Wilderness

Chapter 2

2

         Derdan was again on point. He liked being up in the lead. He had gone out with the scouts a few times, but he couldn’t quite get the hang of staying still. They said that he crashed through the grass like a buffalo. All the same, he had liked it.

        Now they were in clear, open country. Apart from the ridges that ran through the landscape like snakes, they could see for miles. From the top of those ridges, he expected, they could see as far as they needed. That was where the scouts were now, up in the ridges.

        He mulled over the troubling events of the previous day. The platoon had something rotten in it. When rot grew in a piece of fruit, or in the body of an animal, it had to be cut out and thrown away. If it wasn’t, the rot would move to the heart, and the whole thing would die.

        That was the platoon, now. Something was rotten in it. It wasn’t Blinker. He hadn’t done what he was accused of. That was as clear to Derdan as the overgrown nose on Lieutenant Pekar’s face. Something had been done to Cheerim, and whoever had done it had gotten away with it.

        It offended Derdan’s sense of justice. He did not believe in the clash of armies. Even though he was a Marine, he had never believed in war. He believed in a more personal form of retribution. He preferred to kill evil men himself. He liked the feel of a blade in his hand, or perhaps a smoking flintlock, while he watched the life bleed out of them.

        He was itchy to kill something. It was a bad sign, on the one hand, and exciting, on the other. When he got this feeling, it meant that battle was coming. There was death in the air. It whispered to him, and he responded with excitement. He had never met a battle that had done him harm.

        Even in their last skirmish, the fight that had killed Poesrit and Gerhan, as well as wounding Blinker and Serid, he had walked away unharmed. That was despite having an arrow in his boot and a bullet in his pocket. He was blessed by luck, but he was also a favorite of death. Those two great women held his life in their lovely hands.

        He thought about how far they had come. It was a pity that he could trust so few of them. Saerabos had been plotting with the ambassador of Angorth. That was a fact. Zerbos had been plotting revenge on Wedger. Black and Pekar hated each other. Meskaron also hated Black. So did Callidor. But then, Pekar and Danvers weren’t on friendly terms, either.

        It was a shabby state of affairs. They should be focused on nothing more than their duty, and the occasional distraction of battle. They should be fighting enemies, so that they could become heroes. The only thing they should do together was mourn their glorious dead. Or making love, in all possible combinations.

        There was a report from the east of them, echoing across the ridges. A single gunshot. That meant the scouts had seen something. Derdan raised his rifle.

        The platoon responded automatically. The baggage train, their two horses, Rester, Callidor, Waldron, and the rest of the convicts, moved closer to the river. The Marines and legionnaires rushed forward, their weapons at the ready. Danvers joined them, riding ahead on his charger.

        Derdan jogged, keeping just behind the lead horse. Soon he was sweating. He breathed in a regular, fixed rhythm, to set his pace. They came to the base of the ridge and started to climb. On the way up, the horse was no faster than Derdan. With his rifle in one hand, he crawled up using stones and roots to make the climb. In the end, he was the first one to make the top of the ridge.

        He immediately noticed a noise. It was like the buzzing of a fly, but sustained. The sound was, at first, surreal. He spent a long moment, as he came to his feet, trying to puzzle it out. Then it struck him. It was mechanical. They were close to Angorth. The Angornians had put on display the marvels of their technological civilization. They had steam golems, which they called tanks, constructs, some of which resembled people, and some of which could fly.

        He scanned the near horizon, looking out over the pockmarked, yellow landscape for the source of the noise. Captain Danvers joined him. He was just as perplexed, and his horse was noticeably confused. She stamped and whinnied.

        Zerbos was next over the ridge. He didn’t seem to notice the sound, at least at first. He stood and walked confidently to the other end of the ridge, looking out to see what was there.

        “Thral,” he said, “looks like a whole warband. Looks like they are in a panic.”

        Wedger came over the ridge next. She looked up into the sky. A few moments later, Jaik was on the ridge.

        “Look at that,” Zerbos said. “Three Marines before we see a single legionnaire.”

