by M. C. Planck
There wasn’t any particular danger that the fire would spread to the jungle. It barely consumed the village, and even that required a little help from Gregor’s men.
The next day gave Christopher a reason to stop feeling sorry for the ulvenmen. The cavalry blundered upon a larger camp, and a short but savage battle ensued. The opening shot was the squeal of a horse, crippled in an ugly deadfall trap. While the men were still trying to help the animal, a dozen ulvenmen charged out of the swamp and fell on them with axes.
The ulvenmen were incredible. They cut through the men like firewood, chain mail shrieking under their blows. The men died almost soundlessly; usually, they didn’t have a chance to even scream. A single blow was typically enough to reduce a man to dying meat. The ulvenmen were not so fragile. Christopher saw one take three shots from a carbine before it stopped moving. He realized that the previous ambush had been ineffective because the ulvenmen had started with arrows and had been prepared to flee. These ulvenmen, however, charged like axe-wielding rhinoceroses on fire, and Christopher’s men fought to retreat this time.
The enemy advance broke on Christopher’s knot of rank. He had time for one spell, and it was his new favorite, the one that made him as strong as Cannan. Between that, his horse, and his tael-fed vitality, he faced the beasts on more than equal terms. When the dog-men charged, snarling and chasing his fleeing cavalry, he, Gregor, and Cannan charged them back. Christopher ran one through, the blade sliding all the way up to the hilt. The ulvenman dropped his weapons and grappled with Christopher, biting, clawing, and climbing up onto the horse with him. Christopher twisted his blade inside the ulvenman’s ribs, widening the hole until blood gushed out like a river. Then he kicked the thing off the end of his sword, and stood in the saddle to chop down at the next foe.
There wasn’t one. The cavalry had reloaded, switching out their spare cylinders, and come back to save him. D’Kan was there, running from corpse to corpse on foot while his horse stood waiting, but then he looked over his shoulder and shook his head.
“The rest come. We must flee.”
So they did, thundering away as fast as they could through the tangled brush. After a thousand yards they pulled up, and Disa healed those who were still alive. They had five dead men in the saddle, whose horses had stayed with the herd. Three more corpses were borne by cavalry men plucky enough to grab their dead comrades. D’Kan, ever practical, had five fingers in a sack.
Out of the patrol, only one was unaccounted for. Christopher felt a strange flutter in his stomach, a welter of grief and fear. The missing man was not just dead, he was gone forever. D’Kan assured him without mercy that the monsters would feast on the body tonight. When Christopher glanced speculatively back toward the camp, Gregor shook his head.
“No,” he said with authority, and the troop turned toward home.
“We need bigger guns,” Christopher complained. He was sitting close to the fire, trying to dry out. The stench of the ulvenman’s blood had compelled him to dump a bucket of water over his head as soon as they had entered the fort.
“We have them,” Karl answered. And they had. The camp was stuffed with cannons, both the little ones and the big five-inch Napoleons. The problem lay only in getting the guns to the enemy.
“We need more men,” Gregor fretted. “Half the men must defend the fort, and we’ve already lost two score left behind as garrisons at our previous two forts. We lose strength with every step we take into this damn swamp.”
They’d lost a quarter of their cavalry, too, in a single battle. The worst of it was that D’Kan claimed they faced a single tribe of ulvenmen. No more than a hundred, he swore, and probably only one or two of significant rank. Christopher was mystified how he could have thought killing ulvenmen was easy.
“We need better armor,” Cannan said. His mail was rent in a dozen places, and Christopher’s was no better.
“You need more carbines,” D’Kan said. He was carrying one now, borrowed from one of the dead men. “Or a bigger wheel-thingy. If they could hold ten shots they’d be twice as valuable as holding six.”
“We can’t make the cylinder larger. The weight would be unbearable,” Christopher explained, shaking his head. What they needed was magazine-fed semi-automatics. Or belt-fed machine guns. When the British had faced overwhelming armies of fearless warriors with spears, they had at least been only human.
