by Jane Baskin
And now, to communicating without sound.
At least one gifted fighter, in every stealth group.
In five days: not a single scout captured, given away. Carrying poison in tiny metal cases under their tongues – in case. But these: not needed.
So that when evening fell on the fifth day, both keeps: surrounded by enemies both inside and out.
All unknown.
Both keeps, relishing the early fall season of color. The air, still warm in the afternoons, balmy and cool at night. An enjoyable time of year in this part of the South. Well known to Zoren-te, who grew up enjoying fall festivals at both keeps.
The central idea behind the plan (Zoren-te’s idea): wait for harvest time. Fall festival time. When great halls would be full of party-goers, minimal watches. Wait for pre-dawn, when most of the people would be asleep, their bellies full to bursting with food and ale. When even the soldiers’ barracks would be full of snoring men sleeping off the evening’s revelries. Because soldiers were allowed to participate in the festivities. Because southern lords had to keep their soldiers happy, to keep them vicious.
These festivals, lasting up to two weeks.
Nayan remembering: back then at Cha-ning: Nayan, just meeting her eyes, nodding thoughtfully when she told him about the fall festival. What a treasured partner he had found! Now, praying to all the gods she would not be taken from him. Knowing how much Darleigh would love to finish what he had started at Vel. Would love to be certain he had wiped out any chance of his great enemy’s seed being passed on, under whatever name.
Zoren-te and Nayan, meeting in a dense wood halfway between the two keeps. This, just a half hour’s ride from either one. A pretty place. The harvest moon, just beginning to rise. A tiny clearing, barely big enough for both ganthas. She: soon to Vel. He: to Darleigh, then (if successful) on to Vel. This: hopefully not a final meeting.
Dismouting and hobbling their ganthas, fixing each with a feedbag. Then sitting on the cool grass of the clearing. Zoren-te, leaning against him. He, wrapping her in his arms. Nayan, what do you feel on the eve of a battle?
Almost a chuckle. Probably the same as you.
You’ve been in a lot more battles than I have.
Really?
We don’t have raiders every year in the South. Not like you do in the North.
Nayan, a sudden drop in his belly. Zoren, have you ever been in battle?
Not like this. I’ve spent as many – maybe more – hours as you have in the practice yard. And I rode with my father and brothers against a party of thieves Darleigh sent once. But … not like you.
Not like this.
No, not like this.
Nayan, his stomach sinking. To lose her? Riding against a small group, not at all like riding against an army. Which is what would come pouring out of the castle, out of the barracks … a horde of screaming, blood mad, heavily armed and trained soldiers. A very large horde, if word got by line message to other keeps. If the scouts failed … there was always the possibility of failure.
Nayan, suddenly thinking of all the possibilities. The dreadful ones. The soldiers hiding in the attic would be discovered. A rain of bullets the mind could barely fathom would pour from the castle roof. Bombs.
The scouts outside the line message center would be found, killed. Line messages to every neighboring castle and mansion and keep would be away in seconds. Hordes of defenders would come barreling over the hills from all directions … she would be surrounded at best. Shot down before she got over a trench at worst.
Or even worse than that … captured.
This thought: oh. Winding through his gut, up through his throat, now like a worm in his head. If Zoren-te were captured … what would happen to her? Would she be tortured? Given to the soldiers? All before her head was set on the pike?
Zoren, maybe you shouldn’t ride out.
What?
If this is new to you … a raid, a battle – it’s a lot different than a chase. Or meeting a small group. This is –
She, turning suddenly to meet his eye. Don’t you think I know that, Nayan? I’m terrified.
Maybe …
No. Listen to me. I have to do this. I have to. What was once my home is now occupied by those who killed my family. The soldiers guarding my keep are worse than wild beasts. They kill their own people. And now, mine. They could never be trusted … my father and I used to talk about that sometimes. They’ll fight as easily for Darleigh as for Vel. They fight for anyone who pays them. And for the fun of it. Like Gwildan.
