He could hear the chanting growing ever louder, "Torm, Torm, Torm," as the crescent-shaped battle line started its advance, the two flanks encompassing a front nearly half a mile across, gradually closing in as they tunneled into the pass.
The solid wall of humanity advanced at an inexorable pace, never faltering.
"Hold steady," Goldberg ordered. They were deployed atop a low rise in the middle of the pass. Anything that advanced would have to come over them first. He looked to his left where the thin line of Japanese were deployed in open battle formation, their Nambu machine gun concealed in a hurriedly dug bunker, while to his right were the rest of the Americans with two Thompson submachine guns anchoring the flank.
Goldberg looked back over his shoulder to the low ridgeline in the middle of the pass, a hundred yards away. The last of the stragglers had pulled back, and from the flurry of activity he could see the flash of axes as trees were felled for protective barricades, while men dug, sometimes with their bare hands, to throw up a fortified position, started earlier in the day by the desperately needed reinforcements.
"Buy time," Pina had said to the offworlders. "Just a turning of the glass, that's all. We need to keep them back while strengthening the line."
Buy time, goddamn them. They'd been buying time now for three days. A bloody trail of buying time that stretched back across thirty leagues of running.
Thirty leagues and five thousand dead. For Goldberg it was like something out of a history book, or perhaps some British movie like The Four Feathers, where the regiment formed a square and the native armies would swarm in, an ocean of men as endless as the sea.
But this morning the Torms had come up against something new: the power of a Japanese machine gun. The retreat had finally been slowed when the weapons, which Pina had held in reserve, were released in a desperate bid to buy time for the fortification work. This was the final step back: if they were pushed out of the pass the Torms would be able to pour onto the high plateau and overrun the province.
"Five hundred yards," Saito shouted.
The ground beneath them shook to the marching cadence of the enemy host.
Goldberg looked back over his shoulder.
"Pina, goddamn it, you better give me some fire support and keep those flying bastards off our necks."
A single shot sounded.
Goldberg looked up the line. It was Smithie. Goldberg wished he had waited a bit longer, but the man was an expert with a rifle, and besides, it was impossible to miss, so tightly packed was the advancing army.
An officer in the enemy's front line crumpled. There was a momentary pause at the shock of this new weapon, and then all hell broke loose. Forty thousand voices rose in one long scream of anger, and the Torm host broke into a trotting charge. Behind the enemy line a score of sorcerers rose, firing at the thin defensive line.
One of the sorcerers weaved forward, daring Allic's men to meet him. Walker stood up from his slit trench, aimed his Thompson, and squeezed the trigger. The sorcerer's shielding slowed several rounds, but one got through and the impact sent him staggering. He barely made it back to the protection of his lines.
The Japanese Nambu opened with a staccato burst. The team worked like experts: a burst, tap the gun on the side to move it a fraction, and then another burst―all of which were hitting home.
"Hold your fire," Goldberg screamed to his men. The Japanese were combat infantry, they knew their business. But he wanted them close, real close, for his own people.
The wall moved closer. Damn, damn they're getting too close!
White flame shot over his head, fired from half a dozen sorcerers at the same time. Goldberg ducked instinctively into the trench. The ground a dozen yards away exploded.
Another burst of flame, and then another. It seemed the ground would melt around him.
He felt a flicker of pressure. A flame bolt had nicked against his shielding, causing it to glow as the energy was absorbed.
Angry now, he flicked the safety off his M-1 carbine, sighted on the leaders of the charge, and yelled, "Fire!"
It was impossible to miss. He squeezed off round after round. Even when he missed his intended target, a man to either side would crumple and go down. So tightly packed was the charge that one round would cut down two, even three men before its power was spent.
The Nambu crew was really hammering it now, holding down for long sustained bursts.
Fire flashed overhead, rifles and now even pistols cracked, the world was engulfed, overwhelmed by the roar of battle, as twenty held against a rush of thousands. Finally they got support from Allic's longbowmen. Sheets of arrows rose heavenward, the shadow of a thousand bolts racing across the ground. The arrows would seem to hover for a moment and then come hurtling down, slashing into the enemy line with devastating impact.
The Torm line faltered, slowed, then stopped, and from out of the host a triple line of skirmishers advanced, their shorter bows, which did not have the range of Allic's weapons, at the ready. If the archers got close enough, Goldberg realized, they'd have to cut out the defensive shielding, since it was always possible that the Torms would hazard a red crystal or two.
The archers rushed forward fearlessly. As one fell, another rushed to take his place, while all the time the Nambu cut its bloody path.
To either flank Torm skirmishers hugged the high ground, working their way towards the flanks of Pina's main force. Goldberg was tempted to call for fire to pin them down, but thought better. Firing straight ahead, every shot counted and delayed the main advance.
For long minutes the battle was stalemated. The Torms could not advance any further, but were increasing their pressure on the flanks. Goldberg looked back over his shoulder, hoping for a signal to pull back, but no signal came. They were out there on their own.
The Nambu fell silent. Dodging enemy fire bolts, Goldberg rushed over to the Japanese position.
Saito looked up to him, his eyes full of despair.