“All we need is deliberation and caution,” Karl said. “The ulvenmen thrive in the heat of battle. Force their pace to a walk and they will break apart. Tomorrow we will advance on foot, with cannon, and see how they like it.”
The mood of the column of marching men was grim. Word had gotten around about the missing soldier. Half the men were scared of permanently dying, the adventure no longer a lark; the other half cast dark glances at those who had deserted their fellows in the field. The phrase “never leave a man behind” had taken on new meaning for Christopher. It was twice as important to his army’s morale as it was to the US Marines.
The upshot of it was that the cavalry walked today, leaving their horses to rest in the fort. Still out in front of the column, they struggled through the brush they had bounded over on horseback. Their armor weighed them down, but no more than the cannons the infantry dragged through the same miserable scrub. Only Christopher’s party was mounted. Only they would be able to retreat if everything went wrong.
Dismounting the cavalry didn’t seem like a tactically sound decision to Christopher. He would have rescinded it, except he hadn’t given the order in the first place. He wasn’t really sure who had. It just seemed to happen, of its own accord, a spontaneous act of penance. Gregor dismissed his concerns, saying that the men had made the necessary choice. Christopher would have discussed it with Torme and Karl, but he lost trust in their dispassionate objectivity when he saw them flipping a coin to see who would stay to defend the fort and who would advance with the attack. Apparently Karl won.
It took them half the day to make the three miles to the ulvenman camp. This was worrying, since they wanted to be back in the fort before nightfall, but the army would move faster on the way home. They wouldn’t be carrying so many tons of ammunition.
Nor would they be so cautious. D’Kan had issued poles for probing suspicious ground. The ulvenmen made crude traps, but they were deadly nonetheless. The men in the front soundly thrashed every bush they encountered.
“Let us hope they apply equal energy to thrashing ulvenmen,” Cannan said. Then he galloped forward and led for half a mile, displaying a singular unconcern for danger. Only when D’Kan threw up his hand and signaled that they were getting close did Cannan return to Christopher’s side.
Now they were in the thick of it. The column spread out, forming a fat line, and they pushed the cannons with muzzles pointing forward instead of pulling them backward, despite the extra effort. The first rifle shot startled Christopher, which startled Royal, which caused Balance to prick up his ears and snort. But there wasn’t a second one; somebody had just been trigger-happy.
“No complaints about noise now, Ser D’Kan?” Gregor grinned at the young Ranger, who held his carbine as if he intended to use it. The bow stayed in its scabbard in the saddle.
“Everything with ears already knows we’re here.” D’Kan had fallen back and attached himself to Christopher’s group once their final destination was no longer in doubt.
“Well then,” Lalania said. “Then you won’t mind if I sing.” She unwrapped her lyre from its protective sack and touched the strings.
It wasn’t the unearthly music she had played before, but the effect seemed no less magical. The insanity of what they were doing, combined with the beauty of her voice and the lightness of her music, mixed together to produce a perverse pride in doing hard, stupid, scary things. Christopher could see his men perking up, shoulders squaring and necks stiffening, and a little more deftness to their step. Her song reached out across the swamp, clear and distinct despite the overhanging vegetatio
n.
“Is that the effect of the new harp?” Christopher whispered to Gregor.
“No,” the knight said. “She could always do that. You just never let her.”
“Because it’s stupidly dangerous,” Cannan said. “It is not enough that everyone knows we are here; now the enemy knows exactly where your magic lies. The woman has painted a target on us a mile wide, and their ranks will strike unerringly.”
“Do you despair?” D’Kan said. He seemed to needle Cannan by reflex these days.
“Not at all,” Cannan replied. “At least this way I’ll get to kill more than one ulvenman.”
Only a few minutes later Lalania’s song was joined by a percussion section, though it kept no sensible beat. Gunfire erupted from the left wing in spurts and bursts, one or two shots followed by a thunder of blasts, punctuated by ever-briefer silences. The men on that flank began to advance faster, reinforcing the armored cavalry scouts.
