Eric Flint's Blog, page 296

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 30

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 30

Chapter 30: Endings and Beginnings

Winthrope waved me past the yellow barricade. I pulled up a hundred fifty feet farther on. I got out, went around and helped Sylvie out into the wheelchair. She still looked pale and weak, but it was good to see her moving at all. She smiled at me, then looked up and gave a little gasp. “Verne did that?”

I felt as awed as she looked. The hundred-foot-long, three-story warehouse was nothing more than a pile of charred boards and twisted steel, still smoking after several days. The last rays of the setting sun covered it with a cast of blood. From the tangled mass of wreckage, two I-beams jutted up, corroded fangs, mute testimony to the power of an ancient vampire’s fury.

“You still haven’t heard from him, have you?”

“No. It’s hard to believe, but… there were dozens of them in there. Winthrope’s still finding bodies. They must’ve gotten him somehow, maybe by sheer numbers.” I felt stinging in my eyes, blinked it away. “And Renee …” This time I couldn’t blink away the tears. Syl said nothing, just held my hand.

It was hard to believe I’d never see her again. But Renee had been found in her house, her body sitting in a chair and her head on the table in front of her.

“I’m so sorry.” Syl said finally. “All I remembered was looking over, seeing her, and knowing it wasn’t really her at all. What about Star?”

“I got to see her the next day. She made me promise not to say anything to anyone about her helping me; her dad was already throwing a fit that she’d even been in the hospital when it happened. She thinks her father is the greatest thing in the world, and doesn’t want to worry him. I just hope she’ll be all right; that was quick thinking on her part, but I don’t believe any kid that age could see that monster coming at her and not at least get some nightmares out of it.”

Syl started to say something, but suddenly choked off; her hand gripped my arm painfully. I turned fast.

A man was standing next to Syl. He looked at me.

I knew that face, with the dark eyebrows, crooked grin, streaky-blond hair, and green eyes. I should know it; it looked at me every day in my mirror.

I went for my gun, found to my surprise that it wasn’t there. The man before me smiled, his face shifting to the Robert Redford lookalike I remembered all too well. He held up his hand, my gun sitting in it. “Good evening, Mr. Wood. I believe we have some unfinished business.”

“Never mind the dramatics,” I choked out, hoping he’d prolong them, “Finish your business, then. Nothing much I can do.”

“Dear me. No respect for tradition? I must congratulate you; I haven’t been hurt that badly in centuries; even our mutual acquaintance, Verne, failed to injure me as grievously. Why, I’m genuinely weakened. A clever, clever improvisation, Mr. Wood. I’m minded to let you live for a while.”

I blinked. “Umm… thanks. But why?”

The urbane smile shifted to a psychotic snarl. “So you will suffer all the more while everything you value is destroyed before your very eyes!”

I read his intention in his eyes, leapt hopelessly for his arm; he tossed me aside like a doll. His hand came up and the fingers lengthened, changed to diamond-glittering blades. Sylvie stared upward, immobile with terror.

Something smashed into Virigar, an impact that flung him a hundred feet to smack with an echoing clang into one of the two standing girders. The girder bent nearly double.

Virigar snarled something in an unknown tongue. “Who dares …”

“I dare, Virigar. Will you try me, now that I am prepared?”

Between us stood a tall figure, with a streaming black cloak, seeming to have materialized from the gathering shadows of night. “Verne!” I heard Sylvie gasp.

Virigar began to snarl, wrenching himself from the beam’s grip. Then he stopped, straightened, and laughed. “Very well! Far be it from me to argue points with Destiny.” He bowed to Verne, who made no motion to acknowledge it. “You have won a battle against me, Mr. Wood. And your friend here has surprised me. This game is yours. Your souls are still mine, and shall be claimed in time. But for now, I shall leave you. One day, I shall return. But no other of my people shall touch you, for that which is claimed for the King is death for any other who would dare to take it.” He turned and began to stride off.

“Freeze! Hold it right there!” Jeri Winthrope had the Werewolf King in her gunsights, and I had no doubt that this time it was loaded with silver bullets. Even though she had to brace the gun with the cast on her arm, I was sure she wouldn’t miss.

Virigar turned his head slightly. He ignored Jeri entirely, looking at Verne. “My patience is being tried. Tell the child to put her weapon away now.”

“Do it,” Verne said.

Jeri glanced at him, startled. “But–”

“Do it!” Verne’s voice was filled with a mixture of loathing, fury, and a touch of fear.

Slowly Winthrope lowered her gun. Virigar smiled, though the expression was barely visible. “Wiser than I had thought. Until later.” He turned a corner around a large chunk of warehouse.

“Why?” Jeri demanded after a moment of silence. “I had him right there!”

Verne glared at her. “Think you that something as ancient as he didn’t know of your approach? I heard you as soon as you turned from your post. Your bullet would never have found its mark, and he would have killed us all. Even the fact that he spared us was a whim. Something to amuse him,” Verne spat the word out as though he could barely tolerate the taste, “until he has an artistic way to destroy us.”

“I thought,” I said, “he spared us because he wasn’t sure he could win against us.”

Verne shook his head. “If he appeared here, he was ready. Perhaps I could have defeated him.” I noticed that he didn’t say “we.” “But I believe he left because …” Verne seemed to be searching for the proper way to describe something. “… because he had “lost the game”, as he himself put it. This battle, even your injuring him, was to him nothing more than a game. The object was vengeance against me, and then against you once you became an impediment of note. But we managed to meet some… some standard he set for his opposition. You injured him; I reappeared from the dead. He is as immortal as I, and older; he must find his own amusement where he can. But where I find mine in the elegance of art, in friendship, in more ordinary games, he finds his in the dance of destruction and death, in evil versus good.” Verne shuddered, a movement so uncharacteristic of him that it sent chills down my spine. “Perhaps I could have defeated him,” he repeated softly. “But I very much wish never to find out.”

Jeri shrugged. “Not my problem now. Okay. We’ll talk later.” She walked off.

I grasped Verne’s hand, realizing how much it would have meant to lose him, especially after having just lost Renee. “Jesus, it’s good to see you. We thought you were dead!”

“Hardly, my friend.” He looked even stronger, more assured and powerful than he had ever been. “Though not for want of trying on their part, I assure you. How does it feel to have changed the world?”

Sylvie spoke up. “Verne, pardon me, but I don’t understand why any of them died in there. I thought–”

“That only silver could harm them? Quite so, my lady.” He gazed at the wreckage. “Once I knew the werewolves had returned, I laid in a supply of diverse forms of silver–although I must confess,” he bowed slightly to me, “it never occurred to me that preparations–compounds–of silver would be efficacious as well. Part of my armament was a large supply of silver dust. I hurled this into the warehouse from several different points with sufficient force so as to disperse it throughout the interior rather like a gas.”

I winced at the mental picture. “Instant asthma attack. Ugh.”

“Precisely. In addition, since nearly all surfaces then had silver upon them, even falling beams became capable of causing harm.”

“That still doesn’t explain where you’ve been the past few days.”

“Ah, yes.” He looked somewhat embarrassed. “Well, in the end the battle degenerated so that I was reduced to physical confrontation. By the time the last of them came for me, I found myself without silver of any kind. Your rings, I am afraid, were not meant for combat. They… ah… came apart. So when the last one attacked, I was unarmed against her great natural weaponry. I was thus forced to a course of action whose results I could not foresee.”

“Well?” I said when he hesitated.

He coughed and examined the ruby ring studiously. “I… drained her.”

“You mean you bit her? But you said that was fatal!”

He nodded. “Other vampires had tried it; they had all died along with their intended prey. I found out why.” He shook his head slowly. “The power was… incredible. No younger vampire could have survived it.”

I thought about that for a moment. “Then in a way you, also, drain souls?”

“Yes and no. There is a linking and exchange, usually, of energies. However, in the case of something like combat, it can become a direct drain, and against a werewolf or something of similar nature, it must be. As it was, my body fell into what you would call a coma for several days as my system adjusted. I was fortunate; we were underground in one of these abandoned buildings’ basements; had that not been the case, I would have faced the irony of dying in sunshine on the morning of my triumph. But survive I did, and I find that I am stronger for it.” He smiled, the predatory grin of the hunter. “It is fitting that their attempt to destroy me would only strengthen me; it is… justice.”

We nodded, then Sylvie spoke. “What did you mean when you said Jason had changed the world?”

“Is it not obvious, my lady?” He gestured at the lights of the city, silhouetted against the darkening sky. “For centuries humanity has wondered if there were others out there, beyond the sky; but always they were secure in their science and civilization, knowing that here, at least, they ruled supreme. The Others–vampires, werewolves, and so on–hid themselves away, not to be found by the scientists who sought to chart the limits of reality, and so became known as legend, myth, tales to frighten children and nothing more. On this world, at least, humanity knew that it was the sole and total ruler of all they could survey.

“But now they know that is not true; that other beings walk among them. And this is not one of their stories, a book to be read and then closed, to disappear with the morning light.” Verne shot a glance at me. “You recall, my friend, how you spoke about the horror stories, the Kings and Straubs and Koontzes?”

I thought for a moment, then I remembered the conversation he meant. “I think I see.”

“Yes. You were disturbed by their stories showing such titanic struggles, and yet no subsequent stories ever referred to them; as though such power could ever be concealed. But this is the true world. The genie cannot be replaced in the bottle. Even your government has realized the futility of a cover-up. Winthrope speaks on the news of these events to an incredulous nation, and scientists gather to study that which is left. The world changes; we have changed it. For good or ill, the world shall never be the same.”

He fell quiet, and we gazed upward; watching as the stars began to spread–like silver dust–across the sky.

 

The Savior – Snippet 34

The Savior – Snippet 34

4

Rousing the Third before dawn and having them on their way was the hardest part of the morning, but finding the Third was in itself a very difficult task. The battle had devolved into separate pockets of fighting throughout the course of the previous day, with some tiny landmarks — a mound of dirt here, a low embankment there, even a clump of thick swamp grass — becoming focal points, landmarks the men would long remember as places of glory, shame, and terror. Names that would call up memories for the rest of their lives, for those who had more life to live.

