As usual, everything the woman said had multiple meanings. In this case, she was clearly telling him that she had also passed the magical cutoff date. She was too old to revive despite her current appearance. That such a fact should be revealed to him here and now, as a response to a simple pleasantry, was typical. Christopher would have called a conference and put all his secrets on the table, but that was not how the bards worked. A direct meeting would be too easy to magically spy on. So information had to be coded and dribbled out bit by bit to those who could only understand it in context.
That was one thing he could thank the goblins for. Deep in the heart of their fortress, surrounded by the magic of their evil god, he’d been able to have a straightforward conversation with an elf. Not that he was going to thank them; that conversation had been painful. For that matter, the only other honest conversation he’d ever had here—with Friea when they were surrounded by an anti-magic field—had also been incredibly painful.
There was a lesson here that he was stoutly trying not to learn.
“Impossible,” Istvar declared. “You have much ahead of you and more to offer.” Istvar did not know the Skald’s true age—although he had to know she was older than she appeared—but Christopher suspected the motivation was more personal. They were all getting older. Magic could not stop that. At some point, Istvar would have to accept that even his ranks could not keep him in the saddle when facing younger men. That point would be a lot further away here than it would have been on Earth, but it would still come.
As it would eventually come for Christopher. And he had a lot do before then.
“Step it up,” he called out to the infantry squad. They stopped poking every square foot of ground with their bayonets and advanced quickly but still warily into the park.
Nothing happened. Karl waited until the squad was a hundred yards into the woods and almost out of sight before he signaled them to stop. With a frown, he turned to Christopher. “When worms sun-bathe, the robin must be wary.”
Meaning that whatever monster was smart enough not to take this easy lure was smart enough to be dangerous. No simple maw of teeth and hunger but an intelligent and cunning mind. A hawk, soaring about the ground, waiting for the unwary bird to follow after the worms it disdained. Christopher, of course, was the robin in this scenario.
“You spend too much time around those bards,” he replied, and spurred his horse forward.
The column marched three miles before Karl ordered a halt. The land was still manicured and neat. It was also devoid of any creature larger than a squirrel. The only distinguishing feature was the large open plain in front of them, the first clearing they had seen that was large enough to decamp an army.
Christopher sat on his horse and stared at the plain while his soldiers tromped through it, beating the ground with poles. Rangers roamed to and fro, occasionally stopping to examine a bush or flower with intense scrutiny. Nothing happened. Nonetheless, he could not shake the feeling that he was staring at a guillotine. When he glanced at Cannan, the man just shrugged.
Friea rode out, accompanied by Istvar. She circled the area on horseback, peering through the ring of her thumb and forefinger. When she returned to Christopher, there was admiration hidden in her face. “I swear to you, my lord, this field is free of magic.”
“I equally swear it free of snares, pits, poison, and ambush,” Einar said, although he had not moved from Christopher’s side.
Christopher nodded his head. “So whatever their trap is, it’s really amazing.”
“Phenomenally so,” Einar agreed. “This is why the area is proscribed by our law.”
“It can’t be that dangerous,” Gregor said. “The Gold Apostle came down here and acquired those giant ants he gave to Joadan. He had to sleep somewhere.”
“Yet he came only once,” Friea noted. “And we do not know what price he paid. Whatever rogue magic made monsters out of insects will not be without cost.”
“Do you want to move on?” Christopher asked Karl.
The young officer struggled with an answer. Christopher knew it was cruel to put so much responsibility on him, but it was in fact his job. Christopher ran the kingdom, the church of Marcius, and the county of Kingsrock. Karl ran the army. That was why he now wore the rank of general. The first commoner general in the kingdom’s history and, in Christopher’s opinion, the best. Certainly better than Christopher.
“If we flinch from shadows we will exhaust ourselves to no purpose. This is the most defensible position we have seen for a camp. Absent any compelling reason, we should make use of it.” Karl looked over at Lord Einar, clearly trying to pass the baton.