        Derdan was scanning the sky now, too. He was looking for something that could be there, buzzing like an insect. He found it. There was a dark shape in the air, about a hundred feet above the ground. It had two pairs of wings, one above the other, on either end of a long, cylindrical body. At the front, something spun with a glint like crystal or metal.

        “There,” he said, pointing.

        They followed the line from his finger. It was moving through the air, bit by bit appearing to become bigger as it came closer.

        There was a rattling sound, a rapid clattering, and two points on the front end of the machine spat fire. Below, the Thral, who were on horseback, were scattered in a hail of dirt. Whatever weapon the flying Angornian monster was using, it tore a huge swath through the earth, sundering bone and flesh and throwing it all up in a rain of debris.

        “Cover!” Danvers ordered.

        The flying machine came upon them. It gained the distance faster than anything Derdan had ever seen, and suddenly they were overwhelmed by a monstrous roar. It seemed to hang over them, a beast as long as a wagon, ribbed by two pairs of fixed, canvas wings, a pair of metal knives on the front end spinning in a blur.

Most incongruously, there was a man sitting in the front end of the flying machine. He was wearing a leather cap and some kind of goggles. He waved at them as he flew overhead, and he seemed to be laughing.

Derdan caught all of this in a moment. He had seen Angornian constructs in the war. He had fought against them. He had seen their slender metal arms tear men apart. This was something on an altogether different scale. This was a dragon in the sky, dropping death onto the ground with ease.

“Back down the ridge!” Danvers bellowed.

Derdan grimaced, but in a way, he was smiling. This had gotten much more interesting. A horde of Thral was a simple challenge. He had killed Thral. This Angornian wonder was a real weapon. He wondered how he could kill it.

Wedger was glad to finally have an enemy. She kept to the far end of the platoon, closest to the danger. She was with a squad of Marines, led by a competent NCO, and they had a clear goal. She wasn’t missing this battle, as she had missed the fight with the cultists at the Great Divide. The words from her training marched through her head. “Hold your position, mark your target, call your shot, kill your enemy.”

She counted the steps to the top of the ridge. Every few feet, she recounted. Both hands on her rifle, she pictured the action of sighting on a target and firing.

The flying machine came around from the other side of the river. It had circled back, and returned to the battle. She saw it swoop back quickly, and in a moment it was behind the ridge. She heard the clattering of its guns.

“That thing is blazed fast,” she muttered.

“I’m glad we’re not at war,” Derdan said.

“They’re still the enemy,” Zerbos said.

Wedger turned to Serid. She waited for him to add something. He just shrugged.

The caravan disappeared into the tree line. The legionnaires were with the baggage train, making sure that all the gear got to safety. When they got clear and found a safe space, the legionnaires would race ahead and set up an advanced fireline. The convicts would come in last as reinforcements.

There were more gunshots ahead of them.

“The scouts,” Derdan said. “Hoof it.”

They broke into a run. The base of the ridge broke about fifty feet ahead of them. The gunshots came from behind that point. They ran with their rifles held in one hand. The musketball would hold with its wadding as long as they kept their rifle steady. If they bumped into something, they would have to repack or risk a misfire.

She saw movement at the apex of the ridge. She stopped, and took a moment to appraise the situation. There was a Thral, about two hundred yards away. The thickly-muscled warrior was counting them.

She stopped. She took a knee, sighted her weapon, and fired. Her squad slowed to take notice of her. The Thral tumbled down the hill. She sprinted to catch up with her squad without stopping to reload. The next danger they encountered would be dealt with by another member of her squad. She had gotten the first kill. That was an honor.

They crossed the break in the ridge. On the other side, the base of the ridge ran sharply to the east. They were now at the edge of a long clearing.

“Which way to go?” Serid asked. “Do we go straight, or the long way?”

“We go straight,” Derdan said. “No need to fear the open.”

Zerbos snorted. He pulled a face, but he offered no argument.

        Wedger loaded in the time they spent thinking about it. It was not the fastest process, but she was well trained and keen to have a loaded weapon.

“Let’s get to it,” Derdan muttered.

        They moved across the open terrain at a medium jog. It was about a thousand yards until they hit the tree line. They covered the distance at a maddeningly slow rate. Knowing that there were Thral on the top of the ridge made them anxious to make it into the cover of the scrabby trees.