“Caution,” Gregor bawled at the center. “Advance with caution.” To D’Kan he said, “Get the right wing in motion,” and the Ranger galloped into the brush to relay his orders. Gregor was trying to set up a crescent of fire, with the ulvenmen at the center.
Christopher started casting spells. The strength spell that made him a hero like Cannan made Cannan a superhero. Gregor didn’t say no to it, either. Unfortunately, he could only cast a few of them each day. If only he could industrialize the production of magic, he wouldn’t need guns. But that couldn’t be done: better than him had tried and failed, as the books in the College’s library had made clear.
He could hear a rising wave of sound from the left, like a swelling bubble. Suddenly a grenade exploded, and the bubble burst, resolving into the shouts of men and the barking of dogs, the clash of steel on steel. Under, over, and woven through was the sound of gunfire. Christopher found it comforting. He didn’t need to worry as long as there were still rifles firing.
Then the boom of cannon. Christopher’s horse stopped moving forward, and he realized it was because the men ahead of him had stopped. Three men pushed a small cannon past him, joining the wall that had formed in front. This was Karl’s plan: to stand and fire when they spotted foes, and only advance when the field was empty. It was a good plan, as long as the ammunition held out.
Except for the smoke. The jungle was rapidly being suffused with white clouds. This reduced the effective range of the guns. On the other hand, it effectively hid the men, so the ulvenmen charged around blindly instead of in a targeted mass. Now there was fire up and down the line, and Christopher could no longer tell what was going on. Disa slid from her saddle to attend to a sudden incoming stream of men limping, crawling, and being carried on stretchers. Lalania shouted herself hoarse, her music still uplifting in the snatches you could hear of it. Something up ahead thrashed the trees like wind.
“Hold the center,” Gregor bawled at Christopher. “Ser, with me,” he called to Cannan, spurring his horse forward, and Cannan followed with only a single backward glance. They disappeared into the smoking jungle.
Christopher didn’t know what to do. He had a terrible moment when he saw one of the young priestesses pass under Disa’s care, but the girl leapt back to her feet after being healed and dashed off again. Lalania set aside her lyre and drew her sword, unable to compete with the roar of battle. Christopher drew his own, and waited.
The wave peaked, and then waned. The tattoo of gunfire dropped off, returning to single recognizable shots. Gregor and Cannan came trotting back, covered in blood, their chain mail rent into sieves.
Disa scrambled up, but Gregor waved her away. “It’s not mine,” Gregor said. “See to the men.”
Cannan was carrying something bloody. An ulvenman’s head.
“We got their leader,” Gregor said. “Remember those dinosaur riders? There was only one. He must have been the chief. Fought like a dog, he did.”
“And died like one,” Cannan growled. “Drain this skull now, Christopher. It will be half your winnings from the battle.”
Christopher looked into Cannan’s face, concerned over the tone of that comment. Cannan looked back defiantly for a moment, and then looked away.
“Miracles are expensive,” Cannan said, his voice pitched low enough that only Christopher could hear his excuse. But then, only Christopher was listening for one.
D’Kan came back for more orders.
“Let the smoke clear. Then advance with caution on all fronts.” Gregor turned to Christopher. “Any excitement here?”
Two exhausted men dumped a stretcher at Disa’s feet. The man in it was unmoving except for the blood pumping out of him. “I am done,” Disa said, tears in her eyes. “I have nothing left.” She looked up at Gregor hopefully.
“Oh, right,” Gregor said. “Healing. I forgot about that. I used everything in the fight with the chief.”
Christopher slid from the saddle and knelt at the soldier’s side, converting one of his battle spells into healing.
“Only the usual,” he told Gregor.
He spent the rest of the battle riding up and down the lines, looking for those too injured to seek out healing. Most of them seemed to be friendly fire casualties. The cannons had thrown out grapeshot without much regard for their fellow men. Those were the lucky ones: they were only wounded. The victims of the ulvenmen tended to be dead.
