Gonzalo cleared his throat, and pushed back the terrible wrath he felt swelling in his heart for the evil curs who had begat such suffering—that would have its time later. He made himself smile, and called out to them in the most encouraging tones he could muster, "People of Stone Wall, do not be afraid! We are here to free you! We are the warriors of the Mesa, your kin and allies! Do you not know us?"
The crying abated somewhat, and a furtive whispering could be heard; "Mesa?" "Free?" "Allies?" "Kin?"
After some deliberation, a sturdy-looking woman in her late fifties moved forward, several of her younger friends nervously following in her wake. Her face was dirty and lined with more cares than most could bear, but it was a strong face, obviously belonging to a woman who had lived through much and to whom fear was usually a stranger. She advanced slowly toward Gonzalo, who was plainly the newcomer's leader, despite his unusual looks. He obligingly brought his torch up closer to his face so that she could see him better.
"I know you!" She exclaimed in a voice that was remembering it had once been bold, "You are one of the dragon-slayers! You saved my kinsmen from that terrible beast!" Her hand trembling, she reached toward the fiendishly long 'dragon' fang that hung from his leather necklace, twin to the one Nate wore, gifts from those grateful kinsmen who were now more than brothers to them. Gonzalo smiled and nodded for her to touch it, which she did, rubbing it gently as if for luck.
"I am Gonzalo Xoan de Alcantara, at your service good lady! I, along with your kinsmen, am now one of the four great chiefs of the Mesa People, and very much your friends! My warriors and I are here to rescue you and your village from the foul invaders that have brought so much torment here! You are free again, and safe in our care!"
With that the woman burst into joyous tears and threw herself into Gonzalo's arms. Gonzalo stiffened for just a moment, still unaccustomed to such close physical contact after his long, terrible years on the road as a conquistador, but he smiled and gently embraced her back, then widened his arms to include the women and children who rushed in behind her. Gonzalo and his lieutenants were soon engulfed by the crowd, all of whom were weeping from relief and gratitude. Gonzalo, a very sensitive soul to his core, was crying a little himself, and he and his men mumbled consolation and encouragement as they gently worked to extract themselves from their thankful admirers and get back to the battle.
****
As the initial onslaught got into full swing, T'cumu led eight riders along the edge of the forest, where they were nearly invisible against the massive darkness behind. Once the confusion created by the fracas was in full effect they rode quickly toward the brush paddock that contained the enemy's small herd of horses, cutting down any foes brave or foolish enough try to slow their progress.
Most of the enemy warriors were still groggy from a very rudely interrupted sleep and were rightfully terrified of the wildly painted mounted men who had suddenly appeared among them. They gave way, running about willy-nilly trying to escape the pounding hooves and sharp lances. By the time they reached the enclosure, it was nearly empty of resistance. Only four men remained on guard, and were beginning to regret their decision to stay. They shouted for help, but were filled with arrows before they could garner any attention over the surrounding ruckus.
T'cumu rode up to the makeshift gate and opened it, calling out to the horses within in gentle tones. What worked on the mesa cayuse also worked on these animals, and soon he was able to secure a lead on the largest animal, a big, red chestnut stallion, who was most likely to be the natural leader of the herd. His own mount, scrappy little Oklilinchi, was already batting her eyes at him, and giving him a sweet nuzzling, her distractions would make leading the nervous animal away all that much easier. Taking a moment to admire their prizes, T'cumu frowned. When he and Nate had come spying there had been twelve horses, now there were only eight. Someone had taken four horses elsewhere during the night. There was nothing to be done for it now, and those they had captured still comprised a great boon to their fledgling breeding program.
Soon all the horses had lines on them, and the riders led them quietly and calmly back along the forest wall, safely away from the battle. T'cumu sent the group back down the path to the shore camp, from where they were ordered to continue onto the mesa at best speed; the captured animals were too valuable to risk losing if somehow the battle went badly. Having seen them safely away, the young brave turned his tough little mare around and galloped off to join his comrades in combat with a joyous whoop, his heart singing the ancient song of battle of his ancestors. This was T'cumu's time; time to show his courage, time to vanquish his foes, time to bring glory to his people!