Nayan’s fear, getting worse. Zoren, that just makes it worse.
I know. But I’ll be okay.
How do you know that?
I just do. Listen to me. Listen to yourself. Don’t you feel it? We’ll be okay.
Nayan, trying to remember what he felt like on his first raid. The first time he rode out, with his parents and the other lords, to face southerners. A sizeable party, that one. But he, nestled in the comfortable cocoon of his family, all expert fighters … Zoren-te, virtually alone. I don’t want you to go.
Don’t even try, Nayan.
Desperately: Then I want you to stay with Noar. And Colwen.
Colwen. Not Noar.
Faced her, took her by the shoulders. Look at me. This isn’t a game. You don’t get to choose your brothers-in-arms. You just fight alongside them. You can hate Noar to your heart’s content … afterward.
Silence. Just looked at him. Their eyes meeting, the gaze deep. Nayan’s eyes, almost black in the diminishing light. Searing into her.
All … all right.
Pulling her to him, then. Wrapping her in his arms so tightly she pushed away just to breathe. Settling a desperate kiss on her mouth. The kiss, growing more desperate, more passionate. Could not let her go.
Finding themselves soon falling to the cool ground, removing whatever was necessary to join in what he – they – hoped would not be a last embrace.
The sound of their breathing blocking out any other sound in the soft ground of the wood, just behind the trees. The sound of a man, sneaking through the trees. A man who knew both ganthas, quieted them with gentle pats so they would not snort or stomp. Who had left his own gantha at some distance, so as not to make a sound on approach. Who had followed Zoren-te, when he observed her riding away from the camp.
Why? Noar never fully knew his reasons for doing anything.
Now, here: just watching. Listening. Watching his brother in love.
With the woman that he, Noar, had stolen.
Returning to their positions before midnight. Time enough to grab a few hours of rest before the moment. Not sleep, exactly; hard to sleep before a battle.
Zoren-te, wrapping herself in a thin blanket near the women soldiers. Noticing: didn’t get as cold as she used to, anymore. A year ago, would have considered this a cold night, perhaps too cold to go outside. Now, fixed her hair in a practical braid, put her head on the cold ground. Barely needed the blanket. Lay back, looked at the night sky.
Noar, sitting awake, able to see her from where he sat. His eyes, fixed upon her.
Almost dawn at Vel.
Foot soldiers, quietly creeping out from the wood, over the still meadow, over the two wooden bridges that spanned the old moat. Entering the courtyard. Followed by soldiers on quiet, well-trained ganthas, their hooves wrapped in cloth to muffle sound. Sharpshooters, installing themselves in the trenches behind.
Inside the castle: the scouts near the line message center emerging from the closets in which they had hidden for over two days. Shaking themselves quietly, as if to drop the reek of the tight spaces, the smell of their waste seeping out even from the sealed containers. Drawing breath. Then moving toward the heavy door. This: lucky. Not locked. Inside in a moment. The line operator, fast asleep with his head on his arms. The sole guard: asleep in his chair. Both, dead in seconds.
Weirdly dead. Not a sound. Eyes bulging; gray matter leaking out of their noses. Trickles of blood from their ears
. One of the four scouts: a shrug. I wasn’t sure I could do it either. Now I know.
The machine: disabled. Not wrecked, in case they should need it later. But an important part, hidden in the room.
Then three of the scouts creeping up the stairs, past the great hall where revelers still snored over their plates, giving the signal to the groups hiding in the courtyard shadows. To the “maids” who watched quietly from the kitchen door. To others, who simply thought the signal on to the riders in the meadow. Soldiers creeping onto every floor, at the ready.
Then up the narrow back stairs to floor after floor, until they reached the attic. A single thought given. The soldiers hidden there, then making for the roof. Stealing up the narrow stone stairs single file, as soundlessly as Cha-ning lions. Reaching the roof, spreading out in a crouch. So quietly that by the time the nearest guard turned, it was already too late.