Bodies lay strewn about at dawn. No one had yet had the time or strength to move them. The wounded who could, dragged themselves toward the rear. The severely wounded remained, mixed with the dead, especially those within musket range of either side. The only way to tell the two apart was by the faint movement. It was terrible to see the mounds of men that twitched here and there and be able to do nothing about it.

There were some slain donts on the field as well, but most had been lost on the charge up the mountain and they lay there on the slopes. Those that remained had been held in reserve.

Most of the fighting was musket and bow and arrow. In only a few places had the forces gone at one another hand to hand, but those taken down by bayonet wounds were the slowest to die, and many of them moaned and cried out for water, cursed the world, or begged for their mothers, throughout the night.

Many had been dragged to relative safety by a brave foray into the darkness, only to die quickly once they were back behind the line. The huge Escarpment flitterdonts wheeled in the pink-black air above.

Some brave ones were already on the ground feasting. The smell of spent gunpowder and carnage hung in the marshy air. It was only a matter of time before the odor of decay would mingle with it, bringing more.

Groelsh and Abel’s company sergeants seemed to have a special sense of direction when it came to their units, and Abel was surprised by how quickly and silently the muster was accomplished. The Third Brigade withdrew in relatively good order, and assembled a dozen fieldmarches behind the front line. Von Hoff had even given Abel the few specialized mounted who possessed donts, and artillery transports. Abel knew how difficult assembling for march was even in ideal circumstances. That the assembly took less than a watch impressed him.

Abel figured he had gotten about four hours of sleep. He sensed himself sagging, and nearly slid off his dont — and would have, if Nettle hadn’t been a sensitive creature that moved to keep him on. But the sight of the brigade assembling drew him back to full alertness.

His brigade.

His responsibility.

Groelsh and his sergeants banged them into rough company order and had them marching south just as the sun rose over the eastern Rim. Abel ordered them to double-time it past the guns of what everyone was now calling Fort Sentinel, the redoubt on the mountain.

They were spotted and fired upon. But it was as if the enemy had acquired a coldblooded sluggishness in the night, and they managed to get off only a few strafing fusillades from the volley guns, and one badly aimed rock throw, before the entire brigade had made the passage and was out of range.

Abel asked Center to make an interpolated tally of casualties. He learned he’d lost ten so far.

Then it was a matter of threading their way through the pinned-down Second Brigade, which had retreated south along the road until they were just out of musket range from Fort Sentinel. The Second did not want to give an inch of the Road, and there were some minor tussles between Guardians that threatened to turn deadly. Fortunately, tiredness overcame anger, and most decided the easiest course was the course of least resistance. The Second took a look at the beat-up state of the Third and knew that they soon would be ordered forward to join the same fight.

A watch and a half later, the head of Abel’s columns arrived at the ferry crossing. Here Abel called his company commanders to him. His newly appointed adjutant and executive officer looked them over with a cold eye.

He’d appointed Timon Athanaskew to the position.

Timon rolled out a map and went over the first part of Abel’s plan. “We will divide into company-sized units and head down the Ferry Road, circling east of Sentinel Mountain. We’ll run the gauntlet one company at a time at quarter-watch intervals, more or less. These may be divided into units as you see fit — but must be well on the way before the next are sent.”

Abel continued, “Each captain will be responsible for getting his company to the rendezvous point: the base of the saddle ridge connecting the two southernmost of the Three Sisters.” Abel pointed to the papyrus map. They were gathered around a large flat boulder and Timon had the map laid out over its top, which served as a makeshift table. “Don’t want to be too regular about it. Major Athanaskew will keep time.”

Abel looked up at his captains. “Do you understand?”

A chorus of “yes, sirs.” He hoped they meant it.

“Any questions?”

“What if we come under fire at the assembly point?” asked the Sunday Company commander, Wilton. “There’s another fort on the next mountain over, sir, if I’m reading the map correctly.”

“There is,” Abel answered. “But we demonstrate. In other words, be out of rifle range at the rally point. When you get there, I want you to make a racket. I want anybody on Tamarak Peak to know we’re down there, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any more questions?”

This time there were none.

It was midmorning when they set out, Abel and his command staff on donts, a few auxiliary scouts and skirmishers on animals, and all others, including company captains, on foot with their men. It did not take the eastern lookouts of Fort Sentinel long to spot them, and a rattle of fire began from the fort. The sound was intimidating, but they were still well out of musket range. Let them waste shot and powder.

Yet it appeared they had a near infinite supply.

Abel sent his first company down the Valley at a trot. The musket fire from the fort’s lower trenches might be technically in range, but evidently its soldiers couldn’t shoot well enough to hit much of anything this far away.

The company — Wilton’s Sunday Company — made it past with no men killed, and only two wounded. Thursday Company was next. It made its way carefully up the Ferry Road just as the Sunday men had done, keeping as far to the eastern side of the little Valley as they could.

Suddenly there was a tremendous roar and a rising billow of smoke.

Something — something large — crashed through the midst of Thursday Company, cutting down donts, decapitating men, and splintering bones.

Cannon, said Raj. But why on this side only?

Not wheeled, probably impossible to aim. Barely classifiable as a cannon at all. It is a welded-seam device, Center replied. Inaccurate and inherently dangerous.

Inaccurate? It just cut a swath through my men!

A random shot. The probability of a strike was fairly low, but the probability of mortal injury once the projectile did strike was very high.

No shit, said Abel. Does that thing fire the clumps you were telling me cannons used to shoot out?

Grapeshot? said Raj. I don’t see why it couldn’t. But grapeshot’s for close range. They’ll stick to cannon balls if they want to touch you.

Another WHUMP, and yet another ball flew by, this one crashing into the brush on the eastern side of the road.

Abel realized he needed to lead the command staff through next to set an example. He ordered his group forward. They were mounted, and they moved at a steady clip, but by no means as fast as a dont could run. He wanted to save the donts for later. A lot was going to be asked of them today.

The cannon got off two shots as Abel was crossing under it. One struck the road just in front of his flag, kicking up dust and gravel, but harming no one.

The second took off the head of Colquehoun, a captain who had two watches before been promoted from courier to command staff proper. Blood and viscera surged in gouts from the severed neck for a moment, then ceased. Colquehoun’s body fell to the side, but a foot remained in a stirrup.

Timon took the reins of Colquehoun’s dont and led it forward, while Coulquehoun’s body dragged along beside it.

And then the command staff was by and out of range.

The next company, Ogilvy’s Friday, began its run. Abel looked up the mountainside. He could see tiny stick figures of men swabbing the cannon, getting it ready for the next shot. Then they levered it back down. Aimed.

A boom louder than any before. Abel was focused on Friday Company, so he did not see at first what happened above. A miss. They were coming through unscathed, thank the Lady. Distant shouts. Then he looked up the mountain.

Fire had broken out in the fort. Pieces of burning timber were everywhere, strewn down the side of the mountain. The cannon was hanging over the edge of the fort’s wall. For a moment, Abel didn’t recognize it. It was burst and splayed outward. It looked like a metallic chrysalis, opened by an insectoid rebirth.

Not unexpected. As I noted, cannons made with welded seams are prone to bursting, Center said. The manufacture of true cannons requires casting technology.

 

Polychrome – Chapter 11

Polychrome – Chapter 11

Chapter 11.

Three blows hammered against my sword, trying to deflect it from its path, and just about succeeding; instead of smashing directly into the Storm Legionnaire currently trying to take my head off, the massive blade glanced off his scaled mail. Even so, the impact was enough to send him spinning away like a pinball.

Two more figures were streaking in from both sides, and this guy had delayed me just a split-second too long. I knew that dodging was out of the question, even with the practice I’d gotten in the past couple of weeks, so I whipped my blade around in a circular, flat arc; its six-foot length combined with my arm length forced the two Faerie warriors to pull up more than nine feet short, their own swords nowhere near long enough to reach me unless they wanted to try timing their rush to be faster than my swing.

I caught the sound of a third set of footsteps, but they were still a little farther off — and something slammed me between my shoulder blades, sending a spike of pain through my spine despite my thick padded armor. Bastard’s using a polearm! I have to remember they can make up for reach in a dozen ways!

I tried to recover, but the jolt had distracted me, and the two swordsmen had closed the distance. I was forced to drop my sword and surrender, or they’d have beaten me black and blue in seconds.

“Stop!” Nimbus commanded, and the others immediately brought their weapons to guard position. The massive commander strode forward, shaking his head. “Five exchanges, FIVE, and you’re already down? And only two of my men downed in the process? You may be facing a legion on your own, and this is the best you can do, with all your formidable capabilities? Do you want to fail?”

“It’s been two goddamn weeks! What the hell do you expect?” I was standing despite the pain, which I happened to feel was something of an achievement; I wasn’t used to people beating on me yet. “You’ve been training these people for years!”

He snorted. “Yes, years, but none of them are capable of picking up my other men and throwing them aside like dolls, or breaking weapons or armor in their bare hands. You have talent, mortal. I’ve seen you measure an opponent, judge an opening. You’re not altogether terrible in your ability to learn the handling of a blade, and you’ve become a passable swordsman for so short a time, and I’d expect you to be doing much better by now. I’m not sure what it is that’s stopping you, but we’ll have to find a way to get you past it.” He shook his head dolefully. “If only Cirrus were here, perhaps he’d know where we’re going wrong.”

He’d mentioned that name before; Cirrus had been his right-hand man, second in command, tactical advisor, and — most importantly for our current issues — had been in charge of training new recruits for something like five hundred years. Cirrus had gone missing — on a patrol to watch the borders of the Rainbow Lord’s domain — around the time I’d arrived. Not surprising with the stepped-up activity of the opposition, but a serious blow to Nimbus’ ability to lead the Legion while also training a clueless mortal… not to mention the loss of his best friend, if the way he spoke about Cirrus was any clue.

I wanted to argue with Nimbus about his pretty harsh assessment of how well I was NOT doing, but I had to admit that in his position I’d probably be saying the same thing. If your recruit’s effectively superhuman, he shouldn’t NEED to be nearly as well trained as the others to start kicking their asses. Besides, I was feeling a little ache in my chest and felt more inclined to save my breath for whatever he was about. Or maybe for buying time. “Look, something’s been bothering me about this super-strength of mine. It doesn’t seem… well, consistent.”

