Yngve, AR - Darc Ages

by Darc Ages (lit)

  Awonso gasped and simultaneously pulled all the levers in the metal locker.

  The light strips in the library and the single lamp in the room died; the room went pitch-black. The soldier cursed; his boots made noise as he stumbled through the dark space and hit shelves and debris.

  Awonso, his back to the wall, tried to hold his breath as his racing heart made his lungs hurt. His grasping hand found a large, heavy volume - Awonso recognized it as Sir Schoni's Book of Golden Age Findings by the mere texture against his fingertips - and he held it up as a shield.

  Then he gasped again - the soldier's blade shot out and pierced the sleeve of his robe. He heard the breathing soldier grunt before him. The sword made another stab, hitting the volume in front of Awonso's chest - and it withdrew again.

  On an impulse, Awonso stepped aside.

  The assassin thrust out again - and the narrow room was illuminated, as the blade missed Awonso and plunged into the fuse box. The man screamed in agony - flickering blue lights enhanced his spasmodic convulsions as 2,000 volts went through the sword and into his chain-mail shirt.

  To Awonso, those three seconds seemed to last minutes. Abruptly, the dead assassin crumpled to the floor - the fuse box tossed out a few sparks and went dark.

  Awonso nudged away from the locker, and fumbled his way back into the main library hall. Dull afternoon light was seeping through a few narrow light shafts. He made it to the main doors and lifted the bolts, opened them and fled outside.

  And he ran into the very surprised Librian, who had just arrived. Awonso immediately began to talk, quivering: "Librian... Merchants' Lodge plotted against the house of Damon... the whole family in peril... an assassin tried to kill me before I could warn..."

  The old librarian grasped Awonso's shoulders with blunt force, shaking him calm. Awonso told Librian the whole story in brief sentences, and he understood.

  "The ruling family is safely guarded," Librian assured him. "We shall track down the conspirators, and Lord Damon will deal with them when he returns."

  Awonso blurted out, blushing at his own frankness: " If he returns."

  Was it evening, afternoon or night?

  Darc had lost track of time, and the dark gray skies weren't much of a help. He, Meijji, Mechao and Mechao's sons had been let inside the rock mansion.

  The main portal was bolted and barricaded with heavy concrete and iron beams. Lucijja and Faluti had posted armed villagers at all the front windows, just in time to see Tharlos's remaining army approach the path leading up to the entrance.

  The rooms and catacombs of the mansion were crammed with people: more than two thousand frightened women, children and men. Several thousands more were in hiding across the archipelago, waiting for the battle to end.

  As Darc sat resting by a window, rifle and shield by his feet, Faluti went over to him with a wine sack. He took several gulps, relishing every drop.

  "Thank you," he wheezed.

  "You ought to let me examine that arm of yours," said Faluti, and fingered the bloody bandage around Darc's upper arm.

  It surprised him that he did not even think of how much it ought to hurt. "Thanks, but no thanks - I've got some of Mechao's medicine. I'll be fine."

  He mustered a brave grin for the chubby, grimy, dark-skinned woman. She wore a captured enemy helmet and a homemade chest plate, blackened with soot and laser-burns. Faluti grinned back, flashing her gold tooth - the soot showed even on her teeth.

  "How is our side doing, Faluti?"

  She shook her head sadly, yet she was grinning. "You see me smile now, but I'll cry when this is over."

  The rattling of the approaching enemy grew louder, as their boots and robot limbs treaded onto volcanic rock.

  Darc began to speak: "Faluti, I'm sorry about all this -"

  "Now you be quiet, paleface!" she snapped. "Have the priests read a mass for your soul, and be done with it."

  "I never believed in much, Faluti."

  "Then at least behave like you believed!" she said - and added, in choking words: "Because there's a lot of people here who still believe in you. I wish to be one of them, at least until the end of this day."

  Darc - or if it was David Archibald - blinked, struggled groaning to his feet, and looked at the people's army that surrounded him. He wished Dohan had been there - Darc was hopelessly inadequate in military matters.