In half an hour it was over, the army half encircling the now-deserted ulvenman camp. Shortly after the death of their leader the remaining ulvenmen had begun fleeing.
“Now we should send the cavalry into the field to chase them,” Karl said. “If only the fools had thought to bring their horses.” Men were cautiously picking their way into the camp itself, without encountering resistance. “Chances are they did not go far. They expect to return here once we leave. They will lick their wounds, elect a new chief, and go on as before.”
It was a losing proposition for the ulvenmen. Christopher had a dozen dead to their three score, a profit even before counting the leader’s rank. Karl’s plan had worked.
When Christopher congratulated him, Karl was dismissive. “It would have been better if the cavalry had retreated, instead of making us rush forward to save them. Also, they need to shoot less and aim more.”
“You should have been in the center, Karl. Running the battle, not commanding a wing of it,” Christopher said.
“I could not have cut down the dinosaur rider,” Karl answered. “In any case, Ser Gregor did a fine job. Let him enjoy his victory.”
The man in question called out, standing in front of a particularly sturdy hut in the middle of the ulvenman camp. Ser Gregor’s face was troubled, and his voice was grave.
“Christopher, I am afraid you must see this.”
16
HEART OF DARKNESS
Inside the hut was ugliness. Christopher raised his light-stone, but though it shed light, it only revealed the shape of darkness.
A dozen naked, filthy creatures cowered under his upraised hand. It took his eye a moment to recognize them as human. Another to realize they were mostly female, some clutching young children closely. All kept their gaze on the floor, save for one cringing figure who looked up at Christopher from the corner of his eye. Christopher deduced it was male only from the matted facial hair.
A baby cried, and its mother tried to hush it. Christopher instinctively stepped forward to offer some kind of help or comfort, and the woman shrank away, shaking in abject terror. The cringing man scuttled over and tried to take the child from her. She turned away from him, struggling silently, and he cuffed her brutally on the head.
The action released Christopher from his paralysis of horror. He leapt forward and pulled on the man’s shoulder. Instantly the wretch collapsed to the floor, writhing in fear and hiding under his scarred arms.
The woman did not thank Christopher. She only acknowledged his existence by hiding the child, showing him her quivering back. He stepped back, forced to retreat by the strength of her fear.
<
br /> “Dark fornicating gods,” he swore, his breath short in his chest. He’d been trying to say something else, in English, but that was how it came out here.
“Indeed.” Gregor was too distracted himself to notice Christopher’s garbled speech, reacting only to the intent. His face was pale and still, the fire that animated it in combat completely quenched. “Dark gods indeed.”
“Can you understand me?” Christopher said to the room. No one responded. The man on the floor still cowered under his arms.
“Lala,” Gregor called out, a reluctant summons.
The bard approached with trepidation in her step, biting her lip. After her first glance she put her hand to her mouth and looked away.
“Can you talk to them?” Christopher asked her. “Do you know the ulvenman language?”
“I did not even know ulvenmen had a language until today,” she said.
“Gods.” Christopher shrugged, defeated. “What do we do with them?”
“Put them to the sword,” Karl spat. “It would be an act of mercy. And you could put their tael to use killing ulvenmen.” The young soldier had followed Lalania over, and now he stared into the hut without flinching. Christopher knew better, though. He could see the tightness around Karl’s eyes, the only visible sign of the immense anger that burned deep inside.
“A season ago I would have agreed,” Gregor said. “Now I do not know what to do. Brother Christopher, you are the head of the Church I have joined. What would Marcius have us do?”
“The best we can, whatever that is,” Christopher muttered. He wasn’t about to accept responsibility for theological doctrine. He had far too many real problems to solve.
“Then we turn them over to the Bright Lady,” Gregor said. “It will cost you tael, instead of earning it, but the Saint may be able to do something for them.” He motioned to Disa, and she cautiously joined them.
