By Other Means (Defending The Future)

by James Chambers

  Spinner snorted dismissively. “What do we have, one platoon of Border Warders? You can’t stop a five thousand man column with one platoon.”

  Haft shook his head. “We don’t have to stop them, only slow them down.”

  Spinner looked at him. “How can you do that?”

  “By using classic hit-and-run guerrilla tactics, like in Lord Gunny Says.” Haft looked smug. “Bet you thought I didn’t read Lord Gunny Says, didn’t you?”

  “I know you looked at the pictures,” Spinner said. “Some of them, anyway.”

  Haft led half of the Zobran Border Warders on the shore side of the narrow scrub plain. They were in a staggered line abreast, about five yards apart.

  The rest of the platoon, under Birdwhistle, rode south along the base of the escarpment. Haft still didn’t trust horses; he and his men were on foot. Communication between the two groups was quick as the plain was less than half a mile wide here. Hatchet and Slice ranged ahead, scouting for the van of the approaching Jokapcul division.

  A mage and his pack mule loaded with the instruments he might need on this mission, accompanied by the Zobran Light Horse, trailed. He read the occasional instructions Haft left for him, and quietly chortled as he obeyed them.

  In addition to his axe, Haft carried a demon spitter. Two of the Border Warders with him also carried demon spitters, as did Birdwhistle and two of his men.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Haft saw Archer freeze in place, and did the same. He slowly swiveled his head side to side. Not so much to make sure all of his men had stopped, but to find what had made them stop.

  It was several long seconds before Haft saw movement in the trees to his right front. Then he saw Archer relax, and knew the movement was either Slice or Hatchet coming back to make a report.

  It didn’t bother Haft that the Border Warders had detected movement before he did, and that they recognized an approaching friend first. As good as he was at stealthy movement, and detecting stealthy movement, he knew from long experience that the Zobran Border Warders were even better.

  Not that he’d ever admit it to anybody.

  It was Hatchet, trotting straight at Haft. He stopped a yard in front of Haft and drew himself into a reasonable facsimile of attention.

  “Sir Haft,” he said with barely a pant, “I left their van less than an hour ago. They have a troop of horse with a platoon of infantry as outriders on each flank. Tracker is maintaining visual contact, and will notify you if they speed up.”

  Haft nodded. The Jokapcul van was larger than he’d hoped for, but he and his Border Warders could deal with them anyway. He only wished the mage wasn’t so far back.

  “Send someone to get Birdwhistle,” he told Archer. “Have his men wait in place.

  “You heard the lord,” Archer said to Shaft. “Go, bring Birdwhistle and the mage up immediately.”

  Shaft grinned, showing the stubs of teeth broken off by a patrol of Royal Foot who captured him years earlier when they found him poaching in the royal preserve. He’d avoided a lengthy prison term—and possibly worse punishment—by agreeing to serve as a Border Warder. All of the Zobran Border Warders were ex-poachers.

  “Consider them on their way,” Shaft said. He tapped a knuckle to his forehead and gave a shallow bow before running toward the rear.

  Haft watched Shaft and grunted with satisfaction. The speed of the man’s run told him that the mage should reach him in fifteen minutes or less.

  The distant clop of hooves caught Haft’s attention, and he looked to the west. It was a moment before he could see the horse through the forest. He waved when he did, and Birdwhistle waved back.

  “Sir Haft,” Birdwhistle said as he reined up near his commander. He hopped off his horse and stepped close. “You called for me?”

  “I did,” Haft confirmed. He nodded to Hatchet. “Tell him what you told me.”

  “Sir!” Hatchet snapped to attention. He relaxed as he told Birdwhistle about the approaching Jokapcul van.

  When he was finished, Birdwhistle looked at Haft. “Your orders, Sir Haft?”

  “I’ve sent orders to Drycraeft. This is what we’re going to do—”

  Before Haft could lay out his plan, the small door on the side of his demon spitter slammed open, and the gnarly little demon inside it popped out and clambered onto Haft’s shoulder.

  “Abou’ time oo zayyam zumzing tha’ meen zumzing!”

