Timewalker

by Luke Norris

  Oliver didn't respond, he kept his eyes on the enemy camp and watched stone-faced as the exploding fireballs caused disarray. Men scattering to get out of the way. A group of soldiers were trying to douse another who was on fire, running wildly. The actual damage these machines caused was minimal compared to the investment they required, but it was about morale for his men, and of course being pelted by giant fireballs did nothing to bolster the enemy's morale. He grimaced at the thought. Those men aren't the real enemy, they're just pawns.

  Both armies began their advance, marching with flags and banners flapping.

  “So many men will die today!” He whispered. “This is their doing. This is their doing.” He suddenly ran to his horse. “I have to get to that mill! I have to put an end to this!”

  “Wait, Cougar!” He could hear Ponsy's voice behind him, “we do this together! Cougar! This is not just about you! We have all these men to think about!”

  “I am thinking about them!” Oliver swung himself up onto his horse “They were heading to the windmill.” But was this day really about protecting these men or about his own revenge?

  Oliver rode hard, galloping along the back-line vaguely aware of Ponsy's horse following behind.

  He thought he heard the sounds of screams and clashing steel away to his right. The front lines must have engaged. The highlanders would be making their charge in the vee shaped wedge formations all along the ridge as he and Ponsy had shown them. This was designed to dilute the enemy's front line and let his men maintain the advantage of the high ground

  “Heyar,” he yelled and dug his heels into the animal’s flanks to spur it on. He had to find the pirates. The windmill, that was where they were headed.

  The white canvas sails of the mill billowed and turned sluggishly in the light breeze. The almost serene motion was a stark contrast to the chaos underneath. There was dense fighting all around the base giant structure now, it had been swamped by Lowland and Highland soldiers engaging each other. He reined his horse into a trot and shaded his eyes to try and make out figures about three hundred meters away near the base.

  “We aren't getting through there,” Ponsy said, pulling his horse alongside. “You think that's where they have holed up Cougar?”

  As they watched, they could see a figure cutting down highlanders with ease, moving with remarkable agility, thrusting and parrying with a sword of some kind. It was hard to make out from their position, but clearly, even the other Lowland soldiers were standing back and giving the man space to fight.

  Oliver's soldiers were tenacious, but this opponent was fighting with almost inhuman speed and luck, driving back multiple attacks at once, Highland spears and swords could not find their mark on him.

  “That's one of them!” Oliver said, dismounting. He pulled a short iron sword from the scabbard on the horses mount and raised the blade. “There!” He indicated to the area just to the right of the windmill entrance. “Our men are falling back, he's cutting them down damn it.”

  “Nobody is challenging him,” Ponsy acknowledged. He retrieved from his own mount a long slender war hammer with a spike at the base of the handle. He'd had the weapon especially forged. Oliver found it to be cumbersome and too heavy to be used in prolonged fighting, but in the hands of his companion, it was an artist’s paintbrush. Ponsy's broad muscular frame let him wield it with precision and speed, like an extension of his body. Oliver had first hand witnessed its brutal effectiveness on the most recent raids.

  “Men!” Ponsy called to the men retreating around them from the small massacre ahead. “Formation!” He barked, holding the war hammer above his head calling the men to him.

  His voice snapped the men out of their demoralized stupor, and they appeared to see Oliver and Ponsy for the first time. The faces of the Highland men went from defeat to elation as they registered who stood amongst them.

  The two drivers had become legend throughout the Highlands. The streak of victories on raiding the lowlanders camps had pushed them into demigod status–if commander Oliver or Ponsy were with the soldiers, they could not be beaten. Many of the men had only ever seen either driver perhaps once or twice during the village training visits, and now both of them were here, together! A new front line started forming around them with Ponsy at the head if the wedge. Other highland stragglers were absorbed into the wave.

  “Our men ahead are falling back,” Ponsy said, the driver language came naturally in combat.

  Oliver marched among the men at the back, barking directions. “Close the gap on the left flank!” He shoved a stout Highland straggler toward the weak point. “All archers to me! Spearman, to the front! As he ran through their ranks, the men rallied. They were bolstered by the legends who had won countless victories. The men think they can’t be touched going into battle with us. Fools! Stay back! They had no idea of the capability of the true enemy up ahead.

  “Ponsy, hold the line!” “Don’t let the men push forward!” Oliver ordered the shield wall to let him through.

  As he made his way past the wounded clansmen who were retreating from the base of the windmill he shouted commands. “Reinforce the wall! To the back!” Soon he was stepping over bodies. He could sense the second-stager ahead. The carnage on the ground was an indication he was close. Oliver heard the swoosh of wood whipping the air and in the same instant arched back to avoid a spear thrust from a Lowland soldier aimed at his neck. He spun in a crouched three sixty with his short sword extended. The man’s screams were drowned in the chaos. It came to him too naturally. Some part of him was thriving, craving more. But this was the driver within.

