Restart.
Eyes open, on feet, quick scan of the horizon. Rolling hills, trees, grass — no immediate threat. The rest of my group still lying at my feet.
Inventory of weapons, armor: 14th or 15th century medieval. Lances, swords, crossbows, daggers. No plate armor; mail over padded leather.
Horses whinnied over a slight rise to my left — we would not be walking today. The others woke as well, and came to the same conclusions as I. In just a few minutes we were on our way.
As we cantered down a green valley towards a small brook, I took a moment to wonder. Battle groups usually were about half and half for a relatively even contest. Given that only ten had been retired after the last battle, however, it looked like we only had about a third of the fighters in the hall, if that. Maybe less.
I signaled a halt, suspicious. What were the gods up to this time?
Sending Kin with four or five scouts ahead on our fastest horses with light armor, I had our company trot slowly, and pause often, conserving strength until we knew what we were facing. At least water was no worry in this land. The horses and men would have all they wished to drink and more. Another hour of this and several of the warriors showed impatience. They looked ready to charge ahead, seeking battle. I sent them back into the group with a gesture and we continued our slow, restful pace.
Finally one of our scouts returned. We halted, the horses immediately found some grass to munch, and she scratched a rude map into the muddy bank.
“The reds are about ten klicks ahead. Twice as many as us. If we continue through this valley, we’ll come right on them — they’re following the stream. If we stay here, they’ll be here in two hours. Kin and the others are still tracking them. They’ll send a fast rider to warn us if there are any changes.”
I considered our options as she continued to scratch the landscape in the sand — natural choke points, good options for an ambush. Should we create a surprise attack of our own? Ride on and fight it out? I made my decisions and gave my orders.
We immediately broke for a little copse of trees near the crest of a small hill.
“Cut down what you can. Stack it, layer it for protection thick enough so that horses cannot ride through.”
I would leave most of my force here while a small group would come with me to slow the reds and give our team time to prepare. The crack of axes hitting the trees sounded as I led a handful of our best mounted warriors away. We stripped off much of our equipment, taking enough only for a mounted, running fight. Each of us led a second mount carrying nothing but extra arrows and a lance. All silently saluted us with their swords as we trotted away.
An hour later we tied up our spare mounts in a little gully a few klicks from the stream — all saddled and ready to go. We turned downhill and headed for water.
The valley dropped out below us in gentle curves softened with tree and bush and grass. Everything was green, and the air was rich with the smell of growing and flowering things. I — all of us, really — had such little chance to actually live, to enjoy life and enjoy a place. We hardly knew what it might be like to do such a thing, and I felt nostalgic without reason, the pain of the loss of something I had never known.
The harsh whisper of one of our group brought me back. Time to focus. I dragged my eyes from the land.
We could hear them now: a mounted column of three hundreds does not pass quietly. Quickly we slipped close to the line they would pass, walking our horses to reduce our profile. We eased through a treed area and settled in near a huge rocky outcropping of the hillside as the column passed.
For some reason — and I hoped it was not because we had missed them — we did not see any red scouts. Either they were ranging well ahead of the column, or the reds were so confident in what they must have known were overwhelming numbers they had not bothered to send any.
We ducked lower and held our horses close to minimize any noise they might make. The column seemed to pass for hours, although it was just minutes. The front of the march was not our target: we would attack from the rear.
Finally, the enemy cavalry had passed. Again, the reds had thrown caution to the winds and set no rearguard, just the end of the column. We mounted and picked our way down. When we hit their trail, we formed up in two groups and gently, slowly, began to overtake. The longer they suspected nothing, the better our odds.
Luck was with us, as the trail narrowed and curved. I saw the last red disappear around a corner and marked him for death as we increased the pace.
Our horses were in full gallop as burst around the bend and loosed arrows, two or three for each man, aimed not at the end of the column but as far down it as we could. Then we were upon them and time once again slowed as I drew my sword and with a wide, long stroke separated the rear-most soldier’s head from his shoulders.
We split, our columns raking the reds from both sides as we continued up the path. The next man was just starting to wonder if something was not quite right when I impaled him on the point of my sword and removed all doubt, then continued up the line slashing and hacking, inflicting maximum damage in minimum time.
The reds were in shock and unable to disengage from their tight columns to give much in return, but that would change. With a whistle I signaled the return and we reined in our horses savagely, turned, and spurred back to the rear, mopping up any and all reds as we went and bursting back around the turn in the trail only a few minutes after having come out. We angled off the trail up to our spare mounts at full speed through the trees and up the hill, using up all the energy the horses had to give. Pursuit was sure to come.
As we jumped off our horses, I took quick stock. All but one had survived the raid, and all were in good spirits: unwounded and victorious in this early skirmish.
“Quickly!” I urged. “We only have a few minutes.”
Dropping the reins of the horses we had just ridden, we transferred any weapons we wanted and jumped into the already-saddled spare horses. Then with a few hits and yells, we stampeded the unmounted horses further up the hill and circled around the rocky outcropping.