Sharpshooters, aiming from the crouch. Men approaching from the stair, standing up to throw the little bombs. Horrific explosions. In a few minutes, all done. The roof, cleared of defenders.
Those explosions were far more intense than those silly little devices are capable of. Much noisier, too.
It would seem the seed is not the only one with … extra ability.
Don’t act so innocent. Are you forgetting you mentioned to me that you thought his yellow haired friend had the “extra” ability too?
I was hoping you forgot. But since you didn’t, I must tell you. Quite a few of them have it.
God Itself. Do you know what this means?
I do.
And you’re not alarmed?
No.
God Itself! Are you mad? C2 civ’s cannot have such power! No one can.
I don’t believe that sort of thing is ours to decide. In any case, now you know why we were called. This situation is most unique.
The noise, of course, rousing the barracks. Groggy soldiers, stumbling from their cots. Grabbing arms. Met by rifle fire as soon as they emerged. A horrific explosion at the main weapons dump – still, for reasons unfathomable to the sensible attackers, dangerously close to the main outbuildings and the castle itself. Had they not learned from Nayan and Noar’s depradations a year before? But the South: a place of strong traditions, weak reasoning.
Now the soldiers barracked inside the castle itself – the officers – rousing from their unauathorized slumber. Zoren-te’s intelligence: invaluable. She, knowing that despite orders, the officers inside the keep would indulge in at least enough food and drink to make them sleepy at best, careless at worst. Now these, meeting attackers in the courtyard, some even in the vestibule.
(How did they get inside?) Many officers, dulled by confusion. Impossible that the enemy was already inside.
Right?
But … rising to the occasion. Hand to hand, terrible fighting. Blood making the vestibule floor so slick, most fell. Trying to fight on their bellies. Shooting from prone positions. Shots going wild. Swords and knives, more effective. Slashing mercilessly at attackers’ legs.
Attackers who jumped like insects, who deflected blows they didn’t even see coming.
The officers above all, stranded inside the keep. Unable to give proper orders to their men. Unable to coordinate the response.
In the courtyard, northern foot soldiers, starting to be overwhelmed by those pouring out of the castle. Out of the minor officers’ barracks, the inside guard quarters. More than they had expected. Getting pushed toward the castle vestibule.
But wait. There: mounted northerners, pouring over the bridges. From their high perches, able to shoot with deadly efficiency. Some, spinning their ganthas, shooting behind themselves. And yet, not a single shot going wild. Huh?
Officers, shot in droves.
Stupid, Zoren-te had said, to concentrate the officers in luxury quarters inside the castle. Leaving the troops relatively ungoverned in outlying barracks. Easy to divide, sow confusion … if a stealthy enemy somehow gained access to the interior.
What? The Southern lords, never having encountered such an enemy. No one with such skills at stealth, in the known southern provinces. Their way: to mass an army, ride headlong over an enemy. The way it had been done for millennia. As for northerners … always defenders, not attackers. Good at it, but unknown as stealth raiders.
But now, oh. Look. See, there. Group upon group of mounted attackers. Riding experienced war ganthas over the bridges, into the courtyard, dismounting at a gallop. Leaving – making? – the ganthas to skid to stops over defenders, fall upon them, slide them backward. Their riders, shooting before they hit the ground.
All without a sound. Northerners: never yelled in battle. Especially now.
Other mounted attackers: meeting defenders as they emerged from barracks. Mowing them down with expert fire.
Defenders, now shooting from the crouch. But … look. So many shots going wild. Huh? Southern soldiers, sharpshooters every one. How could they miss? Weird. Like an invisible shield in front of the attackers they fired at.
So many defenders! The keep of Vel, still strong. A change of war chief, but still a mighty force.
As Zoren-te had said: not even the slightest care, who they fought for.
Who is that in front or the cavalry? Two men, flanking a smaller warrior. A woman? Yes, look. A long braid, extending down her back from under her leather cap. A long red braid.
The commander of Vel’s forces – himself a Darleigh man – peering from an opening in the courtyard wall. Recognizing at once. Impossible. But look. Had to be. Yes.
