us.”
He paused, struck by the solemnity of his words, and then continued. “Yet it is a simple matter. We face evil and treacherous foes that must be stopped here or else they will take our world and, for all we know, other worlds too. We and our ancestors before us have lived in the security of the Lord’s Assembly for generations; through it we have enjoyed much blessing. Now, though, we are asked to return something of what we have been given. We must fight and be prepared to die for the Assembly. I have arranged that what happens on this field of battle be imaged by remote cameras and be transmitted to the rest of the Assembly. Long years from now, men and women will watch how we fought and, perhaps, how we died. May we live up to that challenge.” He paused, aware of a silence charged with intensity. “Chaplain Tenerelt will now lead us in pray
er.”
As Luke began to pray, men and women kneeled or bowed their heads. As Merral bowed his head, he caught a glimpse of Azeras, standing defiantly upright against his banner.
Luke ended his prayer with a firm “Amen” that was echoed across the lines.
“Men and women,” Merral cried out, “take up your positions. Whether we be granted victory or defeat, let us fight well!”
There were eddies of movement along the ditches as people made last-minute adjustments, drank water, or checked weapons. Colonel Lanier moved along the line to take up a position at the western end. There were few words said.
Merral made his way to the crude trench that lay just in front of the great banner of the Lamb and Stars. He tightened his helmet, slung his rifle off his back, and checked to see that he had a full magazine and a spare on his belt.
“You ready, Sergeant?” he said, turning to the big man laden with belts and cartridges just behind him.
“Yup. Whatever happens, I plan to kill a few of these things.”
“Good. Very good.” Merral suddenly found himself struggling to find the right words. “Ah, Lloyd, at this point . . . well, let’s just say . . . many thanks for your help.”
Lloyd grinned. “It’s been . . . interesting. And, sir, we ain’t dead yet.”
“No.”
A soldier came over. “Any room here?”
For a second, Merral didn’t recognize the voice. It was only when he glimpsed a strand of reddish hair sticking out from under the helmet that he realized who it was.
“Anya,” he said, “I didn’t recognize you.” He paused. “Oddly enough, I’m glad to have you here.”
They stared at each other. In a flash of insight he realized that both were unsure whether to adopt an attitude of flippancy or gravity.
“Two things, Merral,” Anya said quietly, as Lloyd moved a short distance away. Tactful to the last. “First, I don’t expect you to protect me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. And don’t you worry about me. I have Lloyd for that.”
“And second . . . sorry.” Anya’s face flushed. “I’ve been unfair to you. In fact, I’ve been far too bitter.” She shrugged. “Anyway, now seemed an appropriate time to mention it.”
“I suppose it is, isn’t it? And you have my apology. I haven’t really handled our relationship well.”
“Thanks, but you apologized before. I forgave you, remember?”
Merral nodded, then looked up. Halfway up the slope above them, the wide Krallen line came to a halt. There seemed a new note in their howling now.
“Not long now,” he said quietly to Anya.
“They’re creatures of habit. They do like to be all neatly lined up.” Anya’s face puckered into a grim smile. “Yeah, as an authority on Krallen behavior, I felt I ought to experience coming face-to-face with them.”
“Don’t forget to take notes,” he said, and reached for her hand. For a moment their gloved hands clasped.
Merral looked around to find Azeras standing alone by his own banner. He smiled and received a solemn stiff salute from Azeras in response. I read that as the gesture of a man who knows his time is up. Lord, have mercy on him and us this day.
On the slope, the Krallen lines continued to adjust themselves. A slight figure, apparently ill at ease in full armor, approached him. It was Vero. Merral beckoned him over.
“A bad mess,” Vero said, shaking his head. “V-very bad. I should have realized that they might be able to do this—”
“Don’t say it,” Merral interrupted. “You have apologized enough. You don’t need to do it again.”
“Okay. Life’s too short.” Vero made a grimace. “Hmm, perhaps an inappropriate expression under the circumstances.”
“You need to keep at a distance to allow me to swing my sword without the risk of hitting you,” Merral said, trying to keep the tone conversational.
“Right.” Vero took a step aside. “Sorry. You know it will be my first fight since Carson’s Sill?”
“That seems a long time ago.”
Vero looked up at the hillside. “I thought the odds were bad then. I guess I was naive.”
“We are a lot wiser now.”
“Absolutely. Live and learn.” There was another grimace. “Ow. Perhaps not the best expression either. Anyway, it’s good to have you with me here.”
“Somehow appropriate.” Merral nodded. Well, all stories must end and perhaps this is our ending. The secret is, as Perena said, to end it well.
He stared at the slope. The Krallen line now was perhaps twenty deep and a kilometer long. At least the coming conflict will have the merit of brevity.
