Dream II: The Realm

by RW Krpoun

  Muttering darkly Derek got the last hex-ward into place while hanging half off the seat-the right rear bay was trying to break into a canter, upsetting the other three horses and vastly complicating the business of keeping the cart at a walking pace. He sympathized with the beasts, but everyone had to do their job if they were going to get out of here alive. His spell-slinging done he drew his Le Mat and began taking pot shots at likely hiding places in the hopes of keeping the Tek off balance. At this moment he would have given ten years off his life for his M-4 assault rifle and a full unit of fire.

  Unmodified buckshot was proving to be his best choice in these close confines, but Shad’s bandolier was getting lighter faster than they were covering ground and he had acquired two painful gashes that were bleeding pretty steadily. The Tek still hadn’t targeted the horses or mounted any sort of attack other than skirmishing. “When are they going to close the deal?” he yelled at Fred.

  “Dunno,” the big man slotted rounds into the Yellowboy’s loading gate. “They’re overdue. They can’t take us by throwing sticks.”

  “I’m not complaining, but I’m also getting sick of waiting for it. Plus they’re running out of room.”

  “They must be planning on doing it soon. Nimble little bastards, aren’t they?’

  “Yeah-I thought they were taller. Of course I never saw them afoot before.”

  The horses snorted and champed at their bits as the cart trundled down the faint path worn in the last five days, the cluster of guards firing billowing eruptions of black powder smoke as the short, slender javelins flashed in on the terminal end of their flights.

  “There’s the fort!” Derek yelled, glancing up from thumbing cartridges into his revolver, which was clenched between his knees. The cart had reached the growing clearing around the site.

  “That’s a big overstatement, but I’m glad to be here all the same,” Jeff muttered as he flipped two healing charms onto a wounded Corporal.

  “That’s a pretty sight,” Shad observed, reloading his Colt. “And none too soon.”

  “We’re out of the fire,” Fred nodded. “But not out of the pan.”

  “Section! Double-time…march!” Sergeant Major Whelan bellowed and the files of infantry broke into a trot as Derek holstered his Le Mat and snapped the reins.

  Sergeant Major Whelan lagged behind the wood party as it drew out of javelin range, keeping an eye on the forest as he moved back at a walk. Shad and Fred stayed with the NCO.

  “That wasn’t too impressive,” Shad observed. “We shouldn’t have made it back at all.”

  “Those weren’t Tek warriors, they were what we call cubs, pre-teen Tek just beginning the warrior path. They are usually found in support roles, but occasionally they are used as scouts and skirmishers,” Sergeant Major Whelan frowned back at the trees. “That’s why the javelins were so short.”

  “They sent kids against us?” Fred shook his head.

  “Those javelins didn’t have rubber tips,” Shad reminded the Scout. “What’s the significance of who they sent?”

  “The numbers. If the main body was occupied with the reaction force it would have left the cubs free to indulge in heroics,” the senior NCO said grimly. “Especially if the main body took a few Humans alive-they like to drag out the dyin’, if you know what I mean.”

  “OK, so the cubs were unsupervised.”

  “You saw how many there were?”

  “Enough to keep our hands full,” the Shootist said uneasily.

  “The Tek bring one cub per lizard or five foot soldiers.”

  “Crap,” Fred shook his head.

  “Yeah,” Shad nodded. “That’s exactly what we’re in, right up to our necks.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Maaannn, I can’t believe we killed kids,” Derek sighed as he stacked rocks.

  “”Non-Human kids,” Shad shrugged. “Nits grow into lice.”

  “I would feel a lot worse if I didn’t have a boot full of my own blood,” Jeff agreed. “The wood party lost two dead and three more so badly wounded that they’re still out of action despite having been Healed. The age of the hand on the trigger doesn’t matter to the target.”

  “I didn’t see you checking IDs in Iraq,” Fred pointed out. “When we tangled with the Fedayeen you were sending rounds downrange without a qualm. You weren’t asking ages of the Elves, either.”

  “OK,” Derek admitted. “It’s kind of like finding out exactly what the meat was in the stew: it’s only gross if you know the details.”