  I have to get closer! There were virtually no clansmen around him now, this was enemy territory. But something had drawn their attention away. It was just a moment, but he could use this opportunity. Still in a crouch, he removed the helmet of the fallen Naharain soldier. He recognized the black iron helmet, one of Drake’s shadow soldiers. Oliver wiped his matted hair slick with sweat away from his eyes and slid the helm over his head. Only Oliver’s eyes and mouth remained visible. He snatched up the man’s weapon, an eight-foot fighting spear with a long iron tip. Hopefully, the helmet would be enough of a disguise, and his leather jerkin would go unnoticed. If I can just get closer without them noticing.

  Oliver was taller than the surrounded men and was able to quickly survey his surroundings to make out what had drawn the attention of the Naharainees. Not twenty meters away, two desperate clansmen had been hopelessly surrounded. He recognized Ab-Nasil by the hulking shoulder carapace adorned with a few remaining scraggly feathers. They were being goaded by a circle of spears.

  Oliver shouldered his way forward through the enemy soldiers. He earned brief glances as he muscled his way toward the opening, but upon seeing the iron helm, they paid him no special mind. As he reached the edge of the circle, he saw to his dismay that Ab-Nasil and the wounded clansmen at his side were the last of a complete highland regiment. The bodies of the of clansmen scattered the ground.

  The proud clansman swung his sword weakly at a lone soldier in the circle. He’s wounded, Oliver could see blood coming from the chief’s shoulder. Ab-Nasil had an unhinged look, lashing out wildly, he had failed, his men lay dead around him. A lone Naharain soldier stood in the circle parried and dodged with inhuman speed, taunting the clansmen. Everyone else were onlookers, enjoying the show, but not interfering. The Naharain man had a slight build, blond beard, and free shoulder-length blond hair. He was goading the clansmen in a strange language.

  Oliver recognized the language. “Second-stager!” he spat. It was the language of his abductors. He had listened to this man conspire two years earlier, while he lay sick in the next room in the small mountain village. The scene before him had an overwhelming familiarity. Memories of similar horror scenes on Earth flashed before Oliver’s vision. Here it was happening again. Flaring anger overtook Oliver, two years of suppressed emotions towards the perpetrators of all the atrocities now had a point of focus, and he stood fiv
e meters away. This man had ransacked Earth, enslaved Oliver and all the other drivers, administered a horrible fate to his friends Lego and Toro, who were most certainly orbiting the planet in that sterile prison at this moment. Now the second-stager was enjoying sadistically drawing out the fate of these clansmen in front of him.

  This stops now! Oliver stepped into the circle.

  35. Duel

  Riff was boosting. This is exhilarating! he thought as another lethargic swing from the highlander sailed harmlessly past, at what looked to him like the sword was moving slowly through a viscous fluid. I can’t be touched by these first-stagers. We are treated like gods and live like kings, I don’t know why we don’t spend more time planetside during the raids. He scored another light cut to the man’s flank. He wanted to give the men a show, so he was taking his time. The cheers from the men sounded deep and droning at the rate he was boosting at.

  He’d ordered the Naharanee soldiers to stay back and keep the perimeter locked, it had created a makeshift dueling arena on the battlefield. As the younger Nasil clansman tried to rush the perimeter, he was kicked back into the center by the soldiers. The man had a spear wound on his flank, he sank to his knees and threw his sword on the ground in resignation.

  This one is no fun, thought Riff. He moved toward the prostate soldier. The other clansman, a chieftain Riff had learned, shouted a battle cry and charged, swinging wildly to defend his man. Riff slapped away the man’s sword and then attempted a spinning kick. He had no idea how to execute such a kick, but that didn’t matter, he knew his boosting, and it would look cool. Speed would more than makeup for lack of technique. His engineer brain was working, force equals mass times velocity squared, I may not have mass, but the velocity has a squared after it and I’ve got velocity, he chuckled to himself.

  His foot connected with the large clansman with so much force that it threw the Ab-Nasil backward off the ground. The highlander lay on the ground coughing but did not rise.

  Pain shot up Riff’s leg. The force taking even him by surprise. It’s not broken, he thought thankfully, as he put weight on it and stepped towards his victim. He would make this quick now, Yarn would be wondering where he was. He brought his blade down.

  In that same instant, a Naharainee spear suddenly appeared in its path, the iron spearhead deflecting the sword.

  Riff looked up confused. That is one of Drake’s men. Why is this soldier interfering? He was a tall, athletic-looking man, a striking figure wearing a black, wrought iron helmet, with sweat and blood gleaming on his bare shoulders. “Stand back with the others, soldier!” he ordered. The man did not move–instead, he used his spear to slide Riff’s sword around in a large slow arch, twisting the weapon out of his hand. The sword fell to the ground. Riff stood dumbfounded at the audacity of the soldier. He looked into the eye slits behind the wrought iron helm and a sudden chill froze him. The confidence. The ease at how he held himself in the middle of a battle. Riff had dealt with enough of these men to know what he was looking at. This was a driver.

  “Captain!” he screamed in the second-stager language. “He’s here! Yarn, the driver is here!”