“The only contrary reason I can give is common sense. Although a toddler would be smart enough not to fall into this trap, expertise and magic agree with your decision.” The man was enjoying this far too much. “Rangers would never camp here. But Rangers would never bring an army here.”
Christopher decided to argue. “Perhaps the inhabitants did not expect an army. Perhaps they use this field for games and are mystified that we are standing here arguing about it. Perhaps they just wanted a place to plant strawberries.”
Everyone but Friea and Einar seemed relieved at his words. The Skald smiled in appreciation for his sophistry even while she clearly did not fall for it. The Ranger just grinned harder.
“Why haven’t we seen crops?” Gregor asked. “Even the goblins had wheat fields.”
“My apologies,” Einar answered. “I thought you knew. Everything here is a field. The mown lawn we have been walking through is cultivated rye grass. Not plowed, as we would do, and not organized into discrete and uniform parcels for convenience, but still of sufficient density to support half the kingdom. We tried to emulate it once, but the method is exceedingly labor intensive.”
“So you’re saying there are a hundred thousand peasants hiding in those trees?” Gregor asked, looking out at the forest.
“More, I would assume. Yet that is not cause for concern. One presumes that their peasants are no more dangerous than ours. The role of peasants is to produce, not fight.”
“I have learned to fear peasants,” Gregor said darkly. Einar had not been there when the goblins had tried to drown Christopher’s army in corpses.
“Set a fire line,” Christopher told Karl. “All around the perimeter. We’ll want a ring of fire in case they try to swarm us. A lot of fire.”
“I shall look to my defense,” Karl said, staring at him with hard eyes. “You must look to yours. Should you need to flee, you must do so. The realm can survive the loss of an army. It cannot survive the loss of its liege.” Only half the power of the kingdom had marched here. There were another thousand men back in Kingsrock, under the command of the battle-seasoned Curate Torme and supported by the spell-power of Cardinal Faren. Yet the price of Christopher’s rank made him irreplaceable.
“He’s not wrong,” Gregor agreed softly. “Keep your flight spell handy. There will be no dragon rides this time.”
4
BURNING RING OF FIRE
The men devastated the nearby forest for firewood, piling it in a ring surrounding the clearing. They placed incendiary charges among the lumber, thus negating the issue of whether the wood was too green to burn. Setting things on fire was not a problem for Christopher’s army.
Ironically, Christopher grew more disturbed as the defenses took shape. Where was the trap? He watched the men raise his command tent with dismay. The idea of taking off his armor and laying down for a nap struck him as absurd.
“They’re probably waiting for nightfall,” Gregor said. “I mean, doesn’t everybody?”
It was true. So many of the monsters seemed able to operate in darkness. Christopher still hadn’t succeeded in refining white phosphorous, so his dream of parachute flares lighting up the night was as empty as wishing for search lights or night-vision goggles. All of those things could be had with magic, of course, but magic was something you gave to individuals, not arm
ies.
A principle apparently belied by the hundred magical lightstones scattered throughout his army. Each was the size of a ping-pong ball and gave off as much light as a torch. These were the cheapest of all magical items, yet six of them still cost as much as a human soul. They were also ridiculous, in that they flickered exactly like real torches. What possible point was there in such fidelity? Nonetheless, their convenience was undeniable. Electricity would have to wait for this world’s Edison because what Christopher knew about it wouldn’t light a Christmas tree bulb.
As the sun set over his camp, the men began to light real torches at the perimeter. The lightstones were reserved for the interior of the camp, where the wagons full of black powder were gathered. Christopher’s one secret weapon was explosives. He had brought a lot of them.
The tension thrummed along his spine. He looked over to Cannan, whose instincts were generally reliable in these situations. The man had his huge sword in both hands and looked like he was about to hit someone. Cannan often looked like that, but he usually kept the sword sheathed when he wasn’t actually hitting people. Gregor seemed wary, although that might only have been because of the proximity of Cannan’s blade. The red knight’s sword was ridiculously sharp. Christopher had seen it cut an anvil in half.
