"Have you ever seen one? Or a picture of one?"
Dohan shook his head, almost like a spastic reflex - and explained: "Lord Fache was the last Castilian in recent memory who saw them and lived. He drove away a great horde of them near his city, in the year 930. That made him our greatest hero. It is an honor just to be defeated by him in the Joust. During the battle, Lord Fache was lucky to stay so far away from them, that he could avoid contamination. They say he still has nightmares about it.
"Once, when he was drunk at a celebration - that rarely happens - he talked about what he had seen. I happened to overhear him. He had been close enough to see them - they looked like nothing human! Unspeakable hideousness! When he saw into their eyes, he almost died of fear! Some of his soldiers, and a relative of his, were captured by... by them. The defenders of his city could hear them scream for mercy for two days and nights!"
The aircraft suddenly lurched off course - Dohan was so upset, that he had pulled one of the controls in the wrong direction. He adjusted the craft's position, and switched on the autopilot. Dohan was pale, and cold sweat was budding on his face.
"Calm down, Dohan. I promise I won't mention it again."
He let out a sigh, puzzled by Dohan's reaction. Defender of the city, indeed! Trained to fight an enemy he only knew from fairytales! Still, Dohan had shown the courage to face a witchdoctor; there was still hope that Darc could free him from his worst superstitions. Darc spent the rest of the journey studying the medical equipment Mechao had given him. He was especially delighted to examine the miniaturized diffraction microscope - no larger than his two fists, with its added optical function; Mechao had told him it came from one of the coastal cities of Awrica. And this proved that powerful technology was still being kept in memory, just waiting to be used to its full potential.
With such power, Darc speculated, he just might turn the odds in his favor. He hid the equipment in the secret pockets of his cloak, before they arrived.
From the air, they could see the signs of battle many kilometers away.
Smoke was clouding the circular, giant fortress that was Damon City. Laser lines flickered in all directions; occasional explosions hit the outer walls and the central castle. Dohan could count at least two enemy aircraft circling the city. One of the Damon family's slow troop carriers was up in the air, trying to fend off enemy aircraft with little success. Darc was no coward, but the idea of suicide didn't appeal to him.
"You're not going down there, are you?"
Dohan turned grim; he was not so different from his father, after all.
"Be quiet. Our artillery will recognize our insignia and give us cover. I will try flying in as fast as I can, attack an enemy craft and land at the top of the castle. My father is a better pilot - I should be down there now, in my armor. You, man the turret, quick!"
Darc unbuckled, grasped a side rail, and treaded back to the aft turret. It reminded him of old World War II bombers - a foldout seat, hanging suspended from the ceiling, mounted to a gun the size of Darc's two legs. Powered by servomotors, the gun pointed out through the hull by way of a small airtight porthole. He got into the gunner's seat and tested the controls. Fairly simple, he figured - rotate the gun with the two handlebars, aim through the windshield, and fire.
There were two crude, circular gauges under the gun sights, for battery power and gun temperature. Darc had done his military service, but that was years - centuries? - ago. Fear and tension were building up in his gut - but there was no time to think it over. In the next moment, they were flying in.
Red, green, and blue laser pulses blinked past the Sunray from the ground. But it was a strangely silent battle, Darc thought; no cracks of gunfire or machine-gun staccatos could be heard. Every now and then, a hit would snap against the ship's hull - too weakened by smoke and distance to pierce it. Dohan closed in on a Pasko fighter craft as it swooped down over the city, toward the great castle. From the castle turrets, a barrage of red lines aimed at the enemy ships - mostly missing their targets. The enemy pilot rolled and twisted his craft like it was a toy. Dohan fired at his rear, and hit once. The enemy craft climbed away from the castle, and Dohan went after it. The Damon troop carrier retreated to the tower hangar, badly hit by enemy fire.
In the aft section, Darc fought down a beginning fit of airsickness - his stomach lagged behind as they climbed. The castle complex rushed past his view - then he saw the second enemy fighter approach them at their rear. He fastened his grip of the handlebars and tried to lock onto the rolling pursuer. Turbulence from outside and vibrations from the loud jet engines caused the gun to shake in his hands - he fired twice, to try his aim - and both pulses missed.