        They were about thirty yards out from the tree line when a clot of dirt shot up from their right. They heard the report a moment later. Someone had shot at them from the ridge.

        Wedger waited for Derdan’s order. This far out, they had to make a decision, to turn and shoot now, or to race for the tree line, take cover, and then fire back.

        “Trees!” Derdan yelled.

        That was smart. The Thral were not likely to be expert shots. From cover, the Marines could pick them off while they threw out rounds ineffectually.

        Wedger doubled her speed. She rushed to the cover, leaping into the foliage. There were more gunshots behind her, peppering the ground. She breathed heavily, with the smell of dirt and vegetation in her nostrils. Her companions came through next.

        She steadied herself while they were taking their positions. There were Thral on the ridge. About a dozen of them were siting down their barrels. She saw puffs of smoke. She fired, and one of those Thral dropped.

        The Angornian flying machine surged overhead. It had made another pass on the other side, harassing the warband with its great guns. It whirled overhead, blazing upward and out of sight. She admired the man who was sitting in that thing, making it such a danger to the Thral. As far as she was concerned, this was no enemy.

        She reloaded. Her squadmates took their shots. While she was ramming the wadding home, she looked farther down the tree line. She found the scouts, about five hundred yards down, firing back.

        “Sergeant!” she yelled. “Over there, the scouts, on the edge of the tree line!”

        Derdan looked. “Alright,” he said, “fire and scoot. We’ll join the scouts at their position. One person shoot, then run to the end of the line. Good eyes, Marine.”

        Wedger smiled. She took her place, ready for her turn to fire.

        Cheerim saw the Marines. She was in a tree, lying flat against a thick branch. The ancient tree limb did not sway in the slightest, and it carried enough leaves to keep her covered from view. Occasionally, a bullet tore through the grayish greenery, sending the smaller branches flying around. She didn’t pay any mind to the clamor. She could only be hit by a stray round.

        She could see them well enough, though. She took her time, calling each shot and firing only when she was comfortable. She didn’t always hit, and her target didn’t always stay down when she did. But she was as accurate as her weapon would allow.

        She was making casualties, and so were Kourin and Meskaron, and the Thral were not.         She kept track of how the Marines were progressing. The one at the far end of the line would fire, then get up and run down to the other end. Then the next one would do the same, and that way they would advance down the tree line.

        Their progress wasn’t perfectly smooth. There were starts and stops, and sometimes they were pinned down and couldn’t move until the fire had abated. Then they would fire back, shooting with rapid regularity until it was safe for them to move.

        She fired, and as she reloaded, she caught Zerbos out of the corner of her eye. She could put a bullet in his brain. She could cave in his skull with the .50 caliber rifled bullet that she was loading into her jaeger.

        The bullet was too distinctive. They would know that it was murder, unless they were forced to leave his body to the Thral, and they would do everything they could to keep that from happening. Then they would find her bullet, and she would be a murderer.

        She stared ahead coldly. She had to keep her eyes on the enemy. No, she had to keep her eyes on the Thral, the enemy before her. She had to ignore the enemy behind her. She had to be the soldier that the rest of the platoon could trust to keep them alive. That included her fellow scouts, her friend Kourin and her surrogate father, Meskaron,

        She fired, and a Thral tumbled down the ridge.

        She reloaded, and she pictured Zerbos with a bullet in his head. She kept the picture in the back of her mind, as she sighted another target and fired. She missed, kicking up a spurt of dirt that hung in the air like fat flies.

        She cursed. She needed focus. She let her rage simmer, and grow cold. She needed it to be ice in her veins, not a flame in her head. She focused on her breathing. She slowed herself even further. She fired the way Meskaron fired, with the deliberate grace and patience of a veteran killer.

If she was going to have revenge, she would take it with this much care. She would execute with this much planning, this much attention. If she was going to have enemies, she would deal with them slowly, patiently, and with clean, competent, deadly grace.

She fired. Another enemy tumbled down the ridge.

She stayed in her spot, no longer worried about the advance of the Marines. She had a simple duty, and it was to kill the enemy. She let that become her identity. She loaded. She aimed, measuring every movement by the number of breaths it required. She fired, hitting her target every time.