He looked at me sharply. “How do you mean?”

“Well… If I’m as much stronger than you as I seemed that one time, and as it seems when I hit these guys, well, I didn’t even bark my knuckles on your armor. So… your swords and such shouldn’t be able to cut me, and your swings should feel something like a toddler beating on me with a padded pole — that is, not even very noticeable. But that jab I just took HURT and it felt like someone pretty beefy hitting me, too. Okay, maybe not as beefy as I’d have expected before, but it sure wasn’t a toddler. And those weights you’ve had me lifting and walking around in don’t seem to be much heavier than the ones your soldiers practice with — lighter, in a lot of cases. Plus if I was really that much stronger, Polychrome herself shouldn’t have been able to lift much more than a teacup, but she seems strong enough to lift at least as much as I’d expect a girl her size to handle — maybe more. So none of this makes sense.”

“Ha!” He grinned. “You are correct, Erik Medon. It is a more complex matter than simple increase of strength. In essence, your mortal nature reacts against the power of Faerie, or causes Faerie to react strongly against your presence — but this is driven by the focus of your soul.

“Now, when you strike against one of us, your soul is directing your blow, focusing the … anti-power, if you will, of your nature against your target, negating our strength and pushing us away from that which is the antithesis of our power. Except when you perform a powerful and conscious block of an attack, however, your nature is not so strongly directed in your defense, and thus you feel our blows much more as you would feel those of your own kind.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay… so I could break a Faerie door down or something without much trouble, but if a Faerie roof fell on me without warning, it could squash me pretty much as easily as it would you?”

“A good general statement, yes.” He straightened. “Enough talking, however. You’ve got a long way to go before you can be the hero.”

In his tone, I heard the unspoken if. Parts of the other pieces of the Prophecy that Iris Mirabilis had been slowly feeding to me passed through my mind… struck through the heart and silent… Across the sky and sea, wisdom he shall seek; That which he sought shall he refuse, and by rejecting wisdom gains he strength… burns his soul away…

It was always that last verse that kept coming back to haunt me. I picked up my sword again and began running through exercises, but I was still worrying at the dozens of lines of cryptic verse, and always returning to the endgame. Even though both the Lord of Rainbows and Nimbus Thunderstroke had agreed that it didn’t necessarily mean I would have to die — that Ozma’s power could save me — it was pretty clear that death was very much in the cards. And if using her power was going to burn my soul, that meant that there wouldn’t be any of me left to go to the afterlife I was just now suspecting might really exist.

“Enough, you idiot!” Nimbus’ voice broke through my reverie. “You’ve gone off again into your night-damned contemplations and your practice isn’t even worth the sweat of my worst recruit’s brow! Time for some real work! We’ll do the dragging weights this time, all the way around the arena, five times!”

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for the power of Montage…

 

The Savior – Snippet 33

The Savior – Snippet 33

3

The Third Brigade plunged into the melee with the Progar militia on the northern Road, and for a long while Abel was busy processing all the incoming reports from commanders for von Hoff, and sending off von Hoff’s orders and queries in the most efficient manner he could, whether that was by mounted courier, mirror signal, or flag wigwag.

Now that the field was smoky, the quicker methods became less effective, and after a while mounted or running courier was the only thing that would do.

The Guardians were hacking away at the Progar militia as if they were nasty vines overgrowing a garden, but for every man they cut down, another was there to take his place.

The Progarmen fought like madmen. Apparently everyone in the district realized what fate had in store for them if they didn’t stop the Guardian advance.

Abel visited the front lines only once, when von Hoff briskly ordered him forward to see about a reported enemy breakthrough. On the way, he grabbed a platoon from the rear, eager to get into the fray, and led them forward toward the hole in the lines. The platoon’s young lieutenant was visibly trembling, but trying to put on a brave face. Abel didn’t blame him. He’d felt the same way himself before.

It seems so long ago now.

He’d been in his first firefight when he was fourteen.

“Don’t worry,” he said to the man in a low voice. “Just stand tall and do what your staff sergeant tells you.”

And then they were among men falling back and shooting, then falling back again. “Get in there!” Abel shouted to the platoon.

They charged forward into the breach with bayonets fixed and guns blazing. Abel drew his dragon from his waistband — he’d left his rifle stacked back in the command zone — and trotted along with the platoon for a moment. He wanted to charge forward. Everything in him told him to do it.

But von Hoff has specifically ordered me not to, thrice-damn him.

Reluctantly, Abel slowed himself and watched the others disappear into a haze of smoke lit by flashes of fire. It was as if they plunged into one of the thunderstorms of Valley legend. He himself had never seen rain.

He stayed long enough to be sure that the line was holding. Those who had fallen back began working their way forward again. For a moment the smoke parted and there was the platoon Abel had led forward. Many of them lay dead on the ground. He tried to see if one of the dead men was the young lieutenant, but couldn’t make him out in the scrum.

Then Abel turned and worked his way back to the rear and von Hoff.

When he arrived, at first he couldn’t find his colonel. He began to fear that von Hoff had gone down, but then he spotted the colonel kneeling beside a tarp laid out on the ground. Several other older men stood around, also staring down.

On the waxen tarp lay General Josiah Saxe. Around him was a hovering cloud of commanders and staff officers.

Saxe was alive, but blood was flowing from a wound under his right arm, spurting out with each beat of his heart. A rough tourniquet had been tied at the shoulder, but the wound was too far toward the shoulder for the tourniquet constriction to do much good. The artery was protected by bone here and couldn’t be squeezed shut.

Saxe was trying to say something, and Colonel von Hoff was leaning over, his ear to Saxe’s mouth, attempting to listen. But blood bubbles were forming on the general’s lips instead of words. Then the general gave one violent shudder from his head to his feet, and lay still.

Von Hoff slowly stood up, still staring down at Saxe and shaking his head. “Gentlemen, the general has gone to the grain halls of Zentrum, just as we all shall.”

The other men Abel recognized now by their shoulder sash insignia: gold and red. Green and red. Yellow and red. And von Hoff’s own gold and indigo. The other two were the commanders of the First and Second Brigades, Muir and Deerfield. Kanagawa, captain of the mounted regiment, was also present. The only leader missing was the colonel of the quartermaster corps.

As if on cue, the sun set behind the western Rim. Dusk fell across the Valley. The fighting continued until pitch blackness arrived. It was only when complete darkness arrived that the armies slowly disengaged, and they did so in haphazard fashion. Abel did not know who, if anyone, had taken overall command. He suspected they had been fighting as separate batallions.

For the most part the forces pulled back out of musketry range of one another, and then collapsed where they were. Abel led an attempt by the engineers and medical units to distribute rations and, more importantly, water, to the exhausted troops. The operation lasted late into the night.

Landry Hoster stood by Abel’s side the entire time. His engineers had put wooden spigots on the water barrels instead of the usual cork plugs at the bottoms. Spigots were items brushing close to nishterlaub, but Abel figured it was Landry’s right to endanger himself if he wanted. In any case, the spigots worked wonderfully as the water wagons trundled along the line, and much water was saved from spilling uselessly onto the ground.

Abel stumbled back to the command camp to find the brigade commanders gathered around a small fire. They were speaking in low voices, but an argument was taking place.

He tried to listen in, but could not make himself concentrate. Then he found himself sitting down next to his pack, and couldn’t remember how he got there.

Sleep, man, said Raj. You’re doing no good awake. You’ll find out in the morning what they’ve decided. I expect you’ll going to need some rest to act on it, whatever it is.

Abel dozed for perhaps a halfwatch, then started awake. It was still dark. He stumbled to his feet, looked around for a latrine, and, when he couldn’t find one, pissed in a spot he judged was outside of the sleeping area. Even though he still felt tired, the edge of exhaustion was gone from his body. He found a barrel of water, drank a dipperful, and splashed a few drops on his face.

When he looked up, he saw von Hoff sitting on his camp stool gazing into the remains of the little fire from the night before. Von Hoff saw him and, with the wave of an arm, motioned Abel to join him. Abel went to stand by the pile of coals.

“The brigade colonels have elected me as provisional commander of the Corps,” von Hoff said. “I’m taking Saxe’s place for the duration of this operation.”

“Good,” said Abel. “That’s for the best.”

The two sat silently for a moment.

“How old are you, Major?” von Hoff finally asked.

“Thirty, sir.”

“I see.” He nodded, laughed to himself. “So you wouldn’t be the youngest in recorded history.”

“Youngest what, sir?”

“There were at least three before you: Vajiravud about a hundred years ago. I think he was twenty-seven. Kulmala, of course. That was under extreme conditions during the Delta campaigns. He went on to lead the Corps. And that other one, I can’t remember his name.”

“I don’t follow, sir.”

“The youngest Goldie brigade commander,” said von Hoff. “In the military, you don’t want to set precedents if you can help it. Brings too much attention. Makes you a target if anything goes wrong.”

“I suppose that’s true, Colonel.”

“So you see, I don’t want to do that.”

“What…” Abel’s head was spinning. What was von Hoff talking about? Then it hit him with a certainty as solid as a brick in the face.

“Vallancourt,” Abel said. “You’re going to give Vallancourt the Third because of seniority.”

“Blood and Bones, man, why would you think that?”

“He’s safe. He’s next in line for promotion to brigade commander. It wouldn’t set a precedent.” Abel swallowed. His throat felt dry even though he’d just taken a drink of water. “I suppose I could work with him. If it were a direct order from you to do so.”

“Why in cold hell would I give it to Vallancourt?” von Hoff said. “He’s a complete idiot. No, I’m giving you the Third, Dashian. Starting with a field promotion right now, Colonel.”

Abel stood still for a moment, trying to be sure he’d heard correctly.

“Me?”

“That’s right.”

“But — ”

“I’ve informed the other brigade commanders. It’s done.”

“Colonel, you should reconsider this decision.”

“Why?”

“I’m tired. I could make mistakes.”

“Excellent point. Yes, I’ve changed my mind.”

For a moment, Abel thought he’d won the argument. Then he saw the crooked smile on von Hoff’s face.

“The colonel is being sarcastic.”

