The Dragons of Dunkirk

by Damon Alan

  The dwarves deserved a proper sendoff. The wood was for them.

  Irsu didn’t have to stand watch, but one of the soldiers in his circle did. When he got up, Irsu asked him about it. “You go to sleep, I will stand your watch,” he said after he figured out where the youngster was going.

  “I—”

  “Will kill more humans than me tomorrow because you’ll be rested,” Irsu interrupted. “What position is yours?”

  “White two,” the soldier replied. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I need time to think anyway.”

  Coragg laughed, looked at Irsu, then crawled toward the canvas tarp they shared as a tent. “Off with you then, you have guard duty.”

  Irsu shook his head and put on his chestplate and helmet. The pauldrons, gauntlets and greaves he left behind. Picking up his axe he considered snagging the ties for the tent Coragg was in, but then he’d need it to sleep in later.

  The weather did look like it could rain again, as it had half their time on Earth so far. As uncomfortable as it was, the rain shielded them from view and may have been responsible for them getting this far. He didn’t want to sleep in it without the waterproof canvas over his head, however.

  The night passed slowly, he spent the time developing a plan based on the information Numo had given him. A border checkpoint would have useful information. Probably maps, books, maybe a translation guide if the people on each side of the border spoke different languages. With that if he gained knowledge of one language, he’d know how to understand both.

  He’d order it all taken. They were close to their destination. The people who controlled the land they were passing into might be the ones who controlled the mountain they were seeking.

  He returned to the fire ring to see Coragg up, cooking a hunk of meat.

  “Eat,” his second commanded.

  Irsu took the meat and tore a bit off. “I’m grateful.”

  “Don’t be. Cows are big. Meat is going to waste.”

  Irsu laughed. Of course, Coragg was practical, but he knew the gruff warrior cared as well.

  “Why are you up?”

  “To make sure you eat,” Coragg replied. “And I can’t sleep.”

  “Neither can we since you keep talking,” someone said from a tent nearby.

  Presently three warriors joined them and started roasting more meat. The smell was delightful.

  “You know, it’s a miracle if we’re able to find this lost hold,” Coragg said.

  “What do you mean,” Irsu asked. “We have clear directions.”

  “Last time our people marched here the ice was a thousand dwarves thick in many spaces. To the north of us ice ran all the way to the Great Northern Sea. Hairy elephants and great bears roamed the land. The humans didn’t come to an easy place to live. They came to a hard place that has softened. The hard years made them tougher than the legends of them reveal. And made them clever as well.”

  “They barely provide any resistance,” one of the soldiers said.

  “Individually, maybe not,” Coragg replied. “But nearly thirty of ours are dead, did you expect that from the humans?”

  The soldiers shook their heads no.

  “Soon that part of our test will be over,” Irsu said. “And the next will begin.”

  “So it will.”

  “What comes next?” one of the soldiers asked. The other two punched his arm.

  “No, it’s alright, let him ask,” Irsu said after he chewed a bite. “Next we find the mountain we are looking for. In the old days we named it Nollen, but that is not what the humans call it, I’m certain. When we find it, we find the ancient stones to let us inside.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “When the time comes, you remember those words,” Irsu said. “We will pay for our entrance in blood.”

  “Oh.”

  The troops ate the rest of their meal in silence then returned to their tents.

  Coragg and Irsu did the same, no more words passed between them.

  They instinctively felt that more hardship was coming. Irsu knew both he and Coragg could feel a trial was coming, but not what the trial was. Maybe it would be on the journey. Maybe it would be inside the hold itself. If there had ever been scrolls that contained the secrets of the Lost Hold, they’d decayed away ages ago with no surviving copies.

  Irsu sighed. His worry would get him nowhere. Rest was the medicine he needed now.

  Soon Coragg’s snoring lulled Irsu into his own.

  Chapter 18 - Behind All the Lines

  May 27, 1940

  A morning smoke is a delightful thing. The rush of nicotine into the lungs filled his soul with gratification. The health effects of cigarettes were well known to the Western world. A stimulant that cleared the mind and activated the body for a day of, well, in this case, war. (author note: not true, see glossary)

  Harry flipped the spent smoke onto the ground.

  Miller played with the radio, looking for any station still live that might provide any information. A group of French children stood around watching. One of them spoke broken English, so if Miller found a French station that was still broadcasting, Harry planned to put the kid to work.

  For a smoke, probably.

  His radioman had worked out a lot of details regarding their situation over the last two days. To the east a line of the dead stretched from the Maginot line down to south of Paris, in a death zone usually at least five miles wide. Trying to get through that line wasn’t something Harry was willing to do, even if the reports were sporadic and mostly from the air. Heading west to join the main of the British Expeditionary forces was out of the question.

  On a bright note, he’d been promoted. Headquarters determined that it was unsuitable for him to be a sergeant considering the task they had for him, so they promoted him to Lieutenant. His new rank wasn’t reflected by his uniform, but that was the least of his worries.

  HQ, still based at Dunkirk with the evacuation on hold, determined that Harry, having access to a radio and a working knowledge of the enemy, would reform and organize the British troops on the east side of what was now titled The Dead Zone.