****
Nate grinned a bit ruthlessly at the mayhem his cavalry was sowing. So far, his tactics were working exactly as he had hoped they would, even better. They had so far succeeded in killing over a hundred of the enemy without a single loss of their own, which certainly helped even up the odds. Still, there were around five hundred foes left to go, and they would no longer have the element of surprise with them. Yes, they, too, would take losses this day; it was inevitable.
A group of the braver foes stood their ground, staring in awe at the wheeling line of riders. They were confused at the sight of men sitting high on the backs of animals and moving at such amazing speed. In the growing light of the dawn and the flicker of the blazing tipis, the Mesa warriors could see that the men still facing them had painted themselves as rattlesnakes, their bodies a dull gray with black bands, their lips scaled, and long white fangs sketched down their cheeks to their jaws. It was a grisly and unsettling effect, and one could almost admire the artistry. With a mad cry of defiance, the Rattlesnake warriors made a brief charge of their own, bringing the cavalry into range of their shortbows. They shot into the horsemen's ranks, killing several men and downing one unfortunate mount, who crashed to the ground with an arrow through her neck, while her rider leaped free. The steely-nerved enemy succeeded in getting just the one volley off before they fell back to the ground they had risen up from, filled with arrows by the line of mounted men.
With the last shrieks and moans of the doomed filling the air, and no enemy capable of fighting back nearby, Nate and Ni-T'o called for a pause while they went to see what had become of their fallen warriors. They had lost three men, two were too wounded to continue fighting, and the fallen horse lay gasping and wheezing on the ground, its rider holding its head as if it were a child, speaking softly and petting its blood-soaked fur, giving what comfort he could.
Nate and the Raven Priestess came quickly, and gently checked the animal's wound. It was fatal, the arrow's feathered tip jutted from the hole it had carved through the unfortunate animal's neck, blood spurting out with each beat of the heart. While his wife knelt down beside them and did what she could to soothe both horse and rider, whispering softly and gently stroking the head of each, the warrior looked up at Nate, tears streaming from his eyes and asked, "Can she be saved?"
Nate, tears threatening to gather in his own eyes, shook his head and answered "No friend, I am sorry. She cannot be saved. You must say your farewells to her now."
The warrior nodded solemnly and bent down to whisper in his fallen horse's ear one last time. She convulsed and gasped, her lungs filling up with blood. Her rider then swiftly pulled his stone knife from his belt, and with a last caress to her cheek, drove the blade straight and deep into her forehead, the razor-sharp stone easily piercing the skull. The thrust killed her instantly, sparing her any further suffering. Nate offered his hand and pulled the sad young brave to his feet, and they both took a moment to steady each other and collect themselves while the Raven Priestess went to gather up Poppy, who was quite sensibly using the opportunity to help herself to the local grass. The stout-hearted mare had seen war before, and took it in stride, whereas many of the younger, less well-trained mesa cayuses were beginning to spook at the smell of blood from one of their own, their riders doing their utmost to keep them calm.
<
br /> Another warrior rode over to the two grieving men, leading a horse who had lost his rider. Nate took the reins from him and turned to his companion.
"What is your name, brave warrior?" Nate asked him, loud enough for all those gathered to hear.
"I am called Masheli, formerly of the Standing Pines, now a man of the Mesa!"
"Masheli." Nate repeated, careful to pronounce it correctly. He thought it most likely meant 'fair skies.'
Nate held the reins out to the young warrior, offering them to him. "Ride with me again brave Masheli of the Mesa People! Ride with me, and we shall have our revenge!"
Masheli's face now held a stony resolve. He took the proffered reins, gently stroking the wary and confused animal's forehead to calm him. His new horse licked his hand, a union already forming.
"I will ride with you, General Nate. Lead us to glory, Oh Great Chief, we are yours!" This brought up a cheer from the gathered ranks.