“The general is being sarcastic,” von Hoff said. “The colonel is in need of hot cider.”

He’s talking about you, Raj said.

“Yes,” Abel said. “I’ll have some shortly.” Abel rubbed his temples.

Something Father said years ago when he’d made lieutenant in the Scouts. How’d the saying go? “If you’re going to do it, own it.”

He looked up, met von Hoff’s gaze. “General von Hoff, now that I’ve got the Third…”

“Yes?”

“I’ve examined the terrain, and I have an idea for a flanking maneuver that I hope you’ll consider.”

“I’ll consider it,” said von Hoff. “How many men do you think it will take?”

“About five thousand.”

Von Hoff said nothing for a moment, huffed out a laugh. “Where am I going to get five thousand men?”

“The Third Brigade has approximately five thousand troops in it, although we’ve taken casualties, of course.”

Again von Hoff was silent for a moment. He finally spoke in a low voice. “You want me to divide my army, Dashian? Divide my army in my first act as a general. Is that what you’re saying?”

Abel nodded. “I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it would work, sir.”

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 20

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 20

“Sorry, I slipped in an up-timer English word. It means tall and awkward. And it’s true she is more at home with books than sports or dances. But there’s a vibrancy to her that is hard to see till you get to know her.”

“Is she Catholic?”

“No. Her family belongs to a Protestant sect that is vaguely similar to the Anabaptist. They are called Baptist. However, she is not devout. It’s not that she lacks faith. She once told me that you couldn’t go through the Ring of Fire and not believe in something. But she is doubtful of the certainty–” Karl paused a moment. “–professed by so many of what it means. She tends toward Pastor Steffan Schultheiss’ sect.”

“Who?”

“A Lutheran pastor from Badenburg. He didn’t see the Ring of Fire itself, but you can see the Ring from the walls of Badenburg. He has come to some disturbing conclusions about what God was saying when he delivered the town of Grantville to our time.”

Clearly, Aunt Beth wasn’t going to be distracted, even though her conversion to Catholicism was almost as unwilling as her marriage to Gundaker. “What about you, Karl? When last we spoke in person, you were almost as Catholic as your uncle, if less vicious about it. Can you live with a Protestant and not try to force her to become Catholic?”

“For myself, yes certainly. The Ring of Fire provides faith, but for me at least, it also instilled doubts. Politically, it would be better if she were Catholic and we will discuss the possibility of a conversion if we get that far. I won’t attempt to force her, but you should know, Aunt Beth, that the Catholic church of Grantville is not the Catholic church of Ferdinand II’s court. Oh, have you gotten the news yet that the emperor is dead?”

“It was in the letters. I didn’t know either the father or the son well, so I hesitate to guess what it might mean to us here.”

****

Elisabeth Lukretia von Teschen watched her nephew ride away, smiling. The news, from her point of view, was almost universally good. She had several letters from King Albrecht, and from what Karl had said there were good opportunities to get loans to repair the damage done by the Danes a few years before the Ring of Fire.

And Karl was falling for a girl who was not even Catholic. Gundaker would have a fit. With a bit of luck, he might even expire from it.

The railroad going from her capital of Teschen to Vienna would happen. At least on the Teschen side of the border. Better, there would also be a rail line, wooden rails, from Prague to her capital. Between the two, they would make her capital a transshipment location for goods going to half of Europe. Aside from the trade advantages, it would turn long, uncomfortable trips into relatively short, comfortable ones. At least, that’s what Karl said.

In a way, her little Cieszyn had weathered the war so far fairly well. Most of her tax base was intact. She had told little Karl, not so little anymore, that he would have support for the part of the railroads that went through her lands. Beth wanted to visit Grantville.

Meanwhile, she heard from friends, Grantville was having an influence on Vienna. Someone in Grantville had had a tourist guide book on Vienna. An enterprising merchant had brought it to Vienna, and somehow it had become fashionable to copy from the book. Perhaps because it was both modern and, in a way, traditional. Grantville’s windup record players had made their way to Vienna and along with them quite a bit of the up-timer music. It was all the rage among the younger set. Fashions were another issue. People were picking from four hundred years of fashion, and different years, decades, or even centuries, appealed to different people. Some people — she shuddered — mixed and matched with little regard to what went with what.

Liechtenstein House, Vienna

Karl was still visiting his aunt when his letters reached Vienna. Gundaker von Liechtenstein threw the letter across the room. “How dare he! The arrogant little pup. We need that money to be able to make the loan to the crown.”

“And we’ll get it, most of it anyway,” Maximillian told his brother. “From what we have heard, he did quite well in Amsterdam. Those investments in our lands will pay handsomely.”

“He should be removed as head of the family.”

“On what grounds?” Maximillian asked.

“Treason against the empire,” Gundaker said. “He swore fealty to Wallenstein.”

Maximillian said, “Drop the whole matter. We have very little leverage over our nephew, Gundaker. If you force a breach, there will be no funds at all forthcoming and you would give Wallenstein a casus belli against the emperor of Austria-Hungary. Not all the family lands are in Bohemia, you know. Karl Eusebius owns this house, according to the family charter. Which would allow Wallenstein to invade Austria in defense of his new vassal’s property rights. More likely, Wallenstein would simply seize the property in Bohemia if we challenged Karl Eusebius, and probably give it to one of his henchmen. We were lucky, or Karl Eusebius talked really fast, to avoid having Wallenstein do that in the first place.”

“Bah. Now that he is claiming to be a king, Wallenstein is trying to reform his image.”

“Certainly in part. It might also have helped that Karl Eusebius was on good terms with the up-timers. But if we repudiate Karl, or the new emperor repudiates Karl, most of our lands and most of our wealth disappears at a stroke . . . as does all of our influence at court and any hope we have of helping the empire.”

“I am not thrilled with Ferdinand III, Maximillian. Did you know that Father Lamormaini was denied access to the old emperor while the boy forced him to revoke the Edict of Restitution? What happened to faith and the will of God?”

 

The Savior – Snippet 32

The Savior – Snippet 32

2

A courier charged up from the front of the marching line and reported to von Hoff.

“The First has fought their way onto some harder ground,” he reported. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the huffing and chuffing of his dont, which was breathing hard through its blowhole and expelling acidic snot. “General’s forming a line.”

“What the cold hell are we facing?” von Hoff shouted at the man, his agitation showing.

“Progar riffraff, sir,” replied the man. His shoulder sash marked him as a captain on the corps command staff. “But lots of them. Looks like the whole province has turned out to greet us.”

“Why in Law and the Land didn’t the cavalry make first contact and hold them off while we formed up?” von Hoff said. “That’s what they’re for.”

The courier captain shrugged and nodded toward the fighting on the mountain. “You saw it, sir. The general sent them up to take out that position.”

“Saxe sent them, by cold hell? I thought this was Kanagawa’s doing,” von Hoff said, shaking his head. “General Saxe sent up the entire mounted regiment –”

“Yes, sir, he did. And then the reinforcements Colonel Kanagawa had held back.”

Von Hoff shook his head, as if to clear it. He looked at the captain. “On with you, then, and back. Tell Colonel Muir and the Second that we’re moving out and to be ready to follow us.”

The Second Brigade was behind them in the order of march today. “Yes, sir,” said the courier captain. He yanked his dont around with the reins and charged away south, cutting down the extreme side of the road, since the middle of the road itself was filled with stalled men who wanted to fight but couldn’t get up to the front to do so.

Groelsh turned the regiment again to the north, and von Hoff ordered the march. The company commanders knew what to do from here on out. When they reached the fighting, they would deploy to either side, spreading out in four-abreast company lines, shoring up the men already engaged wherever they found themselves. After that was accomplished, and if he received orders, von Hoff would see about positioning them offensively.

As they grew near, there was far too much smoke in the air for Abel to do anything more than catch a glimpse of the enemy ahead. All he saw was the flash of teeth and the glint of gun here and there.

Center, I want to understand what’s happening.

Interpolating. Interpolation complete. Observe:

Abel was flying. He was standing on the impulse flyer he’d flown once before in his vision — the vision where he’d first met Center and Raj. Up and over the fighting he soared. A turn here, a twist there — he found he could change his position minutely — and the overview was perfect. Inertial dampers and force fields kept him steady, even though he was standing on what amounted to a small ledge many hundreds of feet in the air.

Of course none of it was happening. Or rather, all of it was happening within his mind. He understood that. But he didn’t feel it. He felt like he was flying. And it was great!

With a twist of his hips and a shift of his weight forward, Abel rolled the flyer to the side into a banking curve, the wind of his passage screaming in his ears.

Please settle down and remember the purpose of this projection, Abel.

All right, all right.

He righted himself, slowed.

He looked down.

The valley floor in front of the Guardians was filled with Progar militia. The Guardians were fighting only the front edge of this mass. The militia stretched far up the valley, thousand upon thousand of them.

And yet Abel couldn’t see much organization to them. In fact, it looked far more like a huge rabble or mob than an army.

Yet there were so many of them.

The fort on Sentinel Mountain is the first of three such installations on the western flanks of those two sister mountains to Sentinel’s east-northeast, the other two being Tamarak and Meyer.

On the western sides of the mountains lies the River Valley which is, in this region, a series of marshlands, as you have experienced. These wetlands continue for several leagues up the Road.

Great, thought Abel. More pushing through hip-deep mud if we get off the Road.

The high ground upon which General Saxe is taking on the Progar militia is not a large enough piece of land to accommodate the whole Corps. This was intentional. At most, your brigade will be able to deploy to join with the First. The Second Brigade, behind you today, must remain there in a logjam of too many men on too little ground.

So that gives us ten thousand troops. We should be able to deal with the Progar militia with that.

Yes, but at great cost. That is the idea. They don’t expect to win here. They want to bleed you. These other forts on the mountains possess not merely volley guns, but rock-throwing ballistas and, in all probability, crude cannons. The mountain forts will keep Saxe from maneuvering along the hillside to flank the Progar militia. The marshland will bog him down as he goes up the center of the Valley. And, of course, the River itself cuts him off to the west.

What a pretty little trap your general has marched right into, said Raj. He’s even done the Progarmen the favor of pulling back his mounted regiment and sending them up the mountain, so his men could stumble on the enemy entirely unaware and unprepared.

