Combatant: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Kacy Chronicles Book 3)

by Anderle, Michael

"He has?"

  "Sure, every mid-morning for the last four days, he's come to pick me up. Marvelous." Allan was oozing the excitement of a little kid on Christmas morning. "Balroc, Toth, myself, and Eohne—–" he elbowed Jordan conspiratorially, "she's always there, won't let me go anywhere without her—–meet to discuss strategies of aerial combat." Allan crossed his arms and rocked forward on his toes. "I knew all that study would one day come in handy. Bats and birds are a far cry from bi-planes and Republic bombers, but" he gave a jovial shrug, "who am I to complain?"

  Jordan felt dizzy. She turned to Sol. "Did you know this was happening?"

  "Hadn't a clue." Sol looked as mystified as Jordan felt.

  "How come you didn't tell us in the evening when we got home?"

  "Because," Allan spread his hands, looking as though the answer should be obvious. "You've had your hands full with training. I didn't want to distract you or make you worry."

  "I wouldn't have worried." Jordan bit her lip.

  Yes, she would have. If she had known her father was getting entangled in the harpy war, she would most definitely have worried.

  She gazed at her father, observing how his eyes twinkled in the firelight. He was watching Arth make last-minute preparations with the gun.

  How is it he can seem so happy? He hadn't once mentioned going home to Virginia; he hadn't even pushed Jordan to sit down and discuss their bizarre circumstance. Either there simply hadn't been time and it wasn't a priority, or he'd been avoiding it for some reason.

  Jordan wondered if Eohne was slipping Allan some Elven tea to help him cope with the shock of Oriceran and a winged daughter.

  "Ah, she's loading. I'd best go help." Allan planted a kiss on Jordan's cheek and left her and Sol standing there with their feet wedged in the sand, feeling a bit dazed.

  "I guess the gun was a good idea." Sol slipped an arm around Jordan's waist.

  A shout drew their attention to Arth, who was calling instructions to some invisible ear across the water.

  Torches out in the ocean blazed to light.

  "Oh my…" Jordan breathed.

  A long, low island appeared off the coast. Nychts moved in the shadows, lighting torches. With every blazing light, the target became clearer until a mound of dirt on a platform appeared.

  Tacked into the dirt wall was thick fabric decorated with life-sized, cartoonish paintings of harpies; they had been done in a hurry, and by someone with a sense of humor. The harpy drawings had bulging, googly eyes and tongues that flopped out. One of them was wearing a crude bra.

  A swell of laughter drifted up from the crowd, and Jordan and Sol found themselves joining in. Somehow, even in the face of a deadly threat—–and certain death for some—–joviality could be found among the Strix.

  The Nychts on the platform waved, and some of them even took a bow in response to the laughter and applause. They spread their wings and took to the dark skies, making their way back to the beach.

  "They've never seen anything like this," Sol whispered in Jordan's ear. "Look at their faces."

  Jordan scanned the crowd. Mostly Nychts, but some Arpaks, had come together to watch this ceremonial firing. They chewed their lips, shuffled restlessly, and rarely took their eyes from the small engineer behind the weapon.

  Arth faced the crowd. She had round goggles on her head, and she pulled them down over her eyes as a signal.

  It was time.

  The crowd settled into a tense silence.

  Arth turned to Allan, and there was a buzz of words between them. Allan stepped back, and Arth grasped the trigger of the Lewis prototype.

  A loud CLACK-CLACK made everyone jump and gasp. The effect was so comical that Jordan burst out laughing. Her laugh was echoed with a titter of nervous chuckles. Silence descended again as Arth, who had jumped as well, swooped forward again, her hands on the trigger.

  This time, the CLACK-CLACK didn't cease as Arth fired steadily for a full ten seconds. She swept the barrel from one side of the target to the other, and back again, tearing up the drawings with a hail of bullets. When she stopped, silence rang. The drawing of the harpy in the bra was the only one left hanging, and it was in tatters. As the crowd watched, the drawing flopped forward and peeled away from the sod wall, sliding into the water.

  The Strix crowd exploded in a cheer. Howls and yips accompanied hands whacking sharply together. The demonstration had lasted mere moments, but it had been enough to inspire them.