  “Yeah, slow fat dog in your ‘sweet and sour beef’ is fine until you know the truth,” Shad nodded. “Speaking of which, we need to take the Good Fortune Mongolian Grill off the lunch rotation when we get back.”

  “Tell me you’re joking,” Jeff said, appalled.

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell would be a wise course in this situation.”

  “Damn. I guess the four-ninety-nine all-you-can-eat lunch buffet was too good to be true.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  The Expedition was digging in, stacking the river stone and cut logs as a breastworks and digging rifle pits behind them in a slightly rounded triangle a hundred yards on a side. The remaining horses and mules were hobbled and picketed inside the small area thus fortified, further protected by carts tipped on their sides and stacked supplies.

  Lieutenant Meike was the only surviving officer; freshly Healed, he called a commander’s meeting an hour after the wood-cutting party returned. Shad attended uninvited.

  “So,” the young officer, a former bank loan official who had some militia experience, surveyed the gathered NCOs: the three infantry company Sergeant Majors, the Color Sergeants in charge of the Sappers and artillery, and the Corporal who was in charge of the wagon drivers and mule skinners. “The defeat of the reaction force cost us all our officers and staff enlisted personnel save for myself and Corporal Alaza; we also lost four Sappers with that group. Company A lost two dead and three unfit for combat, leaving us with one hundred ninety-six soldiers and eighteen civilians, four of whom,” he nodded towards Shad. “Are well-armed and capable. In addition the surgeon and his two assistants remain.”

  “Sir, that leaves us with six civilians unaccounted for,” the artillery Color Sergeant objected.

  “Six mule skinners were off hunting,” Corporal Alaza said grimly. “I doubt they’ll be seen again.”

  “The Tek will create mist as concealment, as is their custom in situations such as these. The wind, such as it is, is from the north, making that direction the best avenue for an attack,” the Lieutenant continued. “With the west and east sides being of secondary importance. Companies A and B will secure the north line, Company C the west, and the teamsters and Sappers will secure the east. Sergeant Major Whelan, you will be prepared to move with half your company to any point of the perimeter where threatened. Gentlemen, we have plenty of ammunition and steadily strengthening defenses; I expect that we shall be able to hold the Tek until they lose interest and depart, as is their wont. Dismissed.”

  “Grave or foxhole,” Jeff grunted as he carefully dumped the dirt from his spade onto the knee-high breastwork of rocks in front of his position. “Only time will tell.”

  “Not a grave,” Shad dumped dirt from the tin plate he was digging with. “The Tek are big into trophies, and those raptors need a lot of food.”

  “Circle of life, bay-bee,” Derek chuckled.

  “What else did Sergeant Major Whelan tell you?” Jeff took a break and passed the spade to Shad.

  “Just that they create mist and attack through it, to cut the visibility.”

  “You know, guns are not as much of an advantage as I had expected,” Fred sighed. “Or hoped.”

  “Stands to reason,” Derek shrugged. “Otherwise the Humans would have over-run everyone else.”

  “Speaking of standing to reason,” Shad stood and passed the spade to Fred. “You did a good job driving that cart, Derek.”

  “Thanks-I�
��ve been practicing every day of down time.”

  “But we’re back in a class/level based world,” the Shootist pointed out. “You shouldn’t show the effects of training until you level. Remember in the Prison? You spent days in the library but didn’t get a real benefit until you leveled.”

  “You’re right,” Jeff frowned at the tree line. “That’s like a glitch in a video game.”

  “We all have horse riding for free, horse care, too,” the Alienist pointed out.

  “Because its part of our classes. But you were doing a really good job with that team, in combat no less.”

  “What does it mean, then?” Derek asked as Fred started working on the Alienist’s fox hole.

  “I don’t know,” the Shootist admitted. “The left shoulder thing is missing, too.”

  “You know, we never really made use of that in the Prison,” Jeff observed. “Of course, none of us noticed the line around the tattoo that tells you how far to the next level, either. Lucky we ran into Sam.”

  “We are not really smart,” Shad nodded. “Of course, we all knew that long ago.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Fred objected. “I tested at genius level in high school.”