Einar and Istvan joined them, both men strolling calmly as though they were at a picnic.
“Can’t you tell something’s wrong?” Christopher asked them.
“We will be attacked soon, yes. So much is obvious, although I am not sure it is wrong,” Einar answered.
“Sooner would be better,” grumbled Istvar. “While we are awake, armed, and gathered together.”
It was true. All of the principals of the camp were here now, save for the two bards and the Prelate Disa. The bards would participate in any battle from behind the lines, where their spells could achieve the most effect. Christopher and Istvar would use their magic to win the fight; Disa would use hers afterward, along with the dozen young priests and priestesses accompanying the army. Injuries were only temporary in a camp with so many priests.
“We should not be so convenient a target,” Cannan grumbled. This was odd for several reasons, first of which was that normally the man complained that Christopher’s ranks were too dispersed. Concentrating everything into a single powerful blow was standard military doctrine here. The other reason it was odd was that Cannan seemed to actually rumble while he grumbled, quivering enough to jingle the overlapping scales of his armor.
Christopher realized the ground was shaking. He had time enough for one word, and that was spent starting a spell. Then the earth opened up and swallowed them all.
He fell into darkness, surrounded by dirt and tent poles and his companions. It seemed like forever, but before he could finish his flight spell, the ground slammed into him. Detritus from above clattered on his head.
Light flared. Istvar, shaking off a pile of dirt, raising a lightstone over his head with one hand and a sword with the other. This collapse would have killed any mortal man, but none of Christopher’s retinue was mortal anymore. It would take more than this.
More was apparently on the menu. The light revealed them to be in the center of a shaft, perhaps forty feet deep and twenty wide, with three narrow but tall tunnels opening onto it at the bottom. From these tunnels crawled giant black shapes, ants flowing forth from an anthill.
Which was not a metaphor. They were ants, the size of cows, with mandibles like scythes. Already one latched onto Christopher’s thigh, squeezing like a vise. Instinctively, he smacked it with his sword, knocking off one of its legs. It kept squeezing.
Then it broke in half, the head spasming as it fell away, mandibles clicking at random. Cannan, roaring, his massive sword flashing, spun in a circle, chopping up ants. Christopher paused long enough to cast a blessing on his sword and then joined him. Now his blade bit with more effect, although not nearly as much as Cannan’s.
As his hearing recovered, he realized Cannan was trying to communicate something.
“Get out of here!” The man paused long enough to jab upward; an ant took the opportunity to bite him on the ankle. It held on while three more crawled over themselves to lunge at Cannan, now unable to move out of the way.
The situation was not as bad as it appeared. Christopher had three entirely separate ways to escape this trap. He could fly, he could enchant his feet so that he could walk on air, or he could turn to mist and blow out like steam. Unfortunately, all of these would leave some of his companions behind.
Instead, he cast the strength spell on Cannan. Empowered, the man sliced through all three lunging insects and kicked the one attached to him so hard it fell over and waved its legs in the air. Christopher moved into the center of the shaft and looked for someone else to help.
It was mildly humiliating. Despite his armor and sword, he spent most of the battle throwing spells. The other men all had varying ranks of the warrior profession. Casting strength on them, and then healing, and then endurance when they began to flag, was a better use of his time. Dead ants began to pile up. His men climbed on top of the bodies and fought from there. Eventually, they would reach the surface on a stack of corpses.
Then Christopher noticed that the queen was coming in by crawling on the roof of the tunnels, while dead ants were being dragged out along the floors. The pile stopped growing. The ants could cycle an infinite number of attackers through this chamber. Eventually, Christopher would run out of spells, and then the swordsmen would fall to attrition.