I allowed a devilish grin to crease my lips. There was no way the reds could ignore this ambush — they would need to follow us to ensure that the entire blue army was not now in their rear. But the last thing they would suspect would be an ambush immediately after an ambush.
We heard them just seconds later. A strong party of reds was coming up the hill ... maybe fifty or sixty. Smart, I thought: not your entire force, but definitely strong enough to take the fifteen or so that you saw raiding. Also strong enough to not quickly be destroyed if in fact our main body of force was here.
They came fast, hot on our pursuit, having likely heard the noisy gallop of our original mounts as they stampeded further up the hill. In surprise lies victory, I thought, and signaled all my companions to be ready as the sounds of the pursuit neared. Moments later, lances in our hands and helmets lowered, we charged at full speed around the rock and caught the red force in the open just beyond the copse of trees where we had hidden our spare mounts. Seconds after appearing we hit them full force from the side, burying our lances in their bodies and immediately switching to longswords, hacking, slashing, trampling.
Our initial charge broke their formation. We had completely surprised them — more than that, we had shocked them, and they crumpled under our sudden, crushing attack. Ten were dead before they properly noticed and responded to our charge, and another ten were dead before they reformed and presented anything like a coherent response to our attack.
That was precisely the moment I was waiting for. We regrouped, stood just off their ragged line, and poured arrows into them, firing from the saddle. Another five or ten dropped, crying out in pain, and as we lowered our helmets and prepared to charge one last time into the fifteen or twenty remaining warriors, they wavered and began to withdraw. We crashed again into their line and, now panicked, they turned and withdrew.
The ten or so that could, that is.
We
quickly disengaged — no point running them down only to face the main body of their forces — and regrouped. Another two of us were down. They feebly waved us back as we surveyed the field. Then we turned and headed back down the valley to the rest of our forces. A little over an hour of hard riding later we were back.
An enormous amount of labor had been done since our departure. While outwardly the same as we had left it, the little copse of trees was now fortified: tree trunks and limbs crisscrossed in seemingly random but cunningly set patterns that provided shelter for defenders and impassible blockades for attackers. In addition, we now had quick paths through the trees to transfer soldiers to any side, reinforcing whichever unit came under the fiercest attack. The men had cut makeshift spears as well, setting them up embedded in the ground, facing outward. Concealed in the branches of still-living trees, they would only be revealed in an attack.
All was ready, so I ordered the men to rest and drink. We’d have an hour to recover our strength, maybe two. And then we would fight an angry and still-superior force to the death.
More scouts returned to us an hour later. Prepare for battle, they said. We took our positions and waited.
Shortly we could hear the sounds of their horses. Soldiers checked their swords in their scabbards, moving them, loosening them. We put our heads down and did our best to meld with the forest. Much would depend on the first few moments of battle.
The reds appeared over the ridge forward of our positions. They were moving quicker than I expected a twice-ambushed force to cover ground — perhaps angry and eager for battle. We would not disappoint.
They came near our positions without any signs of noticing our presence. Closer. Closer, and then they were right upon us. Without warning our arrows made the air sing with violence as all our best bowmen — and women — filled the air with arrows. We had concentrated our forces on the side most likely to be attacked, and the deadly dense fire from almost a full hundred expert bows cut down the nearer warriors and horses. Red flowed on red.
But they were expert warriors, just like us, and did not panic.
Withdrawing to outside bowshot, they formed lines. As we watched and waited, I knew what was running through their minds: a charge over open territory towards a mostly-unseen foe well-equipped with bows. Then a quick dismount at the edge of forest, as the horses would not gallop into the thick trees, and finally a running charge into our lines to take us on in hand-to-hand combat … all while under a murderous barrage of arrows and spears that had already taken perhaps a third of their numbers. Not an attractive prospect.
Realistically, they had little choice. The only other option was to encircle our positions and probe for weak points, but now that they were reduced to perhaps two hundred and fifty effectives, that door was closed. Fifty or more had been lost in our initial raids. Another seventy-five or so might have gone down in that first barrage of arrows. Now if they tried to surround us, they would only succeed in thinning their lines, allowing us to mass at any given point and, outnumbering them, overwhelm them. And then wheel around and do the same elsewhere in their lines.
Their only hope as I saw it was to quickly gallop to the far side of the copse of trees — where we were not — and enter the forest while not under attack. This would preserve their forces for hand-to-hand combat, make life hard for our archers, and retain their still-large numerical advantage. My bet was that they would not see this option. But I had stationed small forces all around our positions that could collapse towards any given point of attack, and hold the line until our reinforcements could arrive.
My guess and hope was that anger and pain and fear would drive out reason and the reds would in frustration take the simple and obvious option … and that we would soon face their charge. I passed the word to be ready.
A horn sounded: we were in luck. Hot heads had prevailed. The reds charged, and we filled the air with our arrows. Filled them with arrows too. The slaughter was gruesome, and it was massive.