  “Yeah, lots of geniuses join the military in war time and work in beer warehouses,” Shad shot back. “If you are packing genius gray matter it’s still ‘mint in box’.”

  Derek snickered, and Fred tossed a shovel’s worth of dirt onto him. “Don’t laugh at me while I’m digging your hole, fart knocker.”

  “I’m a disabled veteran,” the Alienist stated with great dignity.

  “I don’t care about your sex life.”

  “Do you have a point you’re getting at, Shad?” Jeff asked, flicking cards at each Talon in turn. “Armor charms, by the way.”

  “Nope. As usual we’re behind the frickin’ information curve. We need to quit thinking like grunts when we level up and start looking into the higher-end skills.”

  “That’ll just tell us where and when we’ll die,” Derek sighed as he shook dirt out of his shirt.

  “Here’s where we will probably die,” the Shop teacher grinned. “And from the fog raising in the trees I’m guessing a raptor’s digestive tract is in our immediate future.”

  “This is like the Alamo,” Fred observed.

  “Not hardly,” Shad threw a plate-load of dirt on the barricade. “Those Stone-Age mutants are not the Mexican Army.”

  “What, you think the Mexican Army was better than them?” Derek was surprised.

  “They crossed open ground in the face of artillery and rifle fire to take a stronghold, armed with second-hand smoothbore muskets. Everyone talks about how hard the defenders fought, and from all accounts they did, but for the defenders to have fought hard and lost the attackers had to be fighting just as hard. If Santa Anna hadn’t gutted his regiments charging the Alamo, then split his force and marched his troops all over east Texas until they were exhausted, the Revolution might have gone a different route. The Mexicans have traditionally been hindered by bad leadership, but never doubt that they can and will fight.”

  “That’s true, the French Foreign Legion’s most famous battle was in Mexico,” Jeff nodded. “And forget what you think of the Frogs, the Legion has always known how to stand and die.”

  “You know how many French troops it takes to defend Paris?” Fred grunted as he dug the spade into the dirt. “No one knows-they have never tried.”

  “Movement in the trees-time to settle in. Good luck, guys,” Shad dropped into his foxhole and smoothed a rag across the dirt before laying out his two Cavalry model Colts. “See you on the other side.”

  “Its been real,” Fred grunted.

  “Just not real fun,” Jeff quipped as he checked his rifle. “Still, it could be worse.”

  “How?” Derek asked.

  “We could be cornered in that bar in Dubai.”

  “Yeah, that would be worse.” The Alienist hesitated. “You know, its been really…something, all the stuff we’ve been through together.”

  “Don’t go gay on us at this final juncture, Derek,” Shad said firmly. “The goats are bad enough.”

  The fog steadily rose within the north tree line, spilling gently over the fresh-cut stumps of the clearing and inching over the grass. As the Black Talons were facing more or less east the mist was advancing from left to right across their field of fire like a slow-moving curtain sliding across a stage.

  “Derek, are you ready with the arcane stuff?” Shad asked.

  “I have a plan but I’m not burning off hexes until they make their move.”

  “Good enough.” The Shootist peered through the thickening mist in front of his position. The Black Talons were near the center of the east perimeter, a bit closer to the southern end of the line, with the Sappers to their right and the transport men to their left. Only the north side was square to the compass, but no one felt like being too pedantic about the directions. “Fred, this is all your fault.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “If you had done a better job of arguing for a short stay we would have been long gone.”

  “Yeah, Fred,” Jeff said accusingly.

  “Way to go,” Derek observed disgustedly.

  The Scout flipped each off in turn.

  Shots echoing from the north side of the perimeter alerted the Black Talons that the attack was beginning; moments later they heard high-pitched, flute-like horns sounding all across their front, followed by the two muzzle-loading mountain howitzers bellowing behind them.

  Derek settled the Spencer securely into his shoulder and scanned the front, watching for movement more with peripheral vision than direct sight just as the Army had taught him for night-fighting. Fred’s Yellowboy barked to his left, and far to his right a Springfield belched smoke and fire but he ignored the noise. Catching a hint of movement he swung his sights onto that point and gently squeezed the trigger, levered in a fresh round, and cocked the carbine’s big side-mounted hammer.