“You know,” Vero said, in a wistful voice as he craned his neck skyward, “in the old stories something turns up at this point. Like eagles.”
“Eagles?” Merral shook his head. “No. Not today. Not in this story.”
He twisted his head to look southward at the hazy blue of the sea. I have never spent enough time at the sea. One minor, last-minute regret: too many trees and not enough beaches. He swung his gaze over the bay, the village, its vineyards and olive groves, grieving that this might be the last time he saw such things.
A hundred meters or so away, he saw a white bird flying eastward.
As he saw it Merral felt oddly certain that there was something about its movement that was striking, even significant. But what was it? He watched it, recognizing that far from being an eagle, it was merely some sort of small tern. Yet he was still sure that what he was seeing was critical. Then, in a flash, it came to him: the bird was struggling against the wind.
“The wind!” he said and as he spoke, the flags began to twitch and tremble into life.
Merral turned southward again, seeing far away lines of white foam on the sea, noting the leaves on the remaining olive trees quivering and sensing a breeze on his face.
“That’s better,” said Vero.
The banner of the Lamb and Stars fluttered clear from the flagpole and streamed out wide and noble.
What had Jorgio said? “I am specifically to tell you, from the Most High, that in half an hour, there will be a strong wind off the sea.” But, why tell me?
He turned to the slope in front of him, a sudden, wild idea flooding his mind.
“Colonel, Captains,” he ordered into his microphone. “We have to set fire to the trees! Quick—send the fastest people you have. Set fire to the trees, the bushes, anything that will burn!”
In moments, soldiers were racing over the dug-up ground, their feet kicking up dust that blew after them.
Now, above the cries of the men, the pulsing howls of the Krallen, the taut snapping of the flags at the poles, Merral could hear the mad, wild roar of the wind.
The first soldier had reached the trees now and was setting fire to the undergrowth. A single tongue of yellow flame licked out and then another. Fire began to sprint through the dry brush.
A second man set fire to a pile of dead twigs and the golden flames raced upward. In a second, dry sap-filled branches caught fire. Elsewhere, more soldiers fired the undergrowth.
The wind continued to strengthen. Overhead, the flags flapped with a manic energy, and beyond the ditches, loose dirt from the excavation of the defenses rolled and bounced toward the forested hillside.
High above, the Krallen still howled, but with a change in note.
Merral pressed his microphone stud. “Betafor,” he said, “can you tell me if there is any alteration in the Krallen signals?” He paused, hearing only silence. “Betafor? Betafor?”
There was no answer. A communication link down, he decided, and turned his attention to what was happening on the mountainside.
Fanned by the growing wind, an angry line of yellow fire was spreading rapidly up the slope. How strange. What I once feared as a forester has become something that may deliver us. In places, the fire crawled from twig to twig, but elsewhere, driven by the rising wind, it jumped and leaped from branch to branch.
&n
bsp; Smoke billowed and eddied up the slope, carrying sparks with it that started new fires. Now, at the base of the slope, there were no longer individual patches of fire but instead, one great smoky wall of flame that swept upward with an irresistible force, turning trees into flaming torches within seconds. The few firebreaks were leaped with ease and within a few minutes of the first fires being lit, the whole lower part of the hillside had become a vast roaring furnace.
I have seen many fires in my life, but none of this ferocity. Indeed, there was something extraordinary about this conflagration, as if it was not the simple act of combustion, but a living elemental creature Fire let loose on earth.
In a few more moments, the first tongues of flames had raced to within a dozen meters of the Krallen front line.
Around Merral, men and women cheered, wept, or prayed.
The Krallen line seemed to undergo some sort of readjustment.
“The Krallen are retreating!” Vero cried as he waved a clenched fist high in exuberant joy. “Yah hey!”
Then in a single, terrible moment, everything changed.
As if a dam had burst, the Krallen line plunged headlong down the slope. Down they rushed through the flames, bounding, tumbling, and rolling over the rocks and tree trunks in an attempt to burst through the fire. With urgent cries, soldiers who had flung down weapons snatched them up again and threw themselves against the defenses.
At first, Merral felt certain that the Krallen were moving so fast that most of them would pass through the flames unharmed. But as he watched, he saw that the roughness of the slope worked against them. Some mysterious and ancient process of erosion had gouged out furrows and ridges on the slopes and—inevitably—in their mad descent, the Krallen were forced into the valleys. Here they pushed together, tripped each other up, and, intertwined, fell into the roaring blast of the flames. And as the gullies became increasingly blocked by burning and melting Krallen, those that tried to follow were slowed down long enough for the flames to take hold of them. Others, apparently disoriented by the smoke, tumbled off crags into flames. Still other Krallen erupted in spectacular chains of explosions that set fire to yet more trees.