Finally, the remnants of the mounted reds reached the edge of the woods and, swinging to the ground, ran towards our lines with bared swords, only to be met by an even greater volume of fire, now including thrown spears. Only half had made it to the trees, and more still were dropped as they dismounted and ran.
Perhaps 50 men made it to our lines. It was over almost before it started.
After the killing stopped, I mustered all our forces and looked around with disbelief. We had lost only a handful. Never before had the winning side lost so few.
Kin, Livia, and I laughed and joked and rested, ready for the darkness to close our eyes and take us.
We did not have long to wait, but I wondered, even so, what the gods were doing now. And what sort of a life this was to live: fighting, killing, dying. For sport or some other purpose?
I did not know, but fell asleep.
We are your overlords
We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.
How soft your fields so green, can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war. We are your overlords.
- Led Zeppelin
There was never any sensation of time in a pod, but waking seemed quicker than before. Different.
I got out, warmed, stretched, yawned. Something was odd. As I grabbed my clothes, I finally noticed the obvious: I was alone.
No one else was awake.
Wondering if this was some mistake, I looked at the other pods. Pulling on my shirt, I checked Livia’s pod. I could see her, dimly, inside. Everything looked fine, but having no idea what the slowly blinking lights on the pod meant, I could not tell whether she was OK or in danger. Working my way from pod to pod, the same was true: everyone looked fine, but no-one was waking up.
Fighting a rising panic, I calmed myself by taking a few deep breaths. This had never happened before. What on earth was going on? Wondering, I headed toward the feasting hall. Was I the only one?
In the hall, at the table my troop usually occupied, at my place in front of my seat, there was a full, steaming plate — obviously just placed there. So there was no glitch … this was expected and planned. But what it meant was beyond me.
However, the plate was full and my gut was empty, so I did what was natural and set about reversing conditions. Meanwhile, I scoured my brain for something, anything, that would give me a clue about what was going on. No answers presented themselves except a niggling feeling of deja vue … a sense that something like this had happened before. But nothing more, nothing concrete. Nothing that made any sense.
When the smoke formed, I almost grinned. All the show just for me? The mists formed and fell, the sphere appeared, turned transparent. And Hermes appeared.
“Geno. Come with me.”
Immediately, without transition, we were elsewhere. Maybe elsewhen, too. Somewhere in a place — or on a world — I had never seen.
We were on a wide, grassy plain. Trees grew here and there, but there were no hills or mountains — in fact no horizon. The plain stretched, it seemed for hundreds of kilometers in all directions, and clouds, far distant, encircled the plain. Just before the cloud, I saw silver gates — city gates. But any city, if indeed there was one, was lost in the mists. A narrow path wound through the plain to the gate. I saw all this in an instant, then turned to the side.
Beside me was Hermes, but not twice human size, nor glowing.
“My Lord,” I said, going to one knee.
He smiled, motioned me to get up, and started down the path.
“Walk with me, Geno. We’ll go to the gate.”
As we walked he looked over at me as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“Gods can appear in many forms, G, and sizes. This one is appropriate for today. For now.”
So now I understood why he was not twelve feet tall, or gleaming with barely contained light. A million other questions buzzed in my brain, but I waited for Hermes to speak.
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“You may ask.”
“Lord, why am I here? Why did I wake alone? What would you have me do?” There was more, but I figured those were the three most important questions. Though the answer was probably the same for each.
Hermes smiled. He walked down the center of the narrow path while I pushed through thigh-high grasses at the edge. He was in no hurry to answer or to arrive.
“You have many questions, including those few. But they are the key ones,” Hermes said slowly. “I have chosen you, Geno. In the beginning, when we created all the warriors you know and fight with and against, I chose you.”
He paused, and was silent for a few minutes as we slowly strolled down the path. Insects buzzed at our feet, and birdsong echoed from the trees. The sun was warm on our backs. I remained silent, patient outwardly if not inwardly, knowing that Hermes would continue when he was ready.
“Many things are not what they seem. You are not in the afterlife, Geno, as much as you are getting an education.”
Silence filled the space between us again. I was in a school? I knew of course what that was — there was a great deal that filled my brain without me knowing precisely how I knew — but only a dim image of a room, of lessons, a teacher came to mind. Everything I thought I knew about school was not what filled my everyday existence.
“School is perhaps not the term that you would recognize best. Call it boot camp, then. Boot camp for the warriors of the gods. It is already almost over.”
“When it is complete, you will be given tasks. You, and a few others, perhaps. But first, there will be a final test.”
Hermes said no more. As we neared the silver gates, suddenly close to what had seemed impossibly distant only a few short minutes ago, I knew that he had given me all the information he was going to … and that I’d been given some time to prepare. That was all I would get — it would have to be enough.
Now the city was visible through the bars of the gates. I glimpsed towers and spires, fantastical structures, half-visible in the blowing mist and cloud, appearing and disappearing as if by magic. They were impossible shapes, curved and smooth, graceful and beautiful. I wanted to go through the gates and explore this city which I knew instinctively was the city of the gods. But just as surely I knew without asking that I would not be permitted.
No Other Gods Page 2