The pursuer closed in, just a hundred or so meters away - fired several pulses - they missed, if only because Dohan made a sudden sharp roll and banked left. Darc struggled to get a proper aim, but the pursuer kept moving in and out of his narrow view.
He scanned the sky, squinting at the sweat beads rolling into his eyes, humming nervously between his teeth: " I'm Popeye the sailor-man... come on, you bastard... I fight to the finish 'cause I eat the ... Gotcha!" He squeezed the trigger, firing a quick burst - one of the pulses seemed to scratch the pursuer, but it remained flying. The temperature gauge climbed up to the red area - battery power was already down by half. "Damn!"
The pursuing craft fired a long burst of green pulses. A shower of sharp cracks hit the hull. Darc was rocked in his seat - Dohan put the Sunray into a rolling spin, pointing its nose to the ground. Dazedly, Darc noticed a burning sensation from the air around him - and saw that there was a freshly burned hole in the aft port, close to his seat. Too stressed out to react, he waited for the downward spin to cease.
Almost too late, Dohan broke the craft's spin and aimed its nose upward again. He turned it back on course toward the castle - Pasko's pilots were simply too good for him.
Darc took a few potshots at the enemy troops as the ground swept past him. The enemy soldiers were trying to get close enough to fire some kind of heavy cannons or grenade launchers at the outer walls - but the artillery batteries on the battlements kept them at bay. He hit one of the enemy cannons with a pulse, and it blew up in a huge cloud of fire. Darc made a triumphant yell. One of the enemy fighters got on their tail again.
Over his shoulder, Dohan yelled from the cockpit: "Cover us, Darc - I'm going into the hangar!"
Darc fired again and again - but he seemed to miss by inches and hairbreadths each time. The second enemy craft came into view farther off. Darc hesitated for a moment; he had only seconds before Dohan would have to throttle the thruster jets, and use the keel thrusters to steer into the wide-open hangar. Before they reached inside, they would be sitting ducks - unless the castle guns could shield them.
A sudden explosion from outside jolted the cabin. "Are we hit?" Darc shouted.
"They hit a castle turret!" Dohan shouted back. "Cover fire!"
Darc aimed and fired, without thinking - ignoring the battery gauge sinking closer to zero, and the temperature needle reaching the red area. He fired two more pulses - and the gun went dead. Nothing happened! He shook the handlebars, stared out the windshield - where did that second ship go? - and nearly missed the sight of the enemy plunging down into the castle gardens. The thundering explosion echoed throughout the city. The remaining enemy craft veered off, ducking laser lines from the city defenses.
Suddenly, the Sunray fell under the shadow of gray concrete walls, and it shook violently - the keel thrusters were pushing against the hangar floor. They were saved.
Chapter 18
Bor Damon had been in command of the city's defenses since early morning. Most of the civilians had taken shelter in the vast pre-war catacombs beneath the city; all reservists were armed and in active service.
Before afternoon, reports reached him of severe damage to the outer wall. The Pasko forces, which had unexpectedly and abruptly attacked under the command of Tharlos, had bombed out several turrets and were now on
the verge of breaching through. Bor coolly ordered all his riflemen to move toward the critical point and stave off the intruders. He had no knights ready but himself - and he had not been in armor for a long time. His only real fighter craft, the Sunray, was missing.
Only one city lord had proven himself Bors faithful ally when the attack came in the morning: Azuch Fache, but his broken bones were far from healed yet. Azuch was being rolled alongside Bor on a wheelchair pushed by Lachtfot, giving Bor constant strategic advice and moral support. Fache had transmitted an urgent call for reinforcements from his own city, but it was being delayed until the next day and Damon City might fall during the night. While awaiting that much-needed support, Librian and Awonso manned the laser transmitter without pause, sending desperate requests for help to Yota and Orbes. From those two supposed allies, less than three hours' flight away, came only silence.
In the city cathedral, spared from enemy fire, high-priestess Inu and her female novices were praying for a divine intervention from the Goddess; they called for the spirit of the Singing King to boost their soldiers' courage.