  But nevertheless he opened his mouth, and spoke to the villagers in a loud, hoarse voice: " Listen to me! I have not traveled through nine centuries to end like this! We can still win this battle! I have called for support through the radio, and Sir Dohan's friends will come to our rescue! Stay calm, aim carefully, and fire as soon as you see the enemy..."

  All the enemy's war robots fired at once. The long hall suddenly filled with flickering green lines, hitting the ceiling and the windowframes. Plaster and rock splinters rained down, and Darc took cover.

  The fifty armed villagers took position, aimed, and fired at the enemy. Several enemy soldiers fell screaming, holding onto their legs and faces.

  But the undaunted robots fired another volley. One male and three female villagers were hit by hot splinters and laser light; screaming, they fell back from the windows. One of them was dead as she hit the floor.

  Then -

  A crackling thunderclap from the sky drowned out the screams and the distant volcano's rumbling. An overdue rainstorm mixed with volcanic ash fell over the southern islands. Mechao's mutated beasts went into hiding, leaving Lord Tharlos's allies alone. And the dirty rain hammered down on them.

  Almost simultaneously, Tharlos's spider robots began to malfunction. Polluted water seeped into their joints and seams, causing massive short-circuiting.

  Shock and terror choked Tharlos's throat - he could only watch, as his once so terrifying servants turned into sputtering, limp-legged heaps of junk.

  It could have been a great opportunity for Darc's side - except for the rain that made all laser-weapons useless. Tharlos's battle armor, well insulated and built to withstand moist, remained unaffected.

  He waved his sword and rallied his men forward one more time. They were just a few steps away from the main portal, and they drew their blades.

  Darc took a glimpse of the outside, and saw a new contingent of soldiers ascend the ridge - all wearing blue and black. Lord Orbes and sons, no doubt.

  Briefly, Darc considered a last, desperate attempt to talk to the enemy. He knew nothing to say that could stop them. Dohan might be dead; Shara and Eye-Leg had not shown up yet; Mechao was in bed, and might be seriously ill.

  With each breath, there was pain - not his own but the pain of dead and injured people around him, the pain of hearing the sobs and wails of people whose lives were suddenly destroyed by the intruders.

  Could he give himself up? He could, but it would not save the others.

  Time seemed to slacken its pace, seconds resembling minutes - the rain appeared, to him, to slow down.

  How many times had he stared death in the eye during this year? He had lost count. Had he finally grown tired of staying alive, ceased to fight and escape? Not really. The drive that kept him going - blind instinct, maybe - was still beating in his veins.

  What attacked him from inside was something else. He felt tired of living through so much history.

  To hell with trying to talk them over, he thought as the clamoring army moved closer. To hell with playing savior. They'll never change. Even if they manage to rebuild civilization as it was, it'll go the same way all over again. Build it up, tear it down. Two steps forward, one step backward. All this time and nothing has changed.

  But for the sake of the others present, Darc hid his melancholy from them. Selfishness, for all its practicality, had lost its meaning to him.

  He unclasped the alligator clips from his rifle batteries, and handed the clips to the next person waiting to recharge her weapon.

  Allowing himself one last searching look through the crowd for Shara, he approached the
battered front windows again. As soon as the rain ceased, the enemy would resume firing. He took aimed with one eye at the closest line of gleaming shields.

  At least, Darc noticed wryly, the rain was putting out all the fires...

  The muddled, gray skies rumbled louder - and louder still.

  Damn this rain, Darc thought. Get it over with, Goddess. I've waited 900 years too many for this moment.

  The rumble grew sharper, its pitch changed from a roar to a screech. Darc and the villagers looked into the sky.

  Then he saw them. A new fleet of jet aircraft came spiraling down toward the main island - not as large and imposing as the fleet Tharlos had commanded, but fresh and new.

  A one-man scout craft swooped past Mechao's mansion - it had the blue-red-black colors of Lord Damon's fleet.

  Darc's despair instantly turned into glee. A goddamn miracle! he thought.

  "A flag, a banner!" he heard himself shout. "Bring me a banner! Hurry!"