  Allan came jogging across the sand toward Sol and Jordan.

  "It was over so fast!" Jordan said.

  Allan nodded. "We can't waste bullets."

  The crowd dispersed, and the atmosphere of celebration dissolved into one of determination and productivity.

  "Or time," Sol observed. In moments, the beach was cleared, with everyone knowing exactly where they were headed and what they needed to do.

  Jordan waved to Arth, hoping for a chat with the engineer, but she was deep in conversation with Toth, Caje, and a cluster of Nychts. Arth spared the Arpak a grin, but bent back to the conversation, her face intense.

  "I have a message for the two of you from Toth," Allan said.

  "What's that?"

  "He says go to bed."

  "Bossy-pants. What about you? It's late, aren't you coming home?"

  "Caje and Toth will bring Eohne and me home in a little while. I want to discuss a few things with Arth before I crash for the night. We have to discuss where to mount the first of the guns: obviously on the northwest side, but where exactly will they be the most effective? I'm told the last attack had, what,” Allan cocked his head, "Forty some-odd harpies?"

  Sol nodded. "About that."

  "Arth tells me that in a matter of three days, we can have twenty guns. Positioning will be critical, and ammunition stores, of course. Lots to do."

  "That's great, Dad." Jordan's lips felt numb. Was this crazy Lewis gun strategy actually going to work then? Looking back, it seemed like such a wild idea, destined to fail. Too much could go wrong. But somehow, it appeared to be going right.

  Allan gave Jordan a hug. He drew back and pinched her cheek. "Have a shower before you go to bed, Jordy. You smell like an old shoe."

  Jordan watched her father cross the sand toward his cohorts. In moments, he was in the heart of the conversation and clearly loving every moment.

  •••

  Jordan and Sol leaned into their training. Allan and Eohne worked with Arth and a team handpicked by Toth to learn how to man the Lewis guns. Communication broke down between groups as their ranks thinned, and it was all Caje could do to keep the Strix focused on hand-to-hand combat. A full two dozen of their number had been carved away to focus on guns, and the ones who were not chosen were disappointed and voraciously curious about the new weapons.

  Sol and Chayla had been paired by Caje, while Jordan had joined a pair of Nychts who had come up from Lower Rodania. A feeling of anxiety had begun to grow in Jordan's gut as the days flew by. She felt like a cog in a huge wheel, working in a mechanical system she couldn't see. She was learning how it felt to be a soldier––a single part of a larger body, all driving for the same purpose.

  She grappled for faith and trust that Toth, Balroc, and her father knew what they were doing. But how could they? Like Caje had said, the harpies were unpredictable. What else could Rodania do? And all the while, King Konig remained silent. He was ill, that was clear, but Sol had told Jordan that according to Juer, the king was still capable of communication and rational thought, though he never addressed the accusations flung his way that day after the big attack. He'd sent food to the combatants, but made no appearance.

  The celebratory feeling of the evening they'd fired the first-prototype dwindled as the days passed. Over the lunch hours, debate took place between the combatants. The harpies hadn't been seen for weeks, so what were they training for?

  Strix who answered the call from Rodania were the ones who questioned the most, while the Nychts of The Conca argued tha
t being ready to face any threat at any time was the point of an army.

  This bickering was what Caje, Toth, and Arth flew into one day, each with scrolls tucked under their arms. Caje and Toth listened for a moment, to get the flavor of what was being said.

  Caje's expression grew dark and he finally lost his patience.

  "This is what soldiers do!" he bellowed to the crowd of now silent warriors. Nychts from The Conca looked smug, while Strix from Rodania stood with their eyes downcast, ashamed. "You need to change your mindset," he barked. "We are not training for a fixed point in the future, a single event which needs to be faced and then forgotten. You think you can go back to your soft lives? Don't be foolish. An army is always ready. Forget the last thousand years of laziness and arrogance," yelled Caje, spittle flying from his reddened face. "Get it through your thick skulls. The Elven magic is broken." Caje bellowed instruction at the combatants, sending one group over to Toth, another group to Arth, and calling another to himself.