Well, what can we do, then? What can I do?

Fight it out, man. Fight it out. Seek an opening or some leverage. We’ll help.

Abel took another look at the forces massed below him.

What’s on the other side of those mountains? he asked.

A narrow valley lies between them and the eastern Rim, Center replied. It widens into the Manahatet Valley farther north past the Three Sisters. At the northern end, where the Manahatet and the River Valley converge, lies Orash, the capital city of Progar District.

So what if we turn around, take the ferry road east, and go up the other valley instead?

You observed the wagon track. It is too narrow to concentrate a Corps-sized force until you reach the plains below the city of Orash. Also, the Sentinel fort, and the forts on the two peaks to the north of Sentinel, are manned on the eastern sides of those mountains as well as the west. They command the valley from above.

Take me across the River, Abel said.

He turned the flyer and leaned forward to put on speed. Soon he reached the River’s edge and zoomed across. Below was a different landscape than on the eastern side. Here was rolling hills and plain, with some belts of trees, but mostly grasslands. Enormous herds of daks were scattered everywhere grazing.

Why not come up the western side? Abel asked.

Difficult. The River makes a great turn and constricts this plain up against the western Escarpment several leagues to the north. There lies the settlement of Tomes. It would be a near impossible pass to fight through, and could be bottled up.

Duisberg’s Thermopylae, said Raj.

It could be held with a small force almost indefinitely.

Then the east it is, I suppose, said Abel. It was time to leave the vision, but he didn’t want to. Instead, he angled the impulse flyer upward and climbed higher, higher. A wispy cloud lay ahead, and he passed right through it. It left a cool condensation on his arms and face. He looked back down.

Very high now. The whole of Progar stretched out below him. The mighty Schnee Mountains to the extreme north. At the base of one of the tallest of the Schnee was a huge lake. This collected the snow from the melting glaciers of the Schnee and from that lake flowed the several streams that made up the headwaters of the River. The body of water was Lake Orash, and on its southern end lay the city it was named for.

Orash. Capital of Progar.

So many rocks, mountains, hills in this land. And wet. Water everywhere. So different from anywhere else he’d been.

We are coming here to destroy it. Wipe the population and their heresy away as if they never existed.

Take me back to the battle, Abel said.

Instantly the vision fled and he was in the real world of dust, guns, and blood.

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 29

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 29

Chapter 29: Intensive Combat Unit

The hospital was quiet; at three-thirty only the emergency crews were around. I parked, checked my gun, and put the viewer on. I looked weird but that didn’t worry me; the only thing I was worried about was that the werewolves would be able to hide from anything technology could think up. I didn’t believe that… but what if I was wrong?

I went in through the side entrance; I got some strange looks but no one got the courage to ask me just what I was doing before I was past them. I’ve often noticed that if you look like you know where you’re going and why, people just don’t ask questions. And once you get past them, they’re too embarrassed by their hesitation to go after you.

I got to the fifth floor, where the ICU was set up. Outside sat a familiar figure.

Renee raised her head, looked, and looked again, a startled expression on her face. Then she smiled. “Hello, Wood. I thought you’d be home getting some shuteye.”

“I thought the same about you. Why are you here?”

“Winthrope and I both agreed she should have some kind of watch over her. I took this shift.” Renee glanced inside; Sylvie was sleeping. Renee turned back to me. “What the hell is that on your head?”

“An idea that doesn’t seem to be working out.” I’d looked at everyone I’d passed through it, and even glanced at the patients. I could tell when someone had a fever, but if there were any werewolves around the viewer didn’t seem to be able to spot them. I looked at the magnetic indicator and the radio meter; none showed anything helpful; hell, with the MRI unit in this building neither one would be likely to pick up anything.

“Well, it’s been quiet as hell here. You might as well go home. I’ll call you if there’s any change.” She gave my shoulder a tentative pat.

I noticed a movement behind her.

Sylvie’s eyes had opened suddenly. Her head turned weakly towards me; her eyes widened, and it felt like ice water was running down my spine as I saw her face: her “feeling” face.

I nodded my head sharply; the viewer dropped down, and I looked through it.

Renee Riesman’s face sparkled in infra-red, a network of tiny sparks and lines rippling across it.

Everything froze. I had never looked at anyone through the viewer at this range; it could be just what moving muscle looked like close up. If I was wrong, I’d be killing a police lieutenant and a friend.

But if I was right…

It only seemed to take a long time; my body made the decision even as I glanced down. The 10mm fired twice before I was quite sure what I should do.

Renee staggered back, shock written on every line of her face, and I realized I’d made a horrible mistake; it wasn’t a werewolf at all! I started forward… just as claws and fangs sprouted like deadly weeds from her twisting form. But the werewolf was dead even as it lunged for me; only one claw caught me, leaving a thin red trail across my left cheek.

Screams and shouts echoed through the hospital. Three figures appeared around the corner. When they saw my gun out, they dodged back. “Who are you?” one called out. “What do you want? This is a hospital, for Christ’s sake!”

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” I said, realizing how utterly asinine that sounded coming from a man holding a pistol in front of the ICU. “I’m just trying to protect my friend in here.” I could just imagine their thoughts: a homicidal paranoid is holding ICU patients as hostages.

“Look,” one said very quietly, reasonably, “I’m going to just step around the corner, okay? I just want to talk with you, is that all right?”

I heard another voice mutter something in a heated undertone; it sounded like “Are you nuts? Don’t do it!”

“Sure.” I said. “Just do it slowly.”

A young orderly, my age or a little younger, eased carefully around the corner. He had his hands raised. “See, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but I’m really not crazy.” I gestured to the body. “Just look at that; you’ll see what I’m up against.”

He walked forward slowly, hands over his head.

As he got closer, the viewer image slowly started to sparkle.

“Hold it right there. You’re one of them.”

The expression of sudden terror, the pleading look, they were perfect. I had another attack of doubt.

The claws almost took my head off before I fired. The werewolf howled in agony and died quickly. I saw two pairs of eyes staring widely in shock as the creature that had been playing their friend expired. “Friggin’ Nightmare on Elm Street, man! What is going down here?”

“Werewolves,” I answered, “and if you’re smart you’ll get out of the hospital.”

“I’m history,” one said, “But I’ve gotta go through where you are.”

“If you aren’t one of them, go ahead. Otherwise you’ll be number one with a bullet.”

He had more guts than I would have. He just walked out, crossed the hallway to the nearer door, and started down the stairs. Once his friend had gotten across safely, the other one walked across with his hands up, then bolted down the stairs.

Just then I heard the hall window shatter. A tall blond man, rather like a young Robert Redford, dropped lithely into the hall from outside. He straightened and looked at me. “You are most extraordinarily annoying, Mr. Wood. I have been considering how best to kill you.” The deep, warm, yet strangely resonant voice was chillingly familiar.

I raised the pistol, centered it on his jacket. “Virigar, I presume.”

He bowed. “At your service.”

If Virigar was here… God, had he already killed Verne? “What are you doing here? I thought–”

“Yes, you thought I would be at the warehouse.” For a moment the good-humored mask dropped. My blood seemed to freeze at the sheer malevolence in his face; had he attacked then, I couldn’t have moved a muscle to stop him. Then he regained control. “In point of fact I was; then that thrice-damned vampire began his attack and I knew precisely what you had planned. I, also, believe in keeping my word, so I came to make sure the young lady was killed.” He glanced around at the two bodies. “A wise choice, it would seem.”

He inclined his head. “You have been lucky and resourceful so far. I look forward to tasting your soul; it should be a strong and, ah, heady vintage. Then I will finish with Domingo. Your interference has been really quite intolerable.”

“Aren’t you overlooking something?” I asked.

“Such as…?”

“The fact that I’m going to blow you away in the next two steps?”

He laughed. “I doubt you could hit me. I am not one of these younglings.”

I wasn’t going to dick around with him. Before he could react, I put three shots in the bulls-eye where most people keep their hearts.

His eyes flew wide; he stared at me, then down at the three neat holes in his suit. He sank to his knees, muttered something like “Impressive aim …” and then his eyes rolled and he fell.

I waited a few minutes, keeping the gun on him; he didn’t move. I went forward a few feet just to check.

Something hit my hand so hard it went numb, picked me up and hurled me down the hallway. I fetched up against the far wall, disoriented. When I focused my eyes again, I saw Virigar standing there with my gun dangling from his hand. Grinning pleasantly, he shrugged off his coat, revealing the bulletproof vest beneath.

“I should have blown your head off.” I shook my hand, trying to get feeling back into it.

He nodded cheerfully. “Yes indeed, but I depended both on legend and training. The legend of three silver bullets to the heart for a Great Werewolf, and the fact that most people are taught to shoot for the body rather than the smaller target of the head.” He tossed the gun aside. “Your friend Renee lasted for a few minutes, Mr. Wood. Let us see how well you do.”

He began to change. I froze. I had seen another werewolf change… but this was not another werewolf.

This was Virigar.

This was no transformation like a morphing, but more; a manifestation of the truth behind the facade. The air thickened and condensed, becoming black-brown shaggy fur. The eyes blazed with ravenous malevolence, flickering between blood-red and poison yellow. The head reared up, seven feet, eight, nine towering, hideous feet above the floor, the marble sheeting cracking and spitting powder from the energies that crackled about Virigar like black lightning. It drew a breath and roared, a shrieking, bellowing, rumbling impossible sound that shattered every window on the floor and deafened me. The head wasn’t really wolflike… wasn’t like anything that had ever lived. Dominating it was the terrible mouth, opening to a cavernous diameter, unhinging like a snake’s, wide enough to sever a man in one bite, armed with impossibly long, sparkling diamond fangs like an array of razor-sharp knives…

For a moment all thought fled; all I had was terror. I ran.

Virigar let me get some distance ahead before he began following; I remembered what Verne had told me, that they fed on fear; obviously Virigar wanted a square meal. I ran down the steps, taking them two, three at a time… but I could hear his clawed footsteps closing in on me.

I remembered a trick I’d first read about in the Stainless Steel Rat series. If I could do it I might gain a few seconds.

