Target Rich Environment 2

by Larry Correia

  The map was open on the table, but she was staring through it, rather than at it. The map was irrelevant. She had already memorized every brush stroke and line of ink. Fail in their orders, retreat and live to rejoin the rest of the army, or hold their ground in the vain hope that her brother would arrive in time, and more than likely die as nothing more than a temporary distraction . . . Ultimately, the choice was hers alone to make.

  The situation was dire. The honor of House Balaash lay heavy on her shoulders. It was times like this that tested a warrior’s dedication to the code.

  Grandfather, what would you have me do?

  Having only recently reached the age sufficient to go through the rites of passage necessary to be considered a full member of the warrior caste, this was the first time Makeda had led a cohort into battle on behalf of House Balaash. Archdominar Telkesh had ordered her to hold this position, a small hill on the plains south of Kalos, but no one had predicted this level of resistance. Their spies had reported that the bulk of the enemy had been camped much closer to the city, nowhere near here. So the main army of House Balaash was marching unopposed, while Makeda’s cohort was badly outnumbered against the entirety of the forces of House Muzkaar.

  If somehow she did live through the day, Makeda intended to have those spies tortured for a very long time.

  That, however, did not solve her current dilemma. The enemy army was led by Naram, a Tyrant legendary for both his skill with beasts and the cruelty he used in breaking them. She had learned what she could of Naram’s exploits, and had come to respect him for his brutal and unflinching victories. He was truly an adversary worthy of her father and his mighty army, not nearly as appropriate a foe for an inexperienced commander and one small cohort, but the ancestors had placed Naram against her, not her father. This battle was hers.

  Makeda knew it was not her ever-increasing skills in the art of mortitheurgy, nor her considerable natural talent with the blade that made her valuable to her house. It was her certainty in the truthfulness of the code of hoksune. Her grandfather had recognized that. So as she always did, Makeda searched the code for an answer.

  Combat favors the aggressor. There is a time for both defense and mobility, but every tactic is merely a tool enabling your inevitable attack. To draw with and kill your enemy is the true path toward exaltation.

  She said a silent thank you to the shards of her grandfather’s essence resting in her swords.

  Makeda held up one hand. Her officers were immediately silent, waiting. “We will not retreat . . .” Regardless of whether they agreed or not, they immediately snapped to and began to move out to spread the word. “Nor will we hold this position.”

  The men froze, uncertain. They looked to each other, none daring to question their new commander. Though she was the youngest in the room, she was their superior both by birth and by appointment. Finally, Barkal of the karax dared speak. “What would you have us do then, Second Born?”

  Makeda smiled. “We strike.”

  The sound of the reivers firing reminded Makeda of a swarm of angry buzzing insects, only this swarm was made up of thousands of razor-sharp projectiles. A House Muzkaar titan bellowed in agony as its hide was shredded. The gigantic warbeast took a few halting steps, showering bright blood from a plethora of wounds. Several Muzkaar beast handlers lashed the beast, urging it forward through the steel cloud. Driven mad with pain, the titan lumbered onward.

  “Reload!” Urkesh shouted at his Venators. There was only a single datha of ten armigers, but they acted quickly, unscrewing the spent gas cylinders from their awkward reiver weapons. Makeda sized up the distances. The armigers were quick, but not quick enough. The titan would trample right over Urkesh’s warriors and she would lose her ranged advantage.

  House Muzkaar had brought no ranged capability of their own, and dozens of Muzkaar corpses littered the road from where they had been scythed down by her Venators while trying to cross. Makeda did not wish to give up that advantage.

  Makeda had few warbeasts of her own to spare. Since her cohort had been marching quickly in order to seize their objective, she had only been given a pair of cyclops savages. The tougher, but slower, beasts had been left with Akkad. She reached out with her mind, using her mortitheurge powers to find the lump of muscle and hate that was the nearest cyclops. She took hold of its mind and steered it into the path of the enemy titan.

  The cyclops hoisted its great sword and stalked forward, towering several feet over even the tallest warriors in its path. What the cyclops lacked in intelligence it made up for in violent cunning. The beast’s single eye flicked back and forth, seeing the battlefield as only a cyclops could, a few seconds into the future, and Makeda wondered idly if the cyclops could see its own death coming.

  The earth shook as the wounded titan charged. Each footfall was like an earthquake. As large as the cyclops was, it was dwarfed by the titan. Armored tusks crashed into the cyclops’ armor with a clang that could be heard over all the chaos of the battle. The cyclops went rolling away, and the wounded titan followed, swinging wildly with its massive gauntlets. Instinct demanded the cyclops flee, and it screeched in protest as Makeda overcame its mind and forced it to stand its ground.

  Their weapons ready, Urkesh shouted at his taberna. “Concentrate fire on that titan!” The Reivers rose from the ditch they’d taken cover in, aimed, and let loose a stream of razor needles. Hundreds of projectiles ricocheted off of armor plates and ivory tusks, whining into the distance, but hundreds more found their mark. Hide puckered and bled as the titan roared and crashed into the dust.

  Somehow, her cyclops had survived the mighty charge. Barely alive, it was struggling to stand, using its sword to lever itself up. Makeda used her magic, feeling the precious blood pumping out of the cyclops’ damaged body, and then she reached deep within the beast and spurred its fury to whole new heights. The new anger gave her beast unnatural strength, and before the enemy could recover, Makeda’s cyclops cleaved one of the titan’s four arms off at the shoulder.