  Haft shot a scowl at the demon. Birdwhistle put a fist over his mouth, disguising a chuckle as a cough. The others did their best to not notice.

  When Haft finished spelling out his orders and Birdwhistle and Archer went off to get the rest of the Border Warders into position, the gnarly demon tugged on Haft’s earlobe and plaintively piped, “Veedmee!”

  By the time the Jokapcul van reached the place where Hatchet had reported to Haft, the refugee rear guard was ready to do battle. Twenty-five Zobran Border Warders, four Zobran Light Horse, a junior mage, and Haft. Facing a hundred-man troop of horse and sixty foot.

  Haft thought he had the Jokapcul in a very bad position.

  The sub-lieutenant commanding the platoon of foot on the right flank of van was irritated. He found the crashing of the ocean waves on the beach only a rod or two to his right very annoying. The noise prevented him from hearing sounds that might signal danger to himself and his soldiers. But he marched stoically, sternly, at the head of his platoon, and did not voice his displeasure.

  A shout from his left front distracted him from his thoughts about the sea. He gripped the hilt of his scabbarded sword to keep it from slapping against his thigh, and sprinted toward the voice.

  “What is it?” he called out.

  “S-Sir!” came the excited voice of one of the soldiers assigned to the platoon’s point. “Here!”

  In a few more paces, the officer stood next to his point man, gaping at a most unexpected sight; a beautiful woman lounging against a tree. The inviting smile with which she favored the Jokapcul staring at her was all she wore. Slowly, she raised a hand and beckoned them to approach.

  The officer swallowed and licked his suddenly-dry lips. “Stay here,” he snarled, and strode toward the woman and her ever-so-inviting smile. He wasn’t aware that he had released his sword hilt, or that his suddenly-sweating hands were flexing in anticipation of caressing that beautiful flesh before him.

  When it happened, it happened too fast for him to see the beautiful woman who he was reaching for to turn into a huge black dog that lunged to tear out his throat before flashing off to kill the pointman, and then tear into the trailing platoon and ravage it before the shape-shifting Black Dog bounded off into the forest freed from the mage’s control.

  At that same time, the point of the troop of horse pulled up. The shadows were deep where they were, deep enough to prevent the underbrush from growing very dense or high, creating a semi-clearing under the trees. The point stopped because they thought they saw mounted men ahead of them where there shouldn’t be anyone. At a signal from their leader, one turned back to get an officer.

  The officer, when he arrived, peered into the shadows where the point team thought they saw someone. “I see no one,” he growled. “Move out.” He accompanied the order with a slash of his riding crop across the back of the nearest soldier.

  No sooner had the mount of the first pointmen taken a step than there was a dimly seen flash from the deepest shadows. Before anyone in the team could react, there was an explosion in their midst. All fell, along with their horses, in a welter of torn flesh, shattered bones, and spurting, flowing blood.

  After firing his demon spitter at the lead element of the Jokapcul point, Sergeant Mearh eased his horse into the clearing where the shadows weren’t quite as dark, and waited.

  His wait wasn’t long. Little more than a minute after the explosion, the head of the cavalry troop reined in next to the dead troops. Their officer, identifiable by his helmet’s plume, raised his sword, thrust it forward with a scream, and led his tr
oops in a charge at Mearh.

  Mearh danced his horse backward into the deep shadows and waited until the charging horsemen began tumbling, their horses stepping in the small holes hastily dug by Drycraeft’s hodekin.

  Some of the horsemen behind the front rank successfully jumped over their fallen comrades; some of their horses also stepped in holes and crashed to the ground amid equine screams, and the snapping of broken bones. Some of the screams and breaking bones belonged to men.

  Mearh fired his demon spitter at a knot of horsemen who hadn’t gone down, then wheeled his mount and led his Light Horse in flight. Behind himself, he heard the shrilling of an officer who came upon the chaos and screamed at the horsemen to stop their charge and withdraw from the clearing.

  Which Mearh thought just as well—Drycraeft’s stretch of hoof-grabbing holes was small and thin enough that the leading Jokapcul were already past it.