  A couple of blankets were quickly tied together; with a piece of coal, the besieged wrote "DOHAN DARC ALIVE" on them in large letters. They carefully held the makeshift banner out through the windows, so that the message could be read.

  The scout craft, having rounded the island peaks, whizzed past the mansion once more. The pilot saw the banner and responded: he ignited a signal flare. A trail of red smoke drew after the small ship as it went down to land. T

  he main fleet spotted the signal. Lord Damon's ship went down first, followed by his troop carriers; further behind and on his flank, Lord Fache and his fleet came after.

  As they descended toward the beach through pouring rain, they surrounded the parked fleets of Orbes and Pasko.

  Chapter 63

  Tharlos heard no explosions from the beach, and he could not fly up for a better view without exposing himself. He sent down a scout to find out what was happening at the landing site, and waited.

  Then, the sound of jet engines rolled up over the hills. Two large troop carriers flew past Mechao's mansion - one bearing the blue-red-black Damon insignia on its flat underbelly, the other painted green and white.

  Tharlos's men ran for cover; charges dropped from the ships and detonated among them. The ground shook as explosions blasted geysers of dirt and death into the air.

  The peasant army cheered, and Darc headed for the mansion's barricaded entrance. The troop carriers hovered down uneasily into the rocky, sloping clearing, and troops climbed out into the terrain. Almost without hesitation, Tharlos ordered his men to attack the newcomers.

  The rain had almost stopped, but the air was still damp and misty. Opposing forces clashed up close, in hand-to-hand combat. The fighting proved quick and brutal; yet, both sides were almost relieved to find a recognizable human enemy. Tharlos also fought, with the fury of a desperate man who knew the end was near.

  Lord Fache, the most confident of all soldiers present, moved his riflemen in a pinch-formation that cut off Bes Orbes from most of his men, then had them open fire.

  With shield-wall formations and flickering laser-fire closing in on all sides, Lord Orbes and his force crowded together for a last stand.

  "We must surrender!" Kensaburé pleaded, standing beside him.

  "Never!" Bes Orbes replied in a hoarse voice.

  Kensaburé tossed away his sword and flew up on his jets, toward the gate of the mansion.

  Some of the battle clamor receded as he called out: "Lord Damon! I surrender! Spare us, and we shall stand by your side again!"

  Someone fired a shot at Kensaburé, but missed. Bor Damon made a jet leap, flew across the sloping field and landed close to him.

  "Hold your fire!" he ordered. "Lord Orbes - surrender yourself now, and I swear your sons are to be brought back to your city unharmed, no ransom paid!"

  Bes Orbes, gazing across the battlefield through the small telescopic sight mounted to his visor, saw his youngest son bow in surrender to his enemy... the enemy who so recently had been a friend.

  A few moments later, Bes waved the flag of surrender and ordered his embattled troops to lay down their arms. And again Lord Tharlos saw his alliance shrink. In the next minute, he stood alone with a single injured knight, a handful of exhausted riflemen... and some useless, malfunctioning black robots.

  Azuch Fache lined up his men around Tharlos, and there was no question which side was winning. Azuch spoke across the battle lines, a grim voice that commanded every listener's attention.

  "Tharlos! You and your brother are the last ones of your line. Yield now! Or there will be just one Pasko left!"

  Wild-eyed with fear and hatred, Tharlos stared up into the clearing sky, praying for some last-minute air rescue - but Lord Yota's fleet was absent.

  Tharlos had worked hard for it to come true, but the result was undeniable: he had not a single friend left in the world.

  "Everyone has betrayed me!" he cried hysterically. " He betrayed me too, with those no-good war robots I was tricked into buying. And he'll come for you when I'm gone! You'll see! Pan Krator is coming!"

  In the moment of silence that followed, Tharlos spotted a familiar shape up high, gazing down from behind the mansion barricade. A tall, white-haired man... his nemesis.

  "You!" cried Tharlos, and fired a round of laser pulses at the mansion. "This is all your doing!"

  Darc ducked down, but the pulses were too weak to cause any serious impact on the barricade.

  Tharlos ignited his jetpack and rose above his men, signaling a last attack. They charged outward with their swords and shields high... and the surrounding circle of Fache's soldiers hacked them down.