She was vaguely aware when the squads had joined. There was a mass of volley fire. Suddenly the Thral were falling four or five at a time. Of all the rifles on this spot, Derdan was probably the worst shot among them, and he was considered a crack shot in any regular unit.

Someone grabbed her foot. She tensed, preparing to break her fall. It was not necessary. The hand on her foot was only there to get her attention. Kourin looked up at her. He inclined his head downward, telling her that it was time to go.

She looked back at the ridge. There were no more clean shots. She followed her friend down from the tree, to join the advance up the river.

        Saerabos watched the flying machine wheel and bank. It came around the top of the ridge, pulverizing the entire line of rock and dirt with its hellish weapons. It roared past, thundering along, leaving an explosion of dirt, debris, and pieces of Thral bodies. Then it sped away, banked again, and made its way over the ridge, to harass the dozens of Thral who still remained.

        He contemplated the implications of this machine. He wondered, as he had when he saw the squadron of tanks assembled in Sophia, if the Angornians had these weapons during the war, when they had been allied with his nation against the Empire, why had they kept them to themselves?

        There was really nothing else in the air that could compete. The Empire had their griffons, the Nokun had knights who rode on majestic Pegasi, and the Jeylan of Mohare had feathered serpents. Those were animals, neither as fast nor as well armed as this machine.

        The only other question that still remained was how many of these machines they had. Perhaps this was the only one, or perhaps they only used them independently. Perhaps they had vast squadrons of them, like the columns of tanks that they had paraded in Sophia.

        This was no show, on the other hand. This pilot was making war. More importantly, Saerabos suspected, this was what war would become. Any manner of doing combat that could not compete with this machine was obsolete.

        In the old days, when he had served Al-Shahim Khatib, the High Priest of the Ellohi religion, they would have called up a horde of demons. Tough, vicious, and armed with a variety of natural weapons, the otherworldly creatures would have torn the deadly machine from the sky.

        He had other matters to attend to. He had the present to survive.

        The Marines and the scouts mounted the low embankment and then were past the tree line. They marched past the legionnaires’ gun line with weary accomplishment. Once in safety, they breathed deeply, panting with exhaustion. Saerabos moved up to Serid, who was the first one across, and checked over him for wounds. Faeresta moved up, first to Wedger, to do the same.

        They had made out well. Cheerim had a ragged gash on her left arm, from where a musketball had struck the tree she was using for cover and thrown out a spray of sharp splinters. Zerbos had fallen and skinned his forehead. The cut was not deep. For all the shots they had fired, they had not suffered a single casualty.

        Amaroy tapped Horben on the shoulder. He lept to his feet, racing away downriver to send word to the convicts to come join the unit.

        “Double time,” Amaroy called out, “for you and them. We’re already moving!”

        Danvers twitched in his saddle. At first, it seemed as if the horse had twitched, swaying slightly at the mention of movement. Saerabos caught the movement, though, and recognized the motion of the rider. The officer itched for battle. He might get his chance.

        On the other hand, he might not. They were running from the warband they had seen on the other side of the ridge. With the distraction caused by the Angornian flier, they might make it. They couldn’t be more than a day’s march from the ford. If it was more than a day’s march, then the Thral would overtake them in the night.

        The flier came over the ridge. It roared above them. The pilot leaned out of his seat. He waved.

        They were moving now. This was a forced march, almost a jog. He saw a shimmer on the near horizon, ahead of them. That could be the ford, where the land rose up and the water widened. It was not more than ten miles distant. If that was the ford, then they were in luck. On the other side of the ford, according to their map, was a tall rocky hill. It was the perfect spot to make their defense.

        All they had to do was reach it.

        “War priest,” Zerbos said, coming close, “give us a blessing for our legs.”

        “Bless you,” Saerabos said, “in the name of my heathen gods.”

        Zerbos laughed, almost a snort. “I feel stronger already,” he sneered.

        Saerabos refused to make eye contact. Even after so much time, nearly a year, he could see the man’s long, ugly face from the day he had taken Saerabos as a captive. He remembered the cruelties he had endured as this man’s hands.

        “He looks weak,” Zerbos, then a corporal, had said. “Give him something to eat. He needs to keep his strength.”