  Silent hadn’t reported any Jokapcul on top of the escarpment, so Haft had assumed there weren’t any. But there were. Silent hadn’t seen them because they were a few hundred yards to the left front of the main column. Barely close enough to hear the explosions of the demon spitters and the screaming of injured horses.

  But close enough to feel the need to investigate.

  The Jokapcul came at a trot, spreading from column to a compact line.

  Birdwhistle and his troops sat in ambush near the foot of the cliff. Their mottled green surcoats made them nearly invisible in from the ground, where the foot who formed the left column of the Jokapcul force would approach.

  From hiding, Birdwhistle sought the plumed helmet that would identify the officer. When he saw it, he rapped on the door on the side of the demon spitter he carried. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  The little door cracked open and a tiny voice piped, “Ready!” before the door thocked shut.

  Birdwhistle raised the tube to his shoulder and sighted along it, fixing his sight on a spot a foot below the plume. The little demon inside the tube spat, and a second later there was an eruption of light and smoke where Birdwhistle had aimed; red blood splashed within the light and smoke. To his sides, Birdwhistle heard the twangs of arrow strings as his men shot at the Jokapcul. Screams rose from the enemy ranks as arrows found their marks. Birdwhistle shifted his aim and again the demon inside the tube spat.

  Without waiting to see the results of his second shot, Birdwhistle jumped to his feet. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and dashed back to where his horse waited. His men pounded along with him. In seconds, they were leaping onto their waiting mounts.

  The ambushers were invisible to the infantry platoon they’d ambushed, but they weren’t invisible from above.

  A loudly growled command from the top of the escarpment was instantly follow by barked commands as the sergeants repeated the officer’s orders. Arrows began raining down on the Zobran Border Warders. Struck horses screamed, a few wounded men added their cries of pain.

  “Go!” Birdwhistle bellowed. He spun his horse around, looking to see if any of his men were too injured to get out of the sudden killing zone. He had the same trouble spotting casualties that the Jokapcul had finding targets; the mottled green of the Border Warders’ jerkins made them very hard to spot in the underbrush.

  A moan caught his attention, and he dug his heels into his mount’s flanks. The horse squealed as it bounded forward. Birdwhistle saw the man who’d moaned. He jerked hard on the reins to bring his horse to a stop alongside the wounded man, and leaned far over to scoop him up. An arrow protruded from the top of the man’s shoulder, only a couple of inches from his neck. The man used his good arm and his legs to help Birdwhistle haul him up to lay face down in front of Birdwhistle. The wounded man’s horse wasn’t in sight.

  They sped off, pursued by arrows and shouts from above, and caught up with the rest of the Border Warders at their rendezvous point, less than a quarter mile away.

  “Report!” Birdwhistle shouted as soon as he got there.

  Four of his thirteen men were wounded. Three others weren’t there, dead or badly wounded and left behind. Shouts and barked commands from above told Birdwhistle the Jokapcul who had surprised him were coming after them.

  “Follow me,” he shouted, and heeled his horse into a canter, heading away from the cliff. “Somebody go ahead, find Drycraeft. We need him to tend our wounded.” He wondered how he was going to retrieve his missing men.

  Haft crouched next to Drycraeft midway between the sea and the cliff. He ignored the sounds of battle coming from his flanks, and concentrated his attention on the sounds of horsemen approaching from his front. It sounded like his plan was going to work.

  “Are you ready?” he asked the mage.

  “Ready,” Drycraeft answered, almost shouting in his excitement.

  Haft cast a nervous glance at the Phoenix Egg Drycraeft fondled, nervously rolled from hand to hand. He spun toward the sudden sound of someone crashing through the brush to his right and rose to a crouch, ready to strike at whatever enemy burst into sight.

  It wasn’t an enemy, it was Naedre.

  “Sir Haft,” Naedre gasped, dropping to his knees next to his commander, “we have wounded. Birdwhistle needs the mage.” He spared Drycraeft a look.

  The mage nervously looked at Naedre, then back at the Phoenix Egg.

  Haft grimaced. He hated having casualties, and couldn’t leave them unattended. But he needed the mage to strike at the horsemen racing in his direction. “How many,” he asked.