"I have felt his presence," she told them, calm in the faith that would not be rocked by mere explosions. "He will come to us again. For it is written: are you lonesome in the darkest night, he will sing new life into you."
In the castle's inner sanctum, Lady Osanna had armed herself with a rifle, readying herself for a last stand. Eveli stayed close to her. This was the first time in the girl's life that the city had been under attack, and she was terrified. Also with them were Bor's sister Bwynn - and Andon Pasko, huddling down in a corner. He had never been a fighter, much less a man of courage or character. As Bor was ordering his men to the outer wall, an ensign peered out a narrow window with his binoculars.
"It's the Sunray! " he suddenly shouted.
Bor and Azuch started, barely able to believe their ears. Bor Damon immediately ordered the signalmen to flag an urgent order to the gunners: FRIENDLY AIRCRAFT COMING IN. For a moment then, Bor hesitated, fearful of what outside contamination might be clinging to the Sunray and its passengers. But just for a moment.
They witnessed how the Sunray fought enemy aircraft and turned the battle in their favor; they saw enemy artillery go up in smoke and flames; they felt the impact when a Pasko plane crashed into the castle gardens. Bor Damon's pride swelled in his chest for those brief moments; his son had returned and proved himself a man.
Then, Bor saw the pulses being fired from the Sunray's rear, and thought: Someone is rear gunner. It cannot be him. He must be dead. Breathing heavily, Bor hurried to the hangar above and entered the main hall. The place was bustling with activity; the huge steel-and-concrete ports rung vibrantly as enemy fire rained down on them.
Gasping at the sight of Dohan, at the foot of the battered Sunray, he rushed toward him. And behind his son, he then saw Darc - alive and healthy. The man had cheated death again. The, raw, chilling fear of the unknown passed through Bor like a ghost's breath. Could it be that Darc really was immortal, as the rumors were saying? The city lord stared past his approaching son, straight into Darc's face - and in that face he saw something his mind could not grasp, an enemy far more ominous than the fire that pounded at the castle.
Change.
Darc's legs were a bit unsteady as he approached Bor Damon - more because of the air battle, than because Bor was staring at Darc as if he had seen a ghost. He took a deep breath and walked across to greet Azuch Fache, waving away the city lords' attempts to speak up.
"Please, my lords - we have no time to explain now. You must get the Sunray back into battle, before the enemy can shoot into the hangar."
Bor nodded dazedly, and shouted orders to Surabot and the hangar personnel. Darc recognized who was pushing Azuch's wheelchair, and grinned at the robot.
"Are you surprised to see me, Lachtfot?"
"Nothing surprises a robot, Sir Darc. Welcome back."
Darc nodded, and turned to Azuch Fache: "My lord, I want to help out. Can I borrow some of your body armor and guns?"
Azuch was stunned. The reincarnated Singing King, back from the dead, was asking to borrow his weapons!
He said, uncertainly: "Yes... but... I mean..."
Bor cut him off, white in the face: " No! As long as I am lord of this city, no upstart commoner is to soil a nobleman's suit of war! Dohan! "
"Yes, father?"
"Arm yourself and head to the northern wall in the carrier. I take the Sunray. You take command of the troops there. Watch out for Pasko's new knights. Understand?"
"Yes, father."
"Now go! "
Dohan ran off to his duties - relieved and somewhat surprised that their reunion had been so brief.
Bor turned to Darc: "And you ... I could cut you down here and now."
Darc met Bor's furious eyes without fear - he had stared death in the eye twice.
"I don't think you should do that, my lord. Everyone thought I was gone. Seeing me fight would scare the enemy, and boost our fighting spirit. You know that I'm right. The church has shown me its support."
Bor glowered at Darc, then at Lord Azuch Fache. Azuch nodded solemnly.
Bor grunted: "So be it. Arm yourself and get into the carrier. If you die by enemy hand and not mine, so much the better."
Darc afforded himself to slap Bor's shoulder.
"Let's kick some Pasko butt," he said and hurried off to the armory.
Bor trembled - from fear or rage, he did not know which. But he quickly regained his composure, ran up into the Sunray, and prepared for takeoff. Azuch Fache was left to oversee the castle defenses and the communications with their as-yet-absent allies.