  Harry saw several problems with that. First, he had a very limited working knowledge of any enemy. He knew that to kill the dead they had to be shot in the head, which was the limit of his intel. Or maybe they could be stabbed. He wasn’t sure. Secondly, he hadn’t seen a living British soldier, or civilian for that matter, since the camp at Arras had been overrun and sacked by the risen soldiers of WWI. Many of which had probably been British, so there was that. The dead Brits didn’t seem interested in being reformed or reorganized, other than at the biological level.

  Thirdly, he was really only interested in avoiding contact with the Germans, the short men, or the dead until he could get far enough south to turn westward toward the coast. But if he had to, he’d go to the Mediterranean and steal a boat to get his men home.

  He was, quite honestly, getting desperate.

  Food stocks were what they could find in abandoned houses, but those supply sources were becoming less common as they moved south. A lot of French civilians simply didn’t believe the story about the dead, even if Miller played it for them on the radio.

  It was, Harry admitted, something that had to be seen with one’s own eyes. It also annoyed him that old fat French men looked at him and his men as if they were cowards. And because of that, often deny the Brits any aid.

  “I’m about to turn to robbery,” Harry said to Timothy.

  “Robbery?”

  “Yes. In the days of the knights, Miller informed me, it was expected that friendly or enemy peasants would provide food for the nobility. Shelter and supplies too, if need be. Often such sustenance would simply be taken by force.”

  “We’re the farthest things from nobles, Harry. You’re a bloody sheep farmer, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Nothing ignoble about that occupation,” Harry replied indignantly.

  “No, but
you’re not a nobleman. Those times are gone anyway.”

  “Do you like eating?” Harry asked.

  “I do.”

  “Then we’re taking a few of those chickens over there for our pots. Protocol be damned.”

  “Harry!”

  His mind was set. He marched across the street to an occupied house, opened the gate to a picket fence, and walked into the garden. He strode straight to the coop, then opened the door to drag out a few hens.

  What happened next made lights flash behind his eyes. How he hadn’t seen the woman he wasn’t sure, maybe he was simply focused on the task of stealing, so alien it was to his character. But something struck him on the back of the head from behind, much to his surprise.

  He turned around to see a young woman, probably in her mid-20s, glaring at him while holding a shovel.

  She berated him in French. Or at least he assumed that’s what she was doing.

  “I can forgive you for hitting me, miss, but I’m taking a few of these chickens.” He turned around to open the coop door again.

  WHACK!

  This time she took him to his knees, and then hit him again. Over on his side he went. She was yelling at him in a tone that wasn’t friendly at all, and while he couldn’t blame her, he had no idea what she was saying. His head hurt like she’d hit him with a shotgun.

  He could still see, his men were laughing as they burst into the yard, intervening between his assailant and his body. She waved the shovel at Timothy, who approached her with his hands up.

  Even the kids watching Miller came running over.

  “Vous ne volerez pas mes poulets, ils sont tout ce qu'il me reste!” she yelled.

  “She say you can not steal her chickens, she has nothing else,” the translating boy spat out.

  “Sounds like she’s got your number, Harry,” Timothy said. “We’ll make it another day without if we have to.”

  Harry stood up, a bit wobbly. “Tell her we’re sorry, we haven’t eaten in a day or so, and she can’t stay here anyway.”

  The kid told her.

  “Pourquoi je ne peux pas rester ici?”

  “Why can she not stay here?”

  “The dead are coming,” Harry said, his voice clearly indicating his desire not to fight the woman or her shovel.

  “Vous êtes l'homme fou qui parle des morts dont les vieux rient?”

  “That’s me,” Harry admitted after translation. “I’m the crazy guy all the old men are laughing at.”

  She spoke to the boy a moment, who then looked at Harry and wagged his finger. “No chicken, but you wait here.”

  The young woman ran inside and came out with a sack.

  She handed it to Timothy, who thanked her.

  “What is it?” Harry asked.

  Tim looked in the bag. “Beets.”

  He hated beets. But this was no time to be picky.

  “We’ll be going ma’am, thank you.” He looked at the boy. “Tell her I said that.”

  When they turned around, Timothy dropped the bag on the ground. The woman cursed, Harry assumed, then ran inside her house.

  Thirty to forty of the red armored dwarves were in the street, staring at Harry’s squad with their crossbows raised.

  “Ingrith don makul debrithi?” one said, stepping forward. The talkative one had a gold braid on his shoulder plate, so probably a leader.

  Harry stepped forward as well, toward the picket gate. “No idea what you’re saying mate, but you got us dead to rights. I’d rightly appreciate it if you didn’t murder us.”

  Goldie listened as another short person, one dressed in a bath robe, spoke.

  Bath Robe was wrapped in clothing much like a Moor woman. From head to toe. If Robes didn’t have a beard, Harry would be sure it was Goldie’s ball and chain.

  Robes waved his fingers about and sang a little song.

  “We have no intention of murdering anyone,” Bath Robe said in perfect English after the song and finger dance.

  Harry’s hands fell to his sides in shock. He rushed toward the fence, causing the crossbow soldiers to raise their weapons as a precaution. Harry put his hands back up.