Nate gave him a savage smile and an encouraging clap on the arm. He turned to his men, now all waiting quietly for his orders. Ni-T'o regarded him with a look of admiration and pride in the fine leadership his friend was demonstrating in a very difficult situation. That sent a wave of confidence coursing through Nate, but there was something else etched in Ni-T'o's face as well, a deep sadness he had not seen before, and it troubled him. It would have to wait for later though; there was much more to do at the dawn of this deadly day.
"Mount up!" Nate shouted in his boldest, most exultant tones. "First blood is ours, a victory our fallen comrades have paid dearly for. Make their sacrifice worthwhile! The greater battle lies ahead. Let us drive these villains from our lands! Let us make them pay for the evil they have done to us and our kin!"
The men all let out whooping battle cries, the kind which would turn the blood of their waiting foes to ice. The Raven Priestess gave her husband a quick kiss on the cheek and Nate nudged Poppy into a gallop. The sun had now clawed its way up over the horizon, casting the fields in an eerie crimson glow. Nate thought that it looked like all the world was soaked in blood, and although he was not a superstitious nor a religious man, he knew an omen when he saw one.
****
"Gonzalo! Come quick!" The warrior's face was worried. He pulled his general free from the adoration of the recently liberated villagers, and out the door. Flavio was tied there, happily chomping on fresh grass, and gave him a questioning look, but his master remained on foot for now. They ran around to the side of the stockade facing Stone Wall Village's airy perch. The enemy force stationed on the palisades covering the steep, rocky slope had turned their attention to Gonzalo and his men and were beginning to filter downward, brandishing their weapons with angry cries. They outnumbered Gonzalo's men by over half, and held the advantage of the heights and fortifications.
Gonzalo turned to his lieutenant and spoke loud enough for all his men to hear, "Get ten of our best bowmen up on the roof of the stockade to give us some height, shoot any of them who come into range! The rest of you, stand your ground, defend this stockade with all your might! We can take these sons of serpents. Have no fear! Let them come!"
His men nodded eagerly at his orders and started up a rousing battle hymn, their faces confident, eyes glittering with a wild joy. They stood strong and firm in their positions, adjusting their grips on their weapons in expectation of the challenge to come. Gonzalo pulled on his bushy beard with one hand and unsheathed his steel longsword with the other as he whispered a fervent prayer that his promise to these brave men would prove to be true . . .
****
To be continued . . .
In a drug-induced fog, my head pounding, I woke flat on my back in an unfamiliar, windowless place. With a herculean effort, I managed to lift my head. The room was without furniture except for the mildewy, armless, too-short sofa across which I had been dumped, and off an end of which, like dead weights, my calves and feet hung. The walls were dirty white; the floor much scuffed, of pale wood of some kind; the ceiling, aside from its single dim light panel, was dingy and water-stained beige acoustic tiles. A hard rubber wastebasket sat in a corner. From the ceiling-mounted camera, slowly panning from side to side, a red LED glowed balefully. A storeroom, by the look of things, and I being stored.
I went to sit up—and failed. Miserably. The fuel cell had been removed from my exoskeleton and its little reserve battery had run out. Between my own ridiculous Earth weight and that of the inert exoskeleton, I was restrained as effectively as if by the sturdiest of chains. Helpless as a bug pinned to a display board.
Exhausted, I let my head flop back onto the sofa. As I struggled to reconstruct what and why had brought me here—wherever here was—two words echoed and reechoed in my brain.
Two dead. Two dead. Two dead . . .
****
Two dead.
I had reminded myself of the toll—never mind how close I had been to becoming the third—so often that the words had become a mantra. I dare not forget that this business was serious. Deadly serious.
The pudgy guy ahead of me in line took a step forward. I plodded after. We'd been at this for a while and, best guess, I had at least an hour to go until the Security checkpoint. All passengers are screened before boarding, of course. But who knows? I might have printed a gun or knife or nunchucks during the flight. As I waited, interspersed with my subvocalized mantra, I gave silent thanks to whoever had designed the mobility exoskeleton I wore over my clothes. Earth was the gravitational hellhole of human space.