  The last one of Tharlos's knights also flew up after his master - but he was too slow, and passed unguarded just above a line of riflemen. A close-range volley penetrated his visor. Blinded beyond all help, he sank to the ground and toppled over.

  The confusion on the battlefield allowed Tharlos to fly past the battlefield, the hundred meters up the slope, toward the front of the rock mansion.

  It took him just seconds, and he was heading straight for the barricade - just tall enough an opening to allow him inside. His single goal was to reach and kill Darc; all other ambitions were forgotten.

  Another jetpack sounded from just below him, and a shape flew in his way, too fast for Tharlos to shy away, even if he had wanted to.

  Then, just before the end, he could make out the shape: Lord Damon, rising on powerful jet streams, thrusting his broadsword with both arms, straight toward Tharlos's armored chest.

  Tharlos could glimpse Bor's face: he roared and his eyes were open wide, set firmly on his target. The eyes really resembled Dohan's when he was about to cut off a knight's head at the Summer Joust...

  Everyone present witnessed the momentous impact between the two airborne knights: Lord Orbes and his sons, Lord Fache, Darc, and the villagers inside the mansion.

  Tharlos was instantly impaled on Bor Damon's broadsword. The two men collided with a resounding crash and were tossed apart, tumbling to the ground ten meters below.

  Tharlos landed hard and lay still, his visor shattered; blood welled up and filled his helmet. Soon, the pale, long face disappeared in a bowl of blood. A few last bubbles of breath floated up and burst with muted pops.

  Lord Damon lost his gyroscopic balance and fell hard on his back. His jetpack shut down automatically. Several men rushed to his aid, among them Darc.

  And yet, Bor still lived. He coughed up some blood, and found he could not move his body. His dazed eyes gazed forward, and saw the blue sky appearing from a crack in his visor. He could not feel his legs; he heard how people crowded around his armor.

  Someone removed Bor's damaged helmet for him, so that he could see.

  "Darc," he croaked. "Is that you?"

  "Yes."

  "Is Dohan here?"

  "Please hold on. He will be here soon."

  Darc leaned closer to the dying man, and asked: "Why did you come? What were you going to do?"

  Bor let out a
laugh, as faint as whisper. "You called for help... remember? I understood... this was my last chance. To make good. To choose the right future."

  He sighed, and his weak breathing sounded not quite right. Azuch wanted to move Lord Damon to a ship, but Darc stopped him.

  "No! We have the best physician in the world here. Lord Fache! Please, trust me."

  Azuch Fache, still encased in his fearsome armor, unscrewed his helmet and stared down at Darc with intense anger. But he nodded. "Go then, go get your damned witchdoctor," he growled.

  Darc went back into the mansion and returned with a pale Mechao, supported by his white-clad assistants. They were led to the battlefield, and a whisper went among the troops: "Witchdoctor!" The ranks of soldiers parted and let the slight old man move through. With the help of his assistants, Mechao made a quick examination of Bor Damon.

  The doctor looked up at Darc, who saw the verdict in his grave eyes. "Broken legs, broken spine, massive internal bleedings. He may live another hour, if we do not move him."

  Mechao poured a sedative into Bor's mouth to ease his pains and the bleeding; but all it gave him was a few more minutes.

  Then they noticed a stir among the surrounding troops. Someone was coming. There was confusion, then wild cheering - then mute silence, as the soldiers let the newcomer pass through.

  Dohan appeared, his hand slightly burned and his face flecked with soot, but well alive. He stumbled forward to his father who lay in the grass. Bor moved his eyes and fixed them on the young man who kneeled over him. Dohan clutched his gloved hand.

  "My son," Bor mumbled, without anger or fear.

  "Father. Can you forgive me?"

  "I came here so that you could live, and forgive me."

  "Is everything well with the city? Our family?"

  "Yes." He paused. "Is it true, what Darc said... a cure for the Plague?"

  Darc could sense everyone watching him. The soldiers could not fully believe it; they had to see proof with their own eyes. He turned his head toward the open portal of the mansion.