        The ugliness of the war was still there, in the form of Zerbos. He regretted nothing that he had done. He should regret everything he had done.

        The Marine was gone, running ahead of him, trying to keep up with his sergeant. Wedger followed, a serious look on her face. She remembered, because she had been there, too. She had served Saerabos the stew.

        He had a splinter in his mind. It was set deep, rooted magically, and would grow back every time he plucked it out. There were still scores to settle.

        Blinker did not care if he survived this battle. He could bring Cheerim, his once and only love, to the ford, and then be done with her. He could be done with all of it. The litany of abuses, humiliations, and privations, could finally come to an end. He would no longer have to suffer seeing her every day, and knowing that he could not make her happy again.

        But he would still fight. He did not just have sadness, guilt, and despair. He also had anger. He also had bitter, hot burning rage. He would not die without avenging himself.

        When they overtook the convoy, the ford was only a few miles away. They could see it clearly, the water shimmering in the clear afternoon sun. He noted absently that, in spite of the clear, bright sunlight, there were clouds overhead.

        The convoy was moving slowly compared to the pace the convicts took. As they slowed to join them, Blinker felt the strain of the miles they had jogged. He had become so used to the hard pace they had kept across the desolate summer plains that he scarcely noticed how hard he was breathing or how much his legs ached.

        Some ways to the east, perhaps five miles, the high ridge melted away. There was a clump of Thral milling on the open field. They looked ready to charge.

        Pekar had his wand in hand. It was glowing, a faint bluish-white shimmer. He gripped it firmly and sweat stood out on his brow. “Those clouds,” he muttered. “They’re putting more power into them than I can stop.”

        “Then it will rain,” Danvers said. There was finality in his voice, a note of realization that was not quite desperation.

        “I need volunteers,” he said. “They will time their charge to catch us while we cross the river. The rain will make it hard for us to reload, but it won’t slow them down. We’ll need a gun line to slow them down. Only the bravest. I cannot understate the danger.”

        “I volunteer,” Blinker said. The words passed his lips without him being conscious of them.

        “The convict has debts,” Warden Black said.

“If he dies,” Danvers said, “then his debts are mine. Same for any of the convicts.”

“That’s a generous offer,” Jaik quipped, “I wish I could get that kind of assurance.”

“If you don’t wish to volunteer for the line,” Danvers said, “then hold your tongue.”

“Oh, no,” Jaik said, “I am volunteering for the line. “Emphatically. If I die, I want Castor to have my share. He has a child bride to provide for.”

“Three more,” Danvers said. “I need three more volunteers.”

“After today,” Kourin said, his voice inflected with his musical accent, “there is no more need for a scout. I will stand on the line, as a soldier.”

“I’m on the line,” Amaroy said. “You’ll need a leader to keep these amateurs in place.”

“Out of the question,” Danvers said. “Polly, I need your leadership in the settlement. The volunteers on the line have steel in their veins. No one here has to prove a thing.”

“I’m on the line,” Flat said. There was a strange, desperate quaver in his voice.

“And me,” Wedger said. “I’ll keep everyone in their place.”

“That’s five,” Danvers said. “Pick a place, between us and them. When we clear the ford, run your asses off. We’ll have a gun line on the other end of the water.”

He was already riding away, steering the column toward the ford. The volunteers moved into a tight circle. Wedger was at the head of it.

“Alright,” she said, “we have a mission. Kourin, where do you think we should pitch ourselves?”

Blinker tried to keep his eyes off Flat’s face. His friend was desperately conflicted. He did not have time to reason with him or to be gentle. He had to fight, and be ready to fight, or he would get them killed.

“Snap out of it, Flat,” he said. “Keep your mind on your rifle and your knife. You’re going to need both. When it starts raining, you’ll only get one shot. You’ll need to be steady and steely to make it count.”

Flat nodded, but Blinker wasn’t done. He leaned in and grabbed Flat by the collar. “Get your ass in the game.”

Wedger was staring at him. She had a proud glint in her eye. She waited until all eyes were on her.

“Let’s get ready to kill some Thral,” she said. “I don’t plan on dying this close to the goal.”