  “Four. One might not live. Three others are missing.”

  Haft swore silently. Four wounded, three missing, and Naedre here. That meant Birdwhistle was on the flank with only five Border Warders, fighting a platoon of Jokapcul foot. They needed help, and badly. But he had to strike hard at the oncoming horsemen.

  “Go back,” he ordered. “We’ll be with you in minutes.”

  “Yes, Sir Haft.”

  Drycraeft softly sighed in relief—he was going to be able to use his Phoenix Egg after all.

  Haft looked back in the direction of the Jokapcul just in time. “Throw it!” he shouted, and shouldered his demon spitter.

  Startled by the shout, Drycraeft almost dropped his Phoenix Egg. He looked and his eyes popped when he saw how close the leading horsemen were. He quickly recovered, twisted the top of the egg, and lobbed it over the heads of the closest horsemen. Then he jumped to the rear and rolled away.

  The egg struck the ground in the middle of the charging group of horsemen, and burst open. The Phoenix, released from the egg, spread its flaming wings wide and began flapping them. With each flap, fiery feathers brushed men and horses, burning them horribly, setting their clothing and trappings afire. Men screamed and horses shrieked in agony.

  Haft pressed the signal lever on his demon spitter, and the gnarly demon within it spat. The globule struck a horse, rearing in panic to escape the Phoenix, and exploded, sending chunks of flesh and bone and splashes of blood flying everywhere. The eruption likewise sent dots of demon spittle flying in all directions, and where each droplet hit, a man or horse screamed and bled.

  In seconds, a platoon of Jokapcul cavalry was reduced to a few men and mounts fleeing in panic.

  “Let’s go!” Haft shouted. He grabbed Drycraeft by an arm and jerked the mage to his feet. The two raced toward the battle noises that told where Birdwhistle was fighting a desperate battle against heavy odds. He slung his demon spitter and pulled his mighty half-moon axe from the loop that secured it to his belt. The mage trailed; he was readying another Phoenix Egg and looking about for his pack mule.

  On the left—shore—flank, Archer and his squad of Border Wardens waited for more Jokapcul to advance, to find out what had happened to the infantry platoon that had been ravaged by the Black Dog. Explosions and screams to his right told him that Haft and the mage had probably been successful in breaking the advance of the central horsemen. Battle sounds from the far right were too distant for him to tell much about the action there.

>   A Zobran Light Horse who had gone ahead as a scout cantered through the trees, sighted on Archer, and headed to him.

  “Tell me,” Archer said, greeting the horseman.

  They’re pulling to the right,” the Zobran reported. “It looks like they’re massing to strike us along the cliff.

  Archer nodded. “All right,” he said, “then we’ll harry their flank.”

  Two squads of the Jokapcul on the escarpment used ropes to rappel down the cliff face, and raced in pursuit of the Border Warders, while the rest of their platoon remained above to guard the flank. They shouted with excitement when they heard cries and the clashing of weapons from their front; the rebels they pursued must have encountered another part of the Jokapcul van.

  They were right, the remainder of the foot platoon Birdwhistle had shot at with his demon spitter had regrouped and raced forward, hoping to catch their foe.

  Birdwhistle, his five unwounded men, and two others who were able to stand and wield weapons, stood in a protective circle around the worse wounded. They’d managed to loose a few arrows when they first saw the infantry coming at them, but the enemy was too close for them to take more than one or two shots. And the Jokapcul had aimed their first missiles at the horses of the Border Warders, bringing them all down. The Border Warders had quickly given their wounded mounts mercy cuts, and moved to impose the horses’ bodies between themselves and their attackers.

  The gnarly demon from Birdwhistle’s demon spitter had clambered out of its tube, and perched itself on the man’s shoulder, clinging to his hair to keep from being thrown off by the exertions of the fighting.

  “‘Ere oo cloze! Bush ’em bak, bush ’em bak zo’m I kin spitz!”

  “I’m trying!” Birdwhistle said, grunting with the swings of his sword. He didn’t need the tiny demon to tell him the Jokapcul were too close for him to use the magical weapon, even if the pressing enemy soldiers gave him the time to shoulder and aim it.