  “You speak my language!” Harry said excitedly. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “For the next several minutes at least,” Robes confided. “After that I’ll need a bit of time to speak to you again.”

  Harry wasn’t going to ask what that was about. With all the strange happenings, Robes was probably using magic.

  “If you’re not here to kill our people, why are you here?” Harry asked.

  “To send you through the gate,” Robes said.

  By the mannerism and voice, not to mention the projections on the front of Robe’s clothing, Harry was starting to think he was speaking to a female after all. “Through the gate? That thing over Rotterdam? Not bloody likely.”

  “You’ll go soon enough,” she assured him, and he decided it was a she after all, “because it will be lonely when everyone you know goes to the other side and you are without a clan.”

  “What’s on the other side?” Timothy asked from behind him.

  “A world much like this one. Trust me, you belong there, not here,” Robes said, sounding surprisingly friendly.

  “And who then will be here?” Harry asked. “We like this place just fine.”

  “We won’t make you go. But if you resist, eventually something much uglier than us will make you go. Or just kill you,” Robes advised him.

  “A threat?”

  “A warning. There are many factions coming through to this world. Ours has a strict code of conduct that means we will not force you to go through. But we will ask. And warn you that if others find you, it may not be so polite of a meeting.”

  “We met your kind who wore black armor,” Tim mentioned.

  “Another clan. Black is the color of night, a warning. Mordain’s evil is unleashed at night,” Robes said.

  “Mordain?” Harry asked. “Is that your leader?”

  “One of our gods,” Robes answered. “Knowing our gods will do you no good, they are on our side.”

  “Avoid black. Red is a fair lot. What other colors?” Harry asked.

  “Silver is entelgri makcht destimarkith gu nop—” She stopped when the look on Harry’s face changed to puzzlement. Whatever gave her the ability to understand him, it was over. She didn’t know English after all.

  Goldie ordered his men to take the chickens in the coop. One picked up the bag of beets and laughed at Timothy on the way past.

  “Well dammit,” Tim said. “I like beets.”

  Harry heard a few of the soldiers behind him grow restless and jingle their gear. “Let them go, boys, we’re lucky to have our skins,” he ordered.

  The French woman came rushing out to stop the short men, but they pushed her aside. She lost her balance and the shovel flew loose from her hands.

  The point of it struck Harry in the ribs, bringing tears of pain to his eyes.

  “Bad luck, mate,” Timothy said, comforting him.

  As he recovered, Harry was embarrassed that he could do nothing to help the French woman.

  Suddenly she and Harry were on the same team, the same side of this conflict. The side of humanity. This despite wishing to steal two of her chickens himself but moments before. At least he’d planned to just take two. The strangers took them all, probably twenty, wringing their necks and killing them on the spot. They took a dozen or more eggs as well.

  Whoever the red company was, they weren’t hostile, at least not overtly. But they were willing to leave the people here without food stocks. They stole all the chickens on the street, as well as a few cats and a goat as if it was something they were entitled to.

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Tim,” Harry explained. “See how they just expected the food? We need to start just expecting the food.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Tim said.

  The woman rushed back into her house, coming back out a few minutes later
while Miller looked to see if the short men missed any of the eggs.

  “Vous n'avez pas pris assez? C'est bien, vous allez me prendre au sud avec vous. Je n'ai plus rien, vous les sales Britanniques.”

  The kid translator spoke to them for her. “She say you are dirty British men, and she is wondering if you have taken enough from her. You will take her south, she has nothing here now.”

  Harry shrugged. “We didn’t actually take anything from her,” he responded, holding his head. His fingertips had traces of blood on them when he looked. She’d hit him but good.

  She pursed her lips and walked over to the Matador, climbed up on the side rail and opened the door. She turned toward Harry as if he was remiss in not helping her inside.

  Harry ran toward her. “Alright, you can come. But you have to ride in back.”

  “Vous devez monter à l'arrière,” the kid told her.

  She huffed, stepped down from the cab, and walked around to the rear gate where she again waited for help up.

  Sighing, Harry surrendered. Crazy times indeed. “Get her up there, boys, and hands off otherwise. We’re British soldiers, we behave.”

  “Unless we’re hungry,” Wilkes said. “Then we steal chickens.”

  “Or just take a shovel upside the head,” Timothy laughed.

  “Drive,” Harry ordered. “I’m still hungry, and not in the mood.”

  The rest of the soldiers, despite their grumbling stomachs, laughed. Harry could sense their relief at meeting an enemy that didn’t just try to kill them on sight and might not be an enemy at all.

  “Head east when you can, Wilkes. I don’t care to see the red soldiers again. We’ll head south tomorrow and find a place to drop our stowaway.”

  His stomach grumbled.

  “Dammit, Wilkes. I wanted chicken soup.”

  Wilkes grinned. “Next town, Lieutenant.” He gave Harry a thumbs up. “You can rob them blind for all I care.”

  Somehow it just sounded pathetic if someone else said the idea.

  “We need a map,” Harry said. “We have to stick to the abandoned areas if we’re going to find food without looking like arses or fools.”