"To the war room," he ordered Lachtfot.
War.
For the city lords and their knights, it was their main reason for existence. For the city dwellers, it was just terror. And for Darc...
The white-haired time traveler was sitting in the crowded troop carrier, all geared up in a shiny helmet, shoulder pads, and chest and back plates. He almost believed he was having a bad dream - that any moment he would wake up in a hospital bed - it would still be the year 1999, and he would still be dying. The soldiers aboard the flying carrier were regarding Darc with great curiosity; next to him stood Dohan in a hunching position, once more clad in his mechanized armor. He pulled up his face visor; the flight would be over in seconds.
"They expect you to say something," Dohan told Darc over the engine rumble.
"Like what? That the 'King' lives?"
The irony in Darc's reply was 900 years past its time; it went unnoticed. "Yes! Hurry, we are almost there!"
Darc stood up, grabbing a ceiling rail to keep his balance.
He beat his shield with his rifle-butt, and yelled at the wide-eyed riflemen: "The King never dies! The King can be killed, but he never dies! Because... you cannot kill the music!" The soldiers roared with enthusiasm. Darc added, in English: "Now let's rock'n roll! Rock'n-roll! "
He felt like a total fool. But the soldiers - young and grown men - shouted "Ro-ken-rol! Ro-ken-rol!" in chorus. Darc noticed their enthusiasm, their increased preparedness to die for their city. He admired their courage - and hated himself, for urging them toward an early death. He had not, not yet by a far stretch, earned the right to call himself king of anything.
The troop carrier touched down on an abandoned open place, and the passengers rushed across to the looming outer wall. The main force of riflemen scrambled up the sets of stairs that crisscrossed the sloping wall. From there, they spread out along the battlements, twenty meters above ground. The remaining group gathered with Dohan and Darc at the foot of the wall, taking cover behind nearby buildings and blocks - waiting for the expected enemy breakthrough.
With intervals of less than a minute, the ground shook as enemy explosives and concentrated laser fire ate through the massive layers of stone and concrete. High above their heads Bor entered the battle, fighting the remaining enemy aircraft; he could not offer any assistance
.
Darc felt his teeth vibrate with each, increasingly powerful detonation. As always in a war, the waiting was the worst part - waiting for death, or a small opportunity for glory.
"Why does the enemy not climb up the sloping wall, instead of breaking it up?" he asked a rifleman, a bearded fellow who probably had an ordinary occupation, a family hiding in the catacombs, and a single rifle to protect them with.
"Ah, but we have traps, sirrah - electrified barbed-wire, spread all over the outside," the man replied. "They climb the walls, they get tangled up and die. Those rotten, treacherous bastards must breach the wall before their supplies run out, or it's curtains for them."
Another large explosion came, and a twenty meter wide top section of the outer wall began to collapse on itself.
A few minutes later, the battlements of the weakened wall section crumbled. The section cracked up into several house-sized pieces, pushing inward as the enemy launched more explosives from outside. The riflemen on the surrounding battlements kept firing at the Pasko troops below - but the advancing enemy was well covered behind their reflecting shields. Only a few men on both sides were actually wounded by the blazing crossfire.
Sir Tharlos Pasko, standing behind one of his huge grenade launchers, ordered a final volley. Collapsible towers rolled forward, ready to drop long gangplanks onto the breach in the fortress.
The enemy artillerymen loaded the pneumatic tubes with cylinders of explosive jet fuel, lit their fuses, and fired. Pressurized air charges shot the cylinders sixty meters through the air, and they exploded in deafening fireballs against the wall. And finally, the bottom half of the damaged wall collapsed; it crashed inward in a cloud of dust. The gangplanks were dropped in the rubble, and Pasko's troops charged through, roaring.
Dozens of the attackers fell as Damon's riflemen greeted them with a merciless fusillade. But they pressed on desperately - no one wanted to stay out in the Wastelands for long, especially not until nightfall. A passing enemy craft suddenly screeched past the place, strafing the surrounding battlement, and several of Damon's riflemen fell. The enemy footsoldiers charged on. Dohan and his company would have to fight the invaders at point-blank range.
Yngve, AR - Darc Ages Page 13