Interplanetary Arrivals was too damn big, a harbinger of all that I dreaded about Earth. Floor-to-ceiling wall displays cycled among agoraphobia-inducing panoramas: dizzyingly deep canyons; rank upon rank of snow-capped mountains, each ridgeline taller than the last; undulating plains stretching to an impossibly distant horizon; seascapes manic with crashing waves. The hall echoed with the footsteps and chatter of several hundred people. Ceres at present being near opposition to Earth, the ticket prices had been, well, astronomical, and I'd shared my flight with fewer than a dozen. I took encouragement in having disembarked during peak hours, no matter that, even with the exoskeleton, standing in queue had within minutes become torture. The less attention came my way, the better.
Even with the exoskeleton I struggled to stay upright, lurching with each step, learning to hate the hardware. The feeble twitching of Belter muscles sometimes conveyed my intentions to the exoskeleton, but as often miscommunicated. Then a leg would kick out to the side, or a knee would lock, or a foot would stomp, or something. After half an hour in the Security line and not even five meters of progress, admitting defeat, I tapped a command (and this task, too, was a struggle) into the tiny virtual keypad of the exoskeleton's back-of-the-left-forearm control panel. Thereafter, lurching like Frankenstein's monster, the hardware marched me forward one step with each tap of the virtual star key. The lone remaining shred of my dignity was that I hadn't—yet—been tempted to slap the big, red, physical, "I've fallen and I can't get up" Panic button.
It did not improve my mood that two lines to the left, another passenger from my ship glided along in her exoskeleton. Similar grace could have been mine—if I'd agreed before this trip to surgery. An implanted neural controller might even have been the wise choice, but I'm particular about having holes drilled in my head.
At long last, dripping sweat from stress and exertion, I reached the checkpoint. The exoskeleton caught the screeners' eyes, of course. I was prepared for the wanding and the pat-down that inevitably followed. But not the demand that I surrender the exoskeleton's fuel cell for inspection.
"Without power, I can't stand." That was maybe an exaggeration, because sans motorized assistance I could remain in place with the exolegs mechanically locked. Unless someone bumped into me. Then, I'd go over like a sack of potatoes. Surface gravity on Ceres is under three percent of standard.
"We need to check it," one of the Security screeners insisted.
"Then I need to sit."
While in
the serpentine line behind me other weary travelers fumed, one of the screeners retrieved a chair. I sat. By the time they returned my fuel cell (Shocker! It wasn't a bomb) I had become a statue. The exoskeleton's power reserve—the tiny, built-in, rechargeable battery sized only to runs things during a quick, old-for-new, fuel-cell swap—had fully drained. Looking disgusted at my helplessness, a screener snapped the fuel cell back into its socket on the exoskeleton's left thigh. Then it was on to Baggage, and then to another line. Finally, I reached the Customs counter.
"Welcome to the USNA," the Customs officer offered in a bored monotone. The badge pinned to her blouse read Carruthers. Even by Earther standards, she was petite. With her neck craned and head tipped up to meet my gaze, she evoked an image I'd once seen of a baby robin anticipating a juicy worm. I took a passport chip from its shielded sleeve and handed it over. "Mr. . . ."
For an instant, I froze. As secretive as the company was, being one of the Belt's major employers meant it could not hide the identities of all its employees. So, if I were to have any hope of success, I had to be someone other than myself. "Donovan," I completed, recalling my current alias.
Carruthers busied herself for a while with mating the passport chip to an authenticator, giving the counter's sensor pad only the most perfunctory of swipes with a sanitizing tissue. Inwardly, I shrugged. State-of-the-art med nanites had been the least of my preparations. I pressed my thumb against the sensor pad until the device bleated its constipated approval. (As expected: the company had plenty of pull with the Ceres government. The ID chip I'd given her should be good. So should the extra ID chips nestled in dummy sockets of my exoskeleton. Bogus Cerian IDs were not exactly illegal—at least not on this world—but I didn't care to think about the questions their discovery would raise.)
Grantville Gazette, Volume 73 Page 20