  Feeling a tingle in his sinuses that he knew meant spells were being cast directly ahead he carefully laid the carbine down and plucked hex papers from his bandolier, muttering the activation phrases as he clipped them in place on the catches mounted on the bandolier. Vaulting from his position he moved from Talon to Talon placing various protective hexes upon them, returning to his hole as firing erupted all along the line.

  Catching up his carbine he fired at a partially-obscured Tek as it hurled a javelin, quietly thankful that the creature was clearly taller than the ones they had fought earlier.

  The Tek came out of the mist on foot in small groups to hurl javelins, ducking back into the mist to avoid gunfire, working in closer as the mist thickened. Rifles hammered away on all three sides of the perimeter and javelins whipped overhead, occasionally producing screams from the teamsters; the Black Talons and the Sappers had dug fighting positions and took no losses from the hurled spears.

  Shad unloaded one barrel at a Tek skirmisher and then cursed as the second shell misfired, a victim of Tek hexes. “Get ready!” he shouted down the line. “The mist can’t get much thicker. They’ll be closing at any second.”

  “Let ‘em,” Jeff thumbed rounds into his Winchester’s loading gate. “I came here to kick ass.” Inwardly the Jinxman felt like curling up in the bottom of his hole, but he was desperate not to let it show.

  Derek saw them first, just shadows in the mist, shadows he opened fire upon immediately, but they kept coming, moving at a deliberate half-trot. A line of warriors swam into focus as they came through the mist, tall figures, their fezzes squarely on their heads, their torsos bound about with bison rib armor that rattled eerily with each step, each half-hidden by a great wicker shield and armed with an ornately carved hardwood club fitted with blades of flint. Extra clubs hung at their belts, and bundles of javelins were slung across their backs.

  “Avoid the shields!” the Alienist yelled. “They’re tied to their head-stones and group hexes to resist gunfire
!” The sick fearful feeling that was crouched in his lower bowels made his voice climb higher than he wanted, but hopefully none of the others noticed.

  As if in response to his words the approaching line slowed to a walk and slammed their shields together into a shield wall. Rifle bullets struck the shields, damaging the material but failing to penetrate.

  Shad leapt from his hole and darted across the dirt and rock breastworks to sprawl flat on the boot-worn grass beyond. Shouldering his shotgun he fired twice, the buckshot shredding calves unprotected by the shields.

  Fred’s Sharps bellowed, smashing through a shield and its bearer’s torso. Derek and Jeff opened fire on feet, and after a few shots the other defenders caught on to the idea. The shield wall’s advance faltered as Tek went down and others moved up to close the gaps. Then a twelve-pound case shot exploded in the front ranks, hurling shrapnel and body parts in all directions. Shad hastily rolled back across the crude breastwork and into his hole as a second shell screamed overhead and detonated in the Tek front line.

  Jeff shot a stunned Tek footman who had let his shield sag too far, levered a fresh round into the rifle’s hot action and dropped a shield-less Tek who was advancing at the trot. The enemy’s front line had been hurled into chaos by a total of four howitzer shells, and it was quickly apparent that there were only a limited number of shields in the attacking force; when shields were shredded by shrapnel or pounded to pieces by rifle fire the following waves of Tek had to advance without cover.

  The only problem was that they were willing to do just that, leaning forward as if they were advancing into hail, armed with spiked bucklers and bladed clubs. The Shop teacher shot another and then thumbed cartridges into his rifle’s loading gate, wishing he had chosen a Spencer like Derek’s. The extra action of manually cocking the hammer would be more than offset by the tube magazines, and the heavier .52 bullet was almost twice the weight of his .44-40s.

  The Tek were surging to within mere feet of their breastworks despite the volume of fire pouring into their ranks, Derek saw as he a risked a glance around while shoving a full tube into his stock. Their shield wall was shattered but the humanoids were still game. The mist seemed to be thinning a bit but the clouds of black powder smoke generated by the defenders was making up the difference. Some of the Sappers were fixing bayonets, and the Alienist suspected that was not just for their morale.