I jumped as I reached the next flight of stairs and hit them sideways, one foot raised above and behind the other, both slightly tilted. My ankles protested as the stairs hammered by underneath me like a giant washboard; I hit the landing, spun, and repeated it, then banged out the doorway, sprinted down the hall, ignoring the ache in my feet. It worked!

My heart jumped in panic as Virigar smashed out of the stairwell fifty feet behind me, the metal fire door tearing from its hinges and embedding itself in the opposite wall. Nurses and orderlies scattered before us, screaming. Oh, the bastard must be gorging himself now.

Somewhere in the distance I thought I heard gunshots. Too far away to make any difference now, though…

Around the corner, trying to find another stairwell. Oh, Christ, I’d found the pediatric wing!

A young girl with dark hair in two ponytails blinked bright blue eyes at me in surprise as I raced past her wheelchair, her attention to her late-night sundae momentarily distracted. With horror I recognized her: Star Hashima, Sky’s daughter, just recovering from double surgery. Virigar skidded around the corner after me, growling in a grotesquely cheerful way. I faltered momentarily, realizing that the monster was already trailing blood; he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.

Her face paled, but at the same time I could swear there was almost an interested expression on her face as she saw the huge thing bearing down on her. Then Star calmly and accurately pitched her sundae into the King Wolf’s face.

The laughter in its growl transformed instantly into startled rage and agony; blinded, Virigar stumbled and cannonballed into a wall, smashing a hole halfway through and clawing at its face. Star spun her chair around and rolled into one of the rooms, slamming the door behind her.

Virigar roared again, shaking the floor. “Bitch! I’ll have your soul for that!”

I ran, praying this was the right decision. Would Virigar waste the time taking care of Star right now, or would he chase me first because of what I knew? And what in the name of God had that girl done? As I half ran, half fell down the back stairs, I suddenly remembered a faint sparkle from the ice-cream bowl. Silver-coated decorations.

No, Virigar couldn’t afford to waste his time now. If I got out to Mjolnir, I could draw him off, outrun him probably, and then too many people would know too much. I shoved open a door, ran out.

Oh no. I’d come down one floor too many. This was the basement! Ammonia and other chemical smells from the labs filled the air. Above me I heard the stairwell door smashed open.

I ran.

Technicians and maintenance gaped at me. Signs flashed by, Hematology, Micro Lab, Urinalysis, Radiology…

At Radiology I scrambled to a halt, dove inside. A last-chance plan was forming. Behind me screams sounded as Virigar charged after me.

I shoved the technician there aside. “Get the hell out of here!”

Hearing the screams, and the approaching snarls, the tech didn’t argue; he split. I ducked into the next room, grabbing a bucket that stood nearby, slammed and locked the door. I worked fast.

Heavy breathing suddenly sounded from the other side of the door. “Dear me, Jason; you seem to have cornered yourself.”

I didn’t have to fake terror; I knew my chances were hanging on a thread.

The door disappeared, ripped to splinters. “It’s over, Mr. Wood!” Virigar leapt for me.

That leap almost finished me; but the door had slowed him just enough. With all the strength in my arms, I slung the contents of the pail straight into Virigar’s open mouth. The sharp-smelling liquid splashed down the monster’s throat, over his face, across his body, soaking the fur. Even as that pailful struck, I was plunging the bucket into the tank for a second load.

Virigar bellowed, a ragged-sounding gurgling noise of equal parts incredulity and agony. He was still moving too fast to stop; one shaggy arm brushed me as I leapt aside and he smashed into the tank itself, tripping and going to his knees, one arm plunging into the liquid. The metal bent, but then tore as he scrabbled blindly at the thing he’d run into, disgorging its remaining contents in a wave across his thighs and lower legs. Momentarily behind him, I doused him with my second pailful, soaking him from head to toe.

The Werewolf King’s second scream was a steam-whistle shriek that pierced my head, but lacked the awesome force of the roar that had shivered hospital windows to splinters. Foul vapors like smoke were pouring from him, obscuring the hideous bubbling, dissolving effects the liquid was causing. The monstrous form staggered past me, mewling and screaming; incredibly, I felt the earth itself heave as Virigar wailed wetly, and a flash of yellow-green light followed. Lamplight poured through a ragged gap in the far wall and was momentary eclipsed by the horrific silhouette of something half-eaten away as Virigar clawed his way to the outside… and disappeared into the night.

Cautiously, a patch of light approached. The flashlight ranged across me, then went to the tank, broken into pieces and leaving its sharp-smelling contents flowing harmlessly across the floor. The light showed me the way out, its beam illuminating the wall just enough to show the sign painted there:

X-Ray: Developer, Fixer, Silver Recovery

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 19

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 19

Chapter 8: Family Reunion

September, 1634

Prague

“Ferdinand II is dead,” King Albrecht said. “In this universe, at least, the fanatic didn’t manage to outlive me.” There was considerable satisfaction in his tone.

And, in spite of himself, Karl realized that it was more than a little justified. Wallenstein was opposed to the Edict of Restitution and a large part of the motive for the revolution that he may or may not have planned would have been to repeal it. Five years ago, Karl would have agreed with Ferdinand II, but then the Ring of Fire happened and they had all been able to see how the world had unfolded in that other timeline. Now he found himself agreeing with Wallenstein.

“Will Ferdinand III try for the crown of the Holy Roman empire?” Karl asked.

“It doesn’t seem like it. He is styling himself ‘Emperor of Austria-Hungary.’ And he managed to do what I never could, and get his father to repeal the Edict of Restitution on his death bed. If Ferdinand II had done that two years ago, I would never have taken Bohemia,” King Albrecht said, sounding sincere. Then he added, “Well, assuming that he didn’t try to have me assassinated.”

Karl wasn’t sure he believed Albrecht von Wallenstein about that. The man was ambitious and ambition can always find an excuse. On the other hand, Karl wasn’t entirely sure that he didn’t believe it, either.

“Might there be peace between your realm and Ferdinand III’s?”

“I’m willing if he is,” King Albrecht said. “But I don’t think he is. He’s still making noises like I’m a traitor and he’s the king of Bohemia.”

“Might you come to some sort of accommodation?” Karl asked cautiously. “Might Bohemia rejoin the HRE?”

“No. Two assassination attempts in two universes are all they get. I’ll not bend a knee to the Habsburg family again.”

After that, the discussion turned to the rest of the news. A bit later, King Albrecht said, “You’re still going to have to publicly swear fealty to me in regard to all your family’s lands in Bohemia, Moravia and Silesia. But, in exchange, I am willing to endorse the railroad and even add a line to Cieszyn out of the crown purse. And I’ll support your LIC as well. There are several projects that Morris wants to do that can be done in cooperation between us.”

Karl nodded. He hadn’t been expecting any other result, after all.

****

“I’ll see you when you get back,” Sarah said. Her strawberry blond hair was in a bun and escaping the confines of her scrunchy. She had a charcoal smudge on her nose and was utterly focused on a book of ledgers that had been gathered from a market here in Prague. She looked adorable. Unfortunately, she had no attention at all to pay to Karl. She hadn’t even looked up.

Cieszyn

“Hello, Aunt Beth.” Karl looked around the palace hall. It had a more worn look than he remembered. Aunt Beth was maintaining her palace, but apparently not spending any more on it than absolutely necessary.

Elisabeth Lukretia von Teschen looked Karl up and down and he felt himself straightening under her gaze. “Good afternoon, Karl Eusebius! How was the trip from Prague?”

“Uneventful, always a blessing when it comes to travel. I have more letters from King Albrecht and Morris Roth. Also, Judith Roth is going to be the head of the National Bank of Bohemia.”

“Do you think I should print my own money? It would certainly solve my financial problems.”

“Please don’t, aunt. You will be much better off getting improvement loans from the National Bank — or from me, for that matter. Through the Liechtenstein Improvement Corporation.”

So it went. They spent two days talking about what he had set up in Grantville and what King Albrecht had thought about it. About the Fortneys, who were at this very moment somewhere on the road to Vienna. About the Barbie Consortium and — very much in spite of himself — talking about Sarah Wendell, how smart she was, how beautiful, how clever and kind.

****

“So tell me about this Sarah of yours,” Aunt Beth said. “Are the Wendell’s of a noble house?”

“She’s not mine,” Karl said. “At least not yet. And the up-timers are different. If anything, my title probably hurts my suit.”

Aunt Beth gave Karl a look that conveyed her displeasure at his obfuscations.

Karl continued. “By the up-timer standards, yes. The Wendell family are near the upper echelons of those who came back in the Ring of Fire. Her father, Fletcher Wendell, is the USE Treasury Secretary, who knows and is known by Gustav and Fernando, as well as Mike Stearns and Ed Piazza. And her mother, Judy Wendell the elder is, if less well known, even more astute in financial matters. Sarah takes after her mother in that. Right now she is working out the design of the Bohemian National Bank with Judith Roth and Uriel Abrabanel.”

“Aside from smart, what’s she like?”

“Well . . .” Karl paused. “She’s taller than I am by a couple of inches and she’s still growing. She has light blond hair with just a touch of red, what the up-timers call a strawberry blond. She is thin and I must admit she’s no horsewoman, but she loves flying and books and plays and solving problems.”

“Is she pretty?”

Karl laughed. “I think so, but she doesn’t. That’s probably because her younger sister is perhaps the greatest beauty in Grantville. Up-timers tend to be comely people by our standards, so even what we would consider pretty or handsome doesn’t stand out among them.” He smiled and Elizabeth noticed that his teeth were both straighter and whiter than she remembered. Not that they had been particularly bad before, but the evenness of his teeth now was remarkable. “Sarah considers herself gawky . . .”

“Gawky?”

 

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 28

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 28

Chapter 28: A Nice Evening Drive, With Gunfire

“Why the hell not?”

I gestured at the ornate gold ring. “Why not, Verne? If he’s going to be satisfied with the ring, just give it to him! Then we hit him later.”

Verne rubbed the ring gently, turning it about his finger and making the ruby send out sparks of crimson. “The reason he would be satisfied with the ring, Jason, is because he knows that I will never remove this ring. Never. I gave my word many, many years ago, to one who meant more than life itself to me, that I would wear her ring until the final death claimed me.” He looked up; his eyes were black ice, cold and hard. “I value my honor, Jason. Nothing, not even God himself, shall compel me to break my word.”