"We've got one box left, and that's it," the Japanese sergeant cried. "I need to hold something in reserve."
Goldberg looked back to where the enemy hue had faltered.
They were starting to pull back!
A hoarse cheer went up from Pina's men, who were still feverishly digging in.
God let it end, Goldberg silently prayed.
But it was no rout. The center of the Torm line pulled back grimly, but the pressure on the flanks was still building as unit after unit of stingers, light infantry, and archers filtered along the clifflike walls of the pass. They did not stop to engage the delaying force but pushed on, intent on cutting off the main defenses at the top of the pass.
The pullback in the center slowed and finally stopped. So close were the Torms that Goldberg could clearly hear the shouted commands as the enemy's rage grew.
"Your men," Saito asked, looking at Goldberg. "How much ammunition?"
"Jose, whatya got left?"
"Twenty rounds."
"Welsh?"
"I'm out."
Damn him. What good is an empty Thompson?
"Smithie?"
"Twenty rounds."
"Walker?"
"Thirty rounds."
"Kraut?"
"Maybe ten rounds."
Goldberg looked back to Saito.
Even before the question started to form a roaring shout came up from the Torms. It crashed against them like thunder, washing away all other sound.
"Torm, Torm, Torm! A tu Madia!"
"Christ, they're charging!"
Goldberg turned to look. It was an irresistible tide, a crashing wall of armed men rushing forward at the run. They were only several ranks deep, while behind them, moving at a steady trot, came the rest of the army.
They could use the rest of their ammunition and knock out the charging line, but then the rest of them, shielded by flesh and blood, would push on over.
There'd be no stopping them this time.
"Let's get the hell outa here!" Go
ldberg roared.
Straightening, he pointed to the rear. The men needed no prompting. Grabbing their weapons, they scrambled out of the trenches and burst for the rear. A triumphant cry came up from the Torms. The ground beneath Goldberg's feet trembled with the weight of their advance.
Goldberg turned and leveled his carbine to fire another burst. There was a blinding flash.
He felt as if every nerve in his body had been touched with fire. He tried to scream, but no sound would form. And then his thoughts slipped away and he fell into darkness.
"Captain, I don't know if I can keep this up."
Mark glanced at Younger, who was struggling to maintain formation. For that matter, Mark wondered how he was managing to hold on. After less than four hours of exhausted sleep in a corner of Allic's conference room, Storm had roused him. Allic and the others were ready to leave.
For a moment Mark had been tempted to say the hell with it and ask her for help with the flying, but pride had stopped him. He knew that she could undoubtedly sense the exhaustion, but she had wisely refrained from offering any help.
"Not much longer, Younger. You can see the glow, there on the horizon."
They were flying now by the light of the twin moons, which bathed the world in an eerie double-shadowed light. For the last half hour they'd been able to see the shimmer on the horizon. It put him in mind of the time he had gone as a liaison with a British night bomber team and had been able to see the flames of Hamburg from two hundred miles out. All hell must be breaking loose on the edge of the escarpment.
"Not much longer." It was Storm, swinging up on his side.
He smiled grimly at her.
"Perfect time for an ambush," Storm called. "Allic wants cover up above. We're it."
"You hear that?" he shouted. "Open formation, we're going up."
In a process that still amazed him, he willed the direction, arched his back, and started up, climbing at a forty-five degree angle, the Americans and several of Allic's sorcerers following Storm's lead in line abreast.
Within minutes they were several thousand feet above the main formation. The Ventilian Hills were now below them, and as they pierced a scattered bank of clouds, Wolf Pass finally came into view.
"It looks like a bloody nightmare down there," Giorgini yelled, approaching Mark.
To Mark it looked more like the gates of hell: The pass was ablaze with light, bolts of magic fire snapping across the landscape and reflecting on the clouds about them so that it seemed they were flying through a sea of flame.
As the party drew closer they could see by the moonlight and reflected glow where advanced raiding parties of Torms had already skirted the edge of the defensive fortifications and were sweeping into the open plains beyond. Here and there freshly kindled fires marked where yet another farmstead was being torched.
"Three o'clock, fifty plus bogeys," Younger shouted, pointing. "Below us, dropping out of the clouds."
Mark could see two formations of twenty-five demons, and the first was already diving toward Allic.
"Bandits, definitely bandits," Mark cried. "Coming in three o'clock high on Allic."
Storm was already warning her brother via her communications crystal. Allic's party broke formation and wheeled straight into the attack.
"Let's get into it!" Storm shouted.
"Not yet," Mark cried. "There might be a second wave from another direction. Hold formation."
Mark had snapped the orders as if still back on the Dragon Fire. Now, be looked to see how this demigod would react to such a perfunctory command. He relaxed when be saw the look of acknowledgment in her eyes.
Good. Mark was getting sick of arguing with these people about the power of fighting in large formations instead of breaking up into small groups or individual contests once a battle was joined. If in the minutes to come Storm would stick with him, the others might start to listen when they saw the power of a coordinated strike.
He looked over towards his crew. They were holding tight formation as he expected them to.
"Twenty plus bogeys coming in," Giorgini yelled, "nine o'clock low. They're bandits, look like sorcerers."