Had she escaped? Apparently so. Oh! the accolades he would receive for her successful capture! Headed for the courtyard barn, to mount up and follow.
See, there. You can hear his thoughts.
Yes. What an oaf.
He must be stopped.
The brother will see to it.
You’re so sure of everything!
I thought you were the one who didn’t want to interfere.
Now a horrific explosion, from south of the keep. Even surprising the attackers … so loud! Did we do that? Another, closer now.
The commander, thinking fast. Uh oh. Had to divert some forces to what may have been more attackers, approaching the munitions factory south of the keep. Couldn’t afford to lose it (or suffer the explosion if it blew). His men, becoming partially organized, finally. Overcoming their shock at the surprise attack. Remembering their training.
Getting their agitated ganthas from the barns, riding out. Some, toward the explosions. Others, now confronting the attackers in the courtyard. Filling the bridges, blocking their escape. The explosions, coming at regular intervals now. And of course, the group of elites, heading – well shielded from view behind others – for that red braid.
The commander, looking up. Looking for rifles sticking out of the ancient arrowslits. Nothing. Huh? But wait – there. Rifles beginning to emerge. Good. But … what? The rifles, pointing way too far downward. Shooting – at the courtyard? At the bridges? At the forces riding out? Picking off – what? – his own men. What’s going on?
Now bullets coming from the brush at the edge of the wood. Picking off more of the mounted defenders blocking the bridges. And something else. Huh? Impossible. Small bombs, seeming to be thrown simply by hand, landing on either side of the bridges, exploding the defenders. Had never seen such things. Bombs: needed a platform, yes? Needed two or three strong men to lift them to the launch. Yes? How could such small bombs make such horrific impacts?
Should we extend the bridge and widen the opening? They’re getting trapped inside.
No. Too obvious. They’ll think they’re riding on air. Besides … let’s see if they figure out how to extend it themselves.
(Pause) You know, you’d think, with their overall sensitivity, they’d have noticed us by now. Especially at the gell fields.
Well, he has. Every year, he sniffs around like a hunting dog.
He’ll find us, one day.
Of course he will.
“They’re shooting from trenches! They’re throwing bombs by hand, the gods only know how! Turn and face them!” His words, barely heard over the gunshots, squealing ganthas. The cries of combattants, southern defenders screaming like banshees. Heavy grunts, when bullets or bayonets found their mark.The commander, for a moment deaf with the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears. “Turn! Turn, you bastards! They’re shooting from behind!”
Whether they heard him or just realized they were being shot at … the troops, finally turning to face the shooters in all directions. Forward, hardest of all. Where in all the hells were these attackers? Bullets flying out from the direction of the wood … but no visible shooters. Defenders, now laying down cover fire, shooting wildly at the trenches. Finally organizing a frontal charge in the direction of the wood.
This, not a particularly bright maneuver. Like charging up a hill. Riders and ganthas alike falling into the dry meadow grasses. The commander, inaudible from his position still inside the courtyard. Unable to reach his gantha, still tied and hysterical inside the small courtyard barn. Trying to tell his riders to pull back. Not to ride straight into fire …
Those bridges are becoming a problem.
Yes. So plugged with bodies, his people can’t get in or out.
What do we do?
Nothing.
But … you’re the one who says we have to help.
You’re the one who says we shouldn’t.
You’re exasperating. I think we should clear the bridges.
(sigh)
A weird flash of light. A whooshing sound, a torus of light over the main bridge. Then.
The bridges, suddenly cleared. Huh? By whom? The heap of bodies, suddenly falling to the sides, as if swept away by a powerful wind. In the heat of the fighting … no soldiers really noticing.
Except for the commander, confused. Mistake? Magic? These northerners would stop at nothing … But even he: no time to wonder. Attackers, wheeling from the courtyard, charging over the bridge, heading back into the meadow. Cutting into the defenders moving toward the wood. Pushing them into a tight formation, easier to pick off from the trenches.