  "All of you, get close." He unrolled the large parchment as the Strix clustered in around him. On the parchment was a drawing of three circles: a small one, a medium one, and a large one. They'd been labelled as Upper, Middle and Lower Rodania. A total of eighteen red 'X's had been painted at various positions on each island, concentrated on the northwest sides.

  "Listen up, you maggots," barked Caje, still angry about the doubtful bickering. "Here's where the guns have been placed. We're manufacturing bullets like Rodanian lives depend on them, which they do. Every day, magazines—–that's the metal thing shaped like a big cookie that holds the bullets—–are getting sent up to the machine gun nests."

  Jordan squeezed closer to Caje, flesh and feathers tight on all sides. She pushed an errant Nycht dewclaw out of her face and crouched over the map. Her stomach was jumping with hope. This was what they needed. The Strix army had been divided for too long, with one arm not knowing what the other was up to, and sowing seeds of doubt. It was finally time for the two arms to work together.

  Already, Jordan felt more hope than she had five minutes before.

  Beyond the group around Caje, clusters of combatants hid the forms of Toth and Arth, each delivering a similar message to their warriors.

  "As you've heard, we've got a consultant from Earth working with us on how to marry this cutting-edge technology with our ancient hand-to-hand aerial combat.

  Jordan's mouth quirked. The Lewis guns were hardly 'cutting-edge' technology, but it sure sounded good. A few eyes darted to Jordan and then back to the map; some of them knew that the consultant Caje was speaking of had some relationship to her. The looks were a little more awed than she was comfortable with, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  "In the event of a harpy attack, the guns go first. No one," Caje raised his voice, "and I mean no one, is to take to the skies while these weapons are firing. They are our first-line of defense. Best-case scenario, we pick off the wretched hag-birds using only guns, or, they get a taste of our new toys and never come back. But we're not here to prepare for best-case scenario; we're here to prepare for the worst."

  The battle strategy went on for another hour, and the atmosphere changed. It became hopeful, empowered, focused. They had a plan, and everyone was clear on which squadron they'd been assigned to, and how the guns played into the larger defense.

  It was a shame it didn't work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jordan was snugged up against Sol's chest, cradled by the spoon shape his body made, when an unpleasant tingling sensation in her pelvis woke her. Her ears popped, and she felt Sol's body jerk awake. She held her breath, hoping that she'd only been dreaming.

  Both Arpaks's bodies went tense and still, like sprung wires. The vibration in their bones repeated itself. They bolted to their feet in a flurry of blankets and feathers. Jordan's heart went from a sleepy crawl to an adrenalin-fueled sprint.

  "What's happening?" Allan croaked from the far side of the bed.

  The first tinges of a pink dawn laced the underside of cloud-filled sky.

  Eohne, whom Allan had insisted should take the bed, was on her feet in a moment, her dark hair a tangled mass. "Harpies," she whispered, her face drawn in the dim light. She left the room like she was made of vapor, heading for the peg where her armor hung.

  Sol and Jordan bolted about the room, all traces of dreams and cuddly sleepiness long-gone. They didn't speak, only yanked on armor, tightened laces, strapped on weapons. All the while, the ear-popping and pelvis-jarring warning looped on repeat, annoyingly, apocalyptically.

  Jordan finished her preparations and turned to her father, finding his mattress empty and blankets scattered. "Dad?"

  "I'm here, Jordy," his voice came from the kitchen, where he and Eohne were finishing their own preparations. A rifle lay across the kitchen island, and Jordan paled when she saw it.

  "Where did you get that?"

  "Arth gave it to me."

  "Jordan," Sol called from the terrace. "Now!"

  "You are not going to fight. You're not going anywhere," Jordan snapped, suddenly irrational with fear. She'd just gotten her father back; there was no way she was going to lose him again. It would kill her.

  "Jordan," Sol barked from the terrace. The ear popping continued. Whoever was blowing the alarm didn't know when to quit. The buzzing in Jordan's hips felt like an angry hornets’ nest, and was setting her teeth on edge.

  "This apartment is not safe, we already know that," Eohne said with an irritating calm. "I'll be with him. I won't leave his side."