“That’s asinine, Verne! We’re talking Sylvie’s life here, and you’re worried about honor! Whoever your lady was, I’m sure she’d understand!”

“You are probably right,” Verne said, his eyes unchanged. “But I cannot decide on the basis of what might be. She and she alone could release me from my vow, and she cannot, unless she be born again and regain that which she was. I do not expect you to understand; honor is not valued here as it was when I was young.”

“Where is the honor in letting a friend die?” I hurled the question at him.

He closed his eyes, drew one of his rare deep breaths. “There is none in that, my friend. I have no intention to let Sylvia be killed; did I not also give my word that she would not die?” He opened one of my drawers, looked inside.

“Then you are going to give me the ring,” I said, relieved.

“No,” he said, taking something out of the drawer and handing it to me. “You will take it from me.”

I looked down. In my hand was a magazine for my automatic; one loaded with wooden bullets; a vampire special.

It took a minute for that to sink in. Then I threw the magazine against the wall so hard it left a dent. “Christ, no! Kill you?”

“It seems the only way. I would rather die by your hand than his, and only my death will satisfy him; else Sylvia dies.”

“Look,” I said, glancing back at the pistol magazine, “Maybe if… well, I could shoot your finger off, I guess.”

He made the dismissing gesture I’d come to know so well. “Impossible. It matters not how the ring leaves my possession, my word will still have been broken if it leaves my possession with my connivance and I yet live.”

I couldn’t believe this. “You want to die?”

“Of course not, Jason! I have spent many centuries trying to ensure my safety. But I will not break my word to her whose ring I wear, nor shall I break my word to you. That leaves me little choice.”

“Bull!” I couldn’t really understand this; how the hell could anyone take promises that seriously? But I could see he was deadly serious. “You only made that promise to make me feel better. Forget it, okay? I release you from that obligation. Whatever the formula is. You know as well as I do that Virigar has no intention of letting any of us go. For all I know, he’s got a hit squad waiting outside.”

He relaxed slightly. “I thank you, my friend. Yes, I also doubt Virigar’s benign intent; but I had to make the offer. None of you would be imperiled were I not here… and were you not my friends.”

“Bull,” I said again. “Maybe we wouldn’t be on today’s hit list, but we’d sure as hell be on tomorrow’s menu.” I looked at him again. “Is this the same Verne Domingo who sent me out to take on Elias Klein with nothing more than a mental shield and moral support?”

For the first time I saw his features soften, and his smile for once held nothing unsettling. “No, my friend. For you are my friend now. I have had no true friends, save those in my household, since… well, since before your country was born. In the past few months, you have shown me what a precious thing I was missing. More; you have given back to me the faith I lost, oh… more centuries ago than I care to remember. That, Jason, is a debt I shall be long in repaying.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say; I guess I didn’t need to.

As quickly as it had come, Verne’s gentle expression faded and his face returned to its usual aristocratic detachment. “We are agreed that Virigar’s offer is without honor; thus we cannot follow that course of action. So what do you suggest?”

I stared at the ring again. “Well, even if he isn’t trustworthy, if I did deliver the ring it might give us some advantage.”

“I have already explained to you that I cannot–”

“I know that.” I said, cutting off his protest, “I’m not saying take it off.”

“Then just what do you mean?”

“For guys rich as you, jewelers make housecalls. Surely one could make a duplicate in a few hours?”

That stopped him. He looked very thoughtful for several minutes, but then shook his head. “I’m afraid it would never work. The time element aside–and we would be cutting it extremely close–you are underestimating Virigar. He would undoubtedly check the authenticity of the ring; I would not be surprised if he were himself an expert in jewelry. Moreover, we have no way of ascertaining if he has watchers about our residences; a visiting jeweler would tell him all he needed to know.” He shrugged. “In any case, it is irrelevant. He would know that ring in an instant, for it is more than mere jewelry.”

“Seriously, Verne, could he really spare that many to watch us? I mean, we killed one and injured another; how many more could there be?”

He gave me a look reserved for idiots. “You are the expert in mathematics, my friend. Calculate how many descendants a single pair could have in one hundred years, assuming a twenty-year maturity age.”

I winced. “Sorry, so I’m slow. That’d be eighty from the original pair alone that’d be full-grown.”

“That, of course,” Verne admitted, “assumes that they maintain normal human birthrates and take no ‘breaks,’ so to speak, from parenting. In reality this will not be the case, but even so, I would be surprised if there were less than a hundred or so all told.”

A hundred! Christ! I didn’t even have that many silver bullets! “Outnumbered and outgunned …” Suddenly one of my favorite, if crazy, quotes came to mind: “It’s you and me against the world… When do we attack?”

I put the viewer’s headband on, fitted the straps, then took it off and packed it carefully in a foam-lined bag. “We’re both targets as it is; the only chance we have is to attack. Get him off-balance, surprise the crap out of him. I’ve got to hope that one of the gadgets I’ve got can spot the buggers; I’m going to get to the hospital and protect Syl.”

“And I… ?”

I grinned nastily, remembering what Verne had done to a drug-lord’s estate and his thugs. I pulled out another drawer, and handed him the rings inside. “All silver rings; I got them because I liked the looks but I just never wear any of them. You are going to put those on and go down and beat Virigar’s door in. Any werewolf that jumps at you then, just give him a left hook and keep going.”

He put the rings on slowly. “I cannot enter a dwelling without permission of the residents, you remember.”

“I didn’t say enter; I said beat his door in… and his walls, and everything else. We have to disorganize him.”

Now he smiled coldly, the fangs lending it the right predatory look. “Precisely so. Shall we…?”

“After you.”

We left by the back door; Mjolnir was parked in that alley.

I got into the car, locked the doors, and nodded to Verne; he faded into a cloud of mist, and then disappeared. I still stared at that; I don’t think I’ll ever get used to vampires. I started the engine, put Mjolnir in gear, and began to pull out of the alley.

With a shuddering thump a shaggy, glittering-fanged nightmare landed on the car’s hood. Then the car jolted to a stop; in my mirror I could see a werewolf that had grabbed the rear bumper and lifted the wheels clear of the ground. I swear my heart stopped for a second; then it gave a huge leap and tried to pound its way out of my chest. I yanked the gun out and pointed it at the one on the hood; the glass was bulletproof but hopefully it didn’t know that.

It didn’t; the werewolf rolled off the hood and to the side. I shoved the pistol into the gunport the previous owner had thoughtfully installed and fired twice. Neither shot hit it, but the werewolf decided that retreat was a good idea. I hit the hidden release and part of the dashboard flopped out and locked, revealing the small control panel. As the one in back began to yank harder on the bumper, trying to tip the car over, I pressed the second button.

Mjolnir’s engine revs rose to a thundering shriek as the nitro supercharger kicked in; blue flame shot two feet from the tailpipe, and what I’d hoped for happened; the werewolf yipped in startlement and pain, and dropped the bumper.

I mashed the pedal to the floor; the V8-318 engine spun the wheels, throwing rubber smoke in the things’ faces, and Mjolnir hurtled onto the street. By the time I passed Denny’s I was doing fifty. A glance in the rearview almost made me lose control; three hairy killers were in hot pursuit, and they were closing in!

I searched the panel for any other tricks I might play, wishing I had James Bond’s armamentarium… or even Maxwell Smart’s. I triggered the rear spotlight, blinding them momentarily and gaining me maybe a hundred feet before they recovered.

Mjolnir shuddered as I hit a series of potholes at sixty-two miles an hour. I wrenched the wheel around, skidded onto the interstate entrance ramp. Behind me, I could see my pursuers catching up fast. On the straightaway I hammered the gas again, watched the speedometer climb towards triple digits. I heard myself talking: “That’s right, come on, come on you little bastards, let’s see how fast you really are!”

At seventy-five they started to fall back; the largest made a final desperate dive and hooked onto the rear bumper. I tried to bounce it off by running off and on the shoulder, but the creature just snarled and held on tighter. It started to claw its way up the back.

If Mjolnir had been an ordinary car, those crystal claws would’ve torn straight through and the thing would’ve climbed right into my lap. Instead, its talons made long gouges in the armor but failed to get any real purchase as I swerved the car back and forth. The werewolf scrabbled desperately at the trunk, but there was nothing for it to grab; with an indignant glare it pitched off the rear bumper and somersaulted to a defeated halt. I gave it a salute with my middle finger as it disappeared in the darkness. Then I turned down an off-ramp and headed Mjolnir towards St. Michael’s Hospital.

 

The Savior – Snippet 31

The Savior – Snippet 31

They’re dumbfounded from the march. Get them moving, man. Give them something to do.

“You heard the colonel,” Abel screamed out. “Get those orders to companies and stop hanging around here like a bunch of flitterdonts looking for dead meat!”

He began shouting precise assignment.

The couriers and command staff seemed to start back into the present with Abel’s words. They had trained for this. They knew their stuff.

They’d better, thought Abel. We went over and over this in drills the past couple of months.

Those who were messengers reined their donts to attention, kicked them to speed with their heels, and rode away to their assigned companies at once.

Master Sergeant Groelsh, dismounted nearby beside his dont, nodded up to Abel. “That’s the way to tell them, Major. I’ll tend to the lines hereabouts.”

The men began to line up by company and march off the Road toward the River, several fieldmarches to the west. Another round of shots smashed into the ground nearby, not striking any men, but kicking up stones.

“Better move ourselves,” von Hoff said. Abel issued the order for the remaining staff to move west a fieldmarch. He was happy to see they did this in good order. No one was panicking yet.

The company commanders formed their men into ranks, and turned them west. Within a few steps from the raised bed which held the Road — a dirt causeway through the marsh — there quickly was no ground, only bog. It grew deeper and wetter the closer they moved to the River. The men began to sink in up to their knees in the mire.

Another massive exploding rock fell, but the troops were out of range. It caused no casualties, only noise and spectacle.

His couriers returned and Abel fired off more directives. “Move to the north, through the muck. Tell them to stay out of range!”