Flying out seemed like the better part of wisdom after all. The battle had bought them time and space. Christopher, protected from interruption, put the air-walking spell on Cannan, Istvar, and Einar while they fought.
“Carry Gregor,” he shouted to Cannan. Then he cast the flight spell on himself. Only once his feet left the ground did the other men take off. Christopher could float, whereas the others had to stomp up, like climbing a flight of stairs, and that in heavy armor. Cannan had Gregor hanging off his back by one arm, huffing like a draft horse. Gregor slashed at the ants that crawled up the walls after them.
Christopher began to worry about all of these ants boiling up into his camp. He flew faster, moving to the edge. Men rushed to him as he pointed into the hole.
“Fire!” he shouted. The ants were actually gaining on the airclimbing men. They were as fast on the walls as on the ground. Riflemen leaned over and blazed away. A layer of ants tumbled back to the ground.
The next wave replaced them, but now Christopher’s retinue had cleared the surface.
He spent his speech on a spell. Fortunately Istvar recognized which one it was and started bodily pulling men away from the edge of the hole. They got the message in time, and when the column of flame filled the shaft, it caught none of his men. The ants, however, burned with an acidic tang and a horrible crackling.
Still flying, Christopher hovered over the shaft and looked down. Nothing moved. Either the ants had learned their lesson or they were preparing something new.
In the distance, he heard a rifle shot. He couldn’t sit here and babysit a hole in the ground while his army was under attack.
Captain Kennet appeared at the edge of the hole, rolling a barrel of powder. He called orders to several other men, who were manhandling more barrels. Behind him stood Quartermaster Charles with a lit torch. Kennet had taken to dynamite from the very beginning. He could handle this. Christopher flew off to find Karl and learn what other dangers had struck while he was burning ants.
He was relieved to see there were no more sinkholes. Instead, the ants had made a rush at the edges of the camp. These ants were half the size of the others; Einar declared them to be workers, not soldiers. Apparently they were only a diversion. Once the strike against the principals failed, they withdrew, having inflicted little damage, held off by rifles and fire.
The casualties came from flying ants spitting globs of acid several hundred yards. Christopher was horrified at the results. T
he men were not just dead; they were disfigured, some missing hands or chunks of their torso, some with half their faces eaten away. He could bring them back from the dead, but he could not fix this. The Saint’s ability to regenerate flesh was still denied to him for another rank, and even then it was frightfully expensive.
There had only been half a dozen of the fliers, most of which had been shot down. Presumably they were the ant’s spell-casters, thus expensive, and therefore limited. If the ants had a hundred more in reserve, Christopher would have to retreat. His men had signed up for death, not a lifetime as hideous cripples.
The men did not seem to understand this yet. They kept looking at the ground, terrified of being swallowed up.
“Fill bowls with water,” Christopher told Charles, his quartermaster. “Spread them around the camp. If the ants are tunneling under us, the water will shake.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said. As part of his salute, he threw a concerned glance at one of the acid-burned corpses.
Christopher turned away before his face could betray him. Charles was smart; Charles had also been the recipient of the Saint’s magic. The young soldier understood the problem. Christopher could not lie to him, could not even order him to lie to the men, so for the sake of morale, he simply did not answer the unasked question. This was a kind of dishonesty, of course, but just another one of the many diplomatic silences sitting on a throne compelled. He had never lied so much in his life and all without saying a word.
Also unsaid was what the soldiers should do if the bowls did start shaking. Christopher didn’t have a plan for that. He just wanted to stop them from feeling helpless. He returned to his new command tent, trying not to feel helpless himself.
“An unsatisfactory engagement,” Istvar complained. “Although our casualties were light, our winnings were lighter. The vast majority of the enemy’s tael has returned to them.” The fliers had been shot down outside the ring, and the soldier ants had drug away their fallen, leaving only a few hundred peasants to harvest.
World of Prime 05: Black Harvest Page 3