  With a snarl of frustration, Jordan threw her arms around her father. She backed away, hearing Sol's voice growing more insistent behind her.

  "You stay alive," she roared at her father as she made for the terrace. "You hear me?"

  Allan followed Jordan out and watched the two Arpaks take off into the early morning mist, answering the call. He spoke too late for her to hear. "You too, Jordy."

  Strix warriors winged their way through the skies, making a beeline to whatever parapet or tower they had been assigned. Jordan and Sol were not manning the same station; they were not even in the same squadron. They had time only for a sobering glance before breaking apart. Jordan headed to the top of a tower that had been modified to support a machine gun nest with room for eight Strix behind it. Sol disappeared toward a tower west of hers.

  Jordan landed on the stones, closed up her wings, and settled in behind the gun with the rest of her squadron, a mix of Nychts and Arpaks. Caje was there. He gave Jordan a nod as someone handed her a set of handmade earmuffs that smelled faintly like sheep. She secured the muffs over her ears and faced the dawn, eyes narrowed for dark shapes, mind ready to count enemy wings. Gray clouds laid a film over the horizon, beyond which nothing could be seen.

  A few drops of rain struck Jordan in the face, and she heard a Nycht soldier suppress a groan. She looked up. The sky was heavy with cloud cover, but it was light in color, not dark.

  "It won't come to that," she assured her comrade.

  "How do you know?" came the response, muffled by her ear covering.

  "Those aren't rainclouds, the sun will burn them off. You'll see."

  The other Nycht grunted. The last thing a Nycht wanted was wet weather; it made for wet wings.

  "We'll be home before lunch, Asil," offered a more optimistic comrade.

  "Don't overestimate the guns," Jordan snapped. At least the wretched vibrations had stopped, and that awful popping in her ears. "That would be a mistake."

  Caje stood behind the gunner, silent.

  A hush fell over Rodania. For a breath, it seemed like any other quiet morning. Birds chirped, and a light breeze ruffled the hair and feathers of the waiting combatants.

  When the shadows appeared, there was an intake of breath. They materialized like ghosts from a heavy fog. Jordan gave up any hope of counting the enemy; the approaching mass writhed like a cluster of worms, each harpy indistinguishable from the rest, so little was the
space between them. This was not a dozen harpies—–this was not even two dozen. There were hundreds of them. Maybe even a thousand.

  The silence grew pregnant with dread as every eye took in the approaching horde. The harpies were silent––no screams or awful cries heralded this attack. The only sound was huge wings beating at the air, barely audible through the combatants’ earmuffs, sounding not unlike waves crashing onto a rocky beach.

  As the horde closed in, Jordan's keen eyes began to pick out distinct shapes. Black webbed wings, pinpricks of scarlet, horned heads. They seemed like extensions of a single shadowy abomination, moving on a crash course with Rodania.

  Jordan's mouth was suddenly without any saliva.

  The small but fierce Rodanian army was not ready for this. Not even close. This was death approaching.

  Her thoughts flew to Sol, to her father, to Eohne, to Blue, and with a hot, racing anger, even to Jaclyn. Only the day before, Jordan had still been hoping to see Blue's shape in the sky over Rodania, coming home to her. But in the face of what was coming, she was now glad her reptilian friend was not here. Fierce though he can be, how could he survive this? How can any of us?

  She took a breath and wrested her mind into place, shoving thoughts of her loved ones aside. The only thing she could do now was focus on not turning tail. She knew that if so much as a single combatant from her small group turned and dove from the tower, flapping to the southeast as fast as they could, she would follow.

  Her fingers and lips trembled, and she pressed her mouth shut and uttered a prayer. Does everyone else feel like their resolve is made of glass?

  She glanced at Caje's huge back. He had not moved, had not reacted to the incredible sight of the deadly numbers headed their way. Respect for the Nycht made Jordan stand a little straighter, feel a little stronger. Everyone dealt with the straining seconds in a different way; some fidgeting incessantly over a minor lace or fastening, others holding so rigidly still that they seemed made of wax. Others still leaned forward and stared at the approaching enemy as though willing them to close the distance faster and get it over with.