He and von Hoff did the same, They kept their donts on the road, but on the far side, away from the mountain. After a few harrowing moments, they were outside of musket of range, or at least shot ceased raining down near to them.

When they reached position that seemed safe, von Hoff turned and stared up at the mountain. “Did you notice the way that fusillade came in all at once, Dashian, like a slap across the face?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“And those rocks. Ballistas, arbalests. Powerful ones, to get that kind of range. Using nishterlaub methods, I’ll wager.”

“Must have about the same range as their muskets.”

“I’m not so sure those are all muskets, either. Who the cold hell can get off volleys that well timed? It’s sure not any of those shabby militiamen we’ve been picking off along the way.”

“If they have those nishterlaub extreme-range catapults, there could be other new weapons, sir,” Abel said. “These people are known heretics. They’re liable to try anything.”

Von Hoff nodded. “Yes, we need reconnaissance. Saxe will see that. The cavalry can work their way up that hill from the side, come in on their flank or even above them. They probably don’t even have to engage. We need information and then — ”

Abel was listening, but he was staring up the hillside as well. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Colonel.”

“What the cold hell do you mean, Dashian?”

“Look up ahead. The mounteds are charging. Looks like half the regiment.”

“Curse it! No, they can’t be — ”

But then von Hoff saw what Abel was pointing to. Donts streamed up the hill, looking like small nutterdaks at this distance, leaving a cloud of dust behind them. Yet the attack was no more than three or four fieldmarches away, and the mountainside was sparsely vegetated. Abel and von Hoff had a good view of the action.

“What are they thinking?” von Hoff shouted plaintively. “What cursed idiot sent them?”

Abel knew when a commanding officer was asking a rhetorical question.

He did not reply.

Up the hill the donts charged. Although the donts the mounted regiments rode were of good stock — all Guardian animals were the cream of the crop — this was not the terrain they’d been bred for, and it showed.

The movement upward started as a two-legged sprint, with forehooves in the air, sharp end out and held at about the height of a man’s head. This was the classic mounted charge, terrifying to an infantryman. But as they struggled up the mountain, the leading wedge dropped to four hooves, and then the mass behind them dropped in droves. Soon the donts were trudging up the hill little faster than a man could walk. Another massive volley from the stronghold above reaped men from saddles and felled donts, but the bulk of cavalry continued upward, upward.

“Brave,” said von Hoff matter-of-factly. “So brave and stupid.”

But suddenly, as if they’d emerged from the mountain itself, a line of men with rifles rose up. They were halfway down the slope from the craggy stronghold, and stood between it and the charging cavalry in a line that ringed the mountain as far as Abel could see.

There must be five hundred men up there, Abel thought.

Plus or minus fifty by immediate estimate, Center said. I am, of course, extrapolating how many may lie around the curve of the mountain at either end of their line.

The cavalry was at nearly point-blank range.

Those five hundred Progar men took aim. The sun flashed off their barrels.

The Guardian cavalry continued its charge. Some brought carbines and dragons to bear on the newly revealed enemy. But there wasn’t time.

A crackle of ragged fire down the line of Progar militia. Those in front, leading the charge, went down as if mown by an obsidian-bladed scythe. The line of men in the fortress — for it was a fortress, had to be — stepped back and began frantically reloading, while behind them another line stepped forward with rifles already at ready.

Now several of the mounted got off shots, and a few of the Progar men fell. But not many. Not enough.

The Progar line fired again. Far from perfectly together, but they didn’t have to be. They were firing into a mass of men and donts. Another swath of mounted troops crashed down, dont and man screaming, entangled, crushing one another, dying together.

“By the Bones and Blood,” von Hoff said softly. “It’s pure murder.”

A horn blew in a low, loud blast that reverberated off the mountain. A huge group of mounted separated from the mass of men on marshy Valley floor north of Abel’s position and tore up the mountain to reinforce.

“Blood and Bones! Kanagawa’s thrown his reserve in,” von Hoff said. “It may be enough to carry those trenches.”

Abel realized the trenches he was referring to must be where the men had been hiding before they’d risen up and blazed away with their muskets. They’d seemed to come from nowhere.

Wave after wave of mounted attacked, fell to the ground or were driven back. Yet they attacked again, struggling up the mountainside yet another time. The musketry from the trenches might not have been enough to stop the charge, but the rain of fire from the craggy stronghold above the trenches added to the cavalry’s misery, falling down on them from positions almost directly over their heads.

Then, from the north, another hue and cry. Men shouted. Horns blew. Donts screamed and honked. The crackle of gunfire, only a few pops at first, grew.

Von Hoff surveyed his men deployed into the marsh. “This won’t work,” he said. “We’ll be forever getting up to fight. We’ll have to take to the Road again.” He considered a moment. “Order them back to the Road, Major. In enemy range or not, we have no choice.”

“Yes, sir.”

Your colonel has made the correct decision, given the circumstances, said Center. The Road in this area is an artificially created raised causeway through these wetlands. The only higher ground is the mountain slope presently occupied by the enemy.

The colonel may be right, but your general has walked right into this one, Raj said darkly. What happens next won’t be pretty, either.

This time Abel didn’t need to send riders. He instructed Groelsh to set his specialist signalmen to their wigwag, directing the most northerly companies back onto the Road first, then the others, line by line.

Abel could imagine what the troopers were thinking:

First the thrice-damned Lieuts tell you to run. Then, when you’re winded, he orders you back to get slaughtered. If I were a grunt, I’d believe command had lost its mind, Abel thought.

But Guardian discipline showed, and fighting lines were quickly formed as men streamed back to the Road, most within range of the muskets above. Much of the musket fire was still directed at the charging mounted forces, however. Nevertheless, every few moments another catapulted rock fell on the Road and took out another few men.

Exposure couldn’t be helped or avoided. They must move forward. And they did, muskets at the ready, in four-deep, shuffle-stepping lines, exactly as they’d been drilled.

“May I suggest we split the lines into squads instead of companies, Major?” said Groelsh. “We’ll move faster and present less of a target. We must look like a line of insectoids from up there, just waiting to be crushed.”

Abel nodded. “Yes, Master Sergeant, do it the best way you can. Get the wigwag going.” Abel nodded down the Road. “I think the battle’s underway up there.”

“We’ll get them up double-quick, sir,” said Groelsh. “These are Goldies, after all.” He turned and barked at a signalman, and the directions went out in a flash of flags.

Abel rode up and down the line and watched his men form fighting ranks. He tidied up their edges here and there, but for the most part, they were in good order.

Amazing, considering they were withstanding barrage after barrage of musket fire, not to mention giant boulders raining from the sky. Although the musket men in the trench were engaged with the mounted attack, the guns on the crag above had now been turned on the Third. Most of the fire flew over their heads or impacted on the ground to the side of the road. But a few fusillades found their mark — some of it arriving in almost perfect sequences, perhaps eight or ten shots at a time.

Suddenly a portion of the ranks would find themselves hit and a group of men would go down at the same time, clutching shoulder wounds, neck wounds, legs shot out from under them. And some suffered the worse wound of all, a minié ball that tore into the side or gut, that hit the rib cage or pelvis and bounced through the organs in a ragged path of destruction. Their fellows lifted the lightly wounded, in some cases throwing them into shoulder carriers. The dead and seriously wounded were left behind for the time being.

Despite this, the ranks held.

Von Hoff, who had gone up front to get a better view of the situation, came charging back on his huge dont — Big Green.

He picked out Abel and rode up to him. “We’re going to be here a while. It’s chaos up there. Let’s have ranks return fire at that thrice-damned sentinel fortress while we wait.” He spun Big Green around, spotted Groelsh. “Think you can pirouette us without shooting ourselves, Master Sergeant?”

“Absolutely, Colonel, you just watch us!”

Groelsh shouted the movement order down the line, and his other sergeants took up the cry. When all was ready, he turned to Abel. “Major, would you like to give the signal now, please?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Abel raised a hand, lowered it. The ranks, four thousand men in all, spread up and down the Road, turned on his command.

“Front line up!” screamed the master sergeant. The cry was passed down the line. While the line was aiming, another flight of bullets took down several of them. The ones that remained standing did not flinch.

“Fire!” shouted Groelsh.

An ear-rattling din of firing cap pop then musket boom as each gun went off and sent its missile flying toward the crags above.

“Line back, second up!” shouted Groelsh. “Fire!”

This time Abel watched where the shots were hitting. He could barely make out several of the puffs of rock dust in the stone just above the flat spot on the crag — the place he assumed the attackers occupied.

“Third up!”

“Bring it down three or four elbs, Master Sergeant,” Abel called out.

“Yes, sir,” answered Groelsh, and shouted the instruction.

This time the Goldie fusillade was rewarded with a man rising from behind what must have been a barrier atop the crag, grabbing his stomach, and pitching forward to fall twenty elbs onto the rocks below.

Got one, at least.

I imagine you’ve given the others something to think about, Raj said.

But what the cold hell weapon are they firing?

Analysis in process, but estimate to seventy percent plus or minus three is that they possess volley guns in the upper portion of the fortress.

Volley guns?

Multiple musket barrels probably secured to a wood base with removable breech pieces and a common charge. Crude but effective.

And nishterlaub, Abel thought. Absolute heresy to make something like that. How many do they have?

Enough to keep up a near continuous fire on a good portion of your line, even while the muskets are taking on the mounted charge, Raj said. Those fusillades have come in groups of eight, so these are most likely eight-barreled weapons.

My estimate is that there are a total of one hundred and five guns with seven that have gone out of commission, judging by the decrease in the rate of fire. The operators are firing in three stages, so there are no more than forty volley guns brought to bear at a time. But volley guns have inherent limitations, most obviously the need to reload each barrel separately. That indicates at least two or three hundred men on that crag above the trenches.

I’m amazed it can hold them all.

They are most likely dug back into the mountainside, or perhaps they are making use of a cavern. This is a formidable redoubt they have constructed.

Almost impossible to take in a head-on charge, even with Guardians, said Raj. Look at those fields of fire it covers! It’s designed to make this Road a slaughterhouse.

So we don’t take it from below, Abel thought.

That’s right, man. What we need is to find the back door.