  *

  Oliver watched Riff kick Ab-Nasil to the ground, as the chieftain tried to defend the other clansman. The second-stager can’t fight, he realized. He is lucky that kick didn’t break his own leg. He has no technique, speed is his only weapon. His attention snapped back to the present moment, Ab-Nasil lay immobilized coughing and holding his chest underneath Riff. He had seconds to act. Oliver focused his energy as he had in the death duel against Drake. Immediately sounds of the men and battle dropped several pitches like a Doppler effect. Was he moving faster, he couldn’t be sure, to him things still felt normal. There was no more time, he had to try. Oliver jumped with his spear extended, just in time to save the clansman from Riff’s sword. He blocked the kill-stroke.

  Riff glanced at Oliver, telling him to stand back. He thinks I’m one of his own soldiers, Oliver realized. He wasted no time. I have to disarm him. He may not be a fighter, but he is extremely dangerous with his speed augmentation. Oliver used a maneuver he had taught his spearmen during the training to dislodge a sword from the opponent. Riff’s grip on the weapon was novice, and in a single motion, it clattered to the ground.

  The element of surprise lasted only a moment. Riff looked at the steel helm and into Oliver’s eyes. His aggravation gave way as recognition dawned on his gaunt face, and something more. Panic. He was frantically calling the others.

  He fears me. Good! Oliver let his driver instincts guide him. He anticipated Riff’s next move, swung the butt of the spear around as the second-stager dove for his sword. It caught Riff hard on the jaw and knocked him onto all fours.

  Riff tried to shake off the dizziness on his hands and knees. Oliver didn’t wait. He spun the spear one eighty and pointed the spearhead at Riff’s back.

  From the perimeter, a man screamed, “Nooo!” Yarn pushed through the wall of men and burst into the clearing where Oliver stood with his spear above the engineer.

  Oliver moved quickly. He thrust the spear down through the second-stager. A stillness settled over all the men. All voices seemed to hush. What had they just witnessed? None of the surrounding soldiers made any move to interfere. Somehow they knew that something beyond their understanding was happening here.

  “You fool!” Yarn screamed. He was beyond trying to keep any facade of composure now. Shira was gone, Costa was gone, and now Riff had been taken, and by a driver. A first-stager, an augmented one but still just a first-stager. “You have no idea what you have done here.” He snatched a spear from the nearest soldier and began circling the perimeter. He stole a short nervous glance at the dead engineer but didn’t dare take his eyes from Oliver for long. “You have no idea who you are dealing with. Who I am. What I am capable of. And you,” he waved his spear, “you are going to undo years of planning.” While Yarn was speaking he was augmenting his metabolism. He began boosting. He would dispatch this driver, and he would do it with pleasure.

  Oliver didn’t make any move towards Yarn. He stood with his foot on the dead engineer’s back. Intense brown eyes following the second-stager from behind black iron.

  “I know exactly who you are.” Oliver’s voice was only a hoarse whisper, but the arena was suddenly so quiet that it was heard by every man there. He pointed with his spear. “Captain.” He spat the last word. Now the suspended silence was only broken by the slow swoosh of the windmill’s sails every ten seconds.

  “You are the man,” continued Oliver, “who destroyed my home and made me a slave, imprisoned my friends, raped and pillaged countless other planets, and turned me into whatever it is that I am. This, this driver.” Oliver dug his spear in the earth and reached up and slid off the helmet letting it fall to the ground. His dark hair was matted from sweat and grime. Tears streaked the dirt on his cheeks. “And now this war! All these innocent people! It will never stop until you are stopped.”

  He snatched the spear and charged at Yarn thrusting.

  The biomechanical programming the drivers received gave them an aptitude to adapt to all manner of weapons. This was extremely useful when deploying them into different planet environments. Oliver didn’t need long to become an expert in all manner of weaponry. He’d been using these primitive weapons for more than a year, and by any reckoning, he was something of a grandmaster. Oliver’s mind had subconsciously analyzed the science of the spear, and it became an extension of his body. His form was faultless. Perfectly balanced, left leg extended back, body stretched over his crouched right leg, the spear in line with his arms and body. A precise and devastating motion that would have skewered any normal opponent.

  But as swift, as Oliver was, Yarn’s spear moved faster and was already there with the block. “Like I said, driver, you have no idea what I’m capable of, but you’re about to find out.” His last word was strained as he leaped forward. He was boosting even deeper, gifting him superhuman speed. This was
the edge Yarn needed. In a blur of motion, he took three strikes at Oliver.

  To Yarn’s disbelief, somehow each was blocked and repelled in turn. “Aaargh,” Yarn struck out even faster this time, but again Oliver dodged each blow by arching back, ducking under, and slapping the third strike away with his spear.

  “What is happening here?” Yarn grunted. “This is not possible!” I have to focus, he can’t match my speed. No driver can manipulate their metabolism. He used all his focus to speed up his body more. He was boosting deep, dangerously so. The human body was not designed to undergo this kind of stress. This time Yarn spun full three sixty whipping the spear around and engaging in another whirlwind of strikes and thrusts.