"That's the one for us," Mark cried.
All weariness was forgotten. He timed the moment, watching as a loosely scattered formation of sorcerers swooped down on Allic's party from behind.
They must have been waiting for this, knowing that reinforcements were bound to come in. It was a good plan: send in the first wave of demons to break up the formation and divert it, then drop the sorcerers in to pick off the lone flyers one after another from behind, while the second wave of demons is held in reserve.
"Keep it tight. Stay on my wing," Mark ordered. "Going down now!"
He pulled up, winged over, and dove. In formation, the others followed.
They would have one good pass. Mark would pull this like a standard fighter sweep: no fancy maneuvers―just come in high, drop through the formation, and slam them with everything as you shot through, hitting them with enough speed that it'd be difficult for them to follow.
The formation was right below him, and Mark picked the last sorcerer in the unit. He could almost imagine a ring sight silhouetting his target. The imagery seemed to help him concentrate, and he waited until his target filled the entire circle.
Now!
A blast of fire cracked from Mark's wrist, striking his opponent between the shoulder blades. There wasn't any doubt on this hit. The flyer crumpled, his back shattered. Trailing fire, he fell.
Instantly Mark found another target and fired as he dove past the startled enemy.
The strike was nearly perfect. The others got off their shots, each striking a foe, and several enemies simply disintegrated in midair. Mark slammed out a third bolt, winging an enemy who was rolling into an evasive. The injured sorcerer tumbled end over end, disappearing into low lying clouds.
Following Mark's lead, his battle group continued to dive, weaving and turning to throw off the feeble return fire.
Mark pulled up into an Immelmann turn, ready to pounce on anything that was following. But the enemy formation had been broken by the onslaught. Their surprise thwarted, the surviving sorcerers fled back towards the southwest.
"They're in retreat," Storm shouted. "In after them!"
"Straight into their own air defenses?" Mark protested. "We don't know what they've got on the ground over there, and our surprise has been blown. Let's tighten up and keep our eyes open."
He looked towards Allic's formation, several hundred yards below, still fighting demons. He was tempted to order a dive into the battle, but felt it best to keep formation in case the Torms had more surprises waiting.
Anyhow, Allic was more than holding his own against the demons.
Thunderclaps echoed and rolled against the sides of the pass, counterpointing the shouts of the thousands below, who paused in their own game of slaughter to watch the carnage above.
The first formation of demons, shattered by the concentrated blasts of Allic and his companions, broke to either flank, their phosphorescent wings shimmering green. The second group swooped downward. While holding formation above the main fight, Mark's team fired into the advancing line. With an almost fatalistic determination the demons pushed their attack home, breaking through the line of fire. Within seconds they seemed to swarm over Allic.
A white-hot fire exploded in the middle of the fight, lighting the countryside bright as noonday.
"What the hell was that!" Mark threw an arm across his eyes.
Even above the roar of the explosion he could hear Storm's cry. For long, frightening seconds he flew blind.
Blinking, he looked down. Everything was reversed, like a photographic negative. The flare was still burning with blinding intensity, but through his squint he could see that the flaming object was dropping, tumbling away from the fight. Mark looked at Storm, and saw the terror in her eyes.
"What was it?" he screamed.
"Probably a red crysta
l hitting the defensive screen of someone powerful," she cried.
Allic! The flame was right where Allic had been. Christ, he wanted to go down, but not now. He had to hold position up here. If it was Allic, if Allic was dead, there was nothing they could do to help him now. He tried not to think of it.
Mark watched as the flare, once a living body, fell away.
"There he is." Storm's voice nearly broke with relief.
Mark followed to where she pointed and could see Allic still flying, his companions pulling in closer, a protective wall.
Mark, still blinking, scanned the sky above and to either side, wondering what the enemy might throw at them next.
But Madia's forces only pulled back to the protection of their own lines.
Storm, Mark, and the rest of his crew swung into air-support formation above Allic and followed him in as they made a low approach towards the embattled line holding the edge of the pass.
Half a dozen bolts of fire snapped out from the Torms as they came in across the field, but the shots, tossed out at extreme range, were wide. The enemy fire slackened and at last stopped as ground forces followed the lead of their superiors in the air, and grudgingly pulled back for a respite before the next battle.
Still scanning the sky above them, Mark weaved back and forth, waiting for Allic to land.
"He's on the ground," Storm called. "Let's get in."
This was the vulnerable time, Mark realized, as they went down. If anyone lurked in the cloud cover, they would hit now.
But all was quiet as they alighted near the center of the camp.
Exhaustion washed over Mark. The adrenaline rush of combat was past, and he trembled. All around him was chaos, shouting men, the cries of the wounded; and over it all the stench of fire, fear, and death.
Allic was off to one side, being led towards the tattered remains of a tent, and leaning on one of his sorcerers for support.
Together Storm and Mark pushed through the mob towards Allic, who smiled wanly at them.
"Sheena's dead," Allic said weakly. "I sensed the red crystal in his hand even as he tried to hit my shielding. There must have been a powerful warding spell on him―I should have noticed him much, much sooner." He paused.
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