  The titan’s death bellow was like music across the plains. Its suffering would probably be heard all the way to the city of Kalos. Truly this was a great day for House Balaash.

  The Muzkaar beast handlers that had been driving that titan were fleeing back across a ravine. “Urkesh.” Makeda’s voice was calm. “Make sure this is the last time those beast handlers annoy me.”

  The order was given, and the whine of razor needles filled the air, but Makeda had already moved on to survey the next part of the battle.

  House Muzkaar had not expected her furious attack, and Makeda had stacked their corpses deep as a result. Tyrant Naram’s army had been confident of their victory, but Makeda had struck so hard and so fast that House Muzkaar had been thrown into disarray. A wild charge by her swordsmen and karax had bloodied Muzkaar. They’d pushed back, but it had been disorganized, panicked, and it was only through their vastly superior numbers that Muzkaar had survived at all. She’d drawn most of her melee troops away, letting her karax set up a defensive line, allowing her Venators time to bleed the enemy. The proud swordsmen were eager to return to glory, but she ordered them to be patient. Let Muzkaar think they’d been used up . . .

  As the sun had climbed and the hot morning had turned into blistering afternoon, House Muzkaar had counterattacked, and though it had been sloppy and hurried, Makeda was drastically outnumbered. She could not win a war of attrition against a Tyrant with a stable worth of titans.

  Despite heavy casualties, the line of Praetorian karax was standing firm. They stood shoulder to shoulder, a wall of steel and wood, shields absorbing blows and their pikes thrusting continuously, spilling Muzkaar blood. The karax were methodical, plodding forward, always stabbing.

  The code of hoksune taught that the purest combat was individual, warrior on warrior. She could see now why it was so much more difficult for a member of the karax to gain exaltation than a swordsman. This was not the battle she knew, the calculation of offense an
d defense, and the sudden flash of a sword . . . this was mechanical. This was more like watching the lower castes harvest grain from the fields. The karax would stab, block, stab, block, and whenever Barkal saw an opening he would order an advance through the bloodstained plains, and then, as one, they would begin their harvest again. It was hypnotic to watch.

  Zabalam was waiting for her at the ridge overlooking their remaining karax. His taberna of elite Praetorian swordsman were ready there, crouched in the tall golden grass, hidden, as per her orders, until the time was right.

  “Second Born Makeda.” Zabalam bowed.

  “A fine afternoon for war, Primus,” Makeda greeted him respectfully. Though she outranked him by birth and command, Zabalam had been her primary instructor in the art of the two swords. Truly, he was a credit to their house. She thanked the ancestors that her father had seen fit to send Zabalam with her cohort. “How goes it here?”

  “The swordsmen chafe at being told to hide in the grass like mere Hestatians.”

  “They are elite warriors, proud . . .” Makeda noted. “It is understandable.”

  “They will do as they are told . . . I do not think your brother will relieve us in time.”

  “Akkad will come.” Makeda had her doubts, but she did not speak them aloud.

  “The karax have fought past the point of exhaustion. They will fall soon, and when they do, we will be overrun by these wretched Muzkaar belek.”

  “Good.” A belek was a thick-skulled herd animal, strong but notorious for blundering stupidly into wallows and getting stuck. Makeda did not think Zabalam realized what a fitting insult that was.

  “Good?” Since Zabalam’s face had been split nearly in half with a sword many years before, only half of his mouth moved when he frowned. The other side was permanently frozen in a straight line. “I’m unsure how that is a good thing?”

  “We cannot outlast a force this size. Our only hope to defeat them is by killing their Tyrant. Without Naram, Muzkaar will quickly fall. What do you know of Naram?”

  “He is renowned for his skill, but your grandfather defeated him once and took many slaves from one of his cities.”

  “Yes. It is said he retains a rather passionate hatred of House Balaash, and he is still a warrior without peer. My ancestor shamed him, so he will come for revenge. He knows I am here, so Naram will want to give the killing blow himself.”

  “Or maybe he will capture you and turn you over to his Paingivers.”

  Makeda shrugged. “Either way, Naram is coming, and when he does, I will kill him first.”

  “You remind me of your grandfather sometimes . . . But what of the karax?”

  “Hopefully Akkad’s reinforcements will have an extoller with them.” Only a member of the extoller caste or the much rarer ancestral guardians could save a warrior’s spiritual essence in a sacral stone so they could live on as a revered companion to the exalted. “Look at how many they have slaughtered. Surely some of them will be worth saving.”

  “And if Akkad has none of their caste amongst his reinforcements?”

  She thought it over for a moment. Though no extoller had arrived, the warriors below did not know that, so she signaled for a message runner. “Tell Dakar Barkal that I am personally observing the battle, watching for any who are worthy of exaltation. Tell him to spread the word to his troops.” The messenger did not seem disturbed in the least that he was to relay something which would raise an impossible hope. He merely bowed and ran down the hill. Makeda turned back to Zabalam. “That will make them fight that much harder.”

  Zabalam’s half face twisted up in the other direction. “You definitely remind me of your grandfather.”

  The temperature continued to climb as the sun beat down on her armor. Droplets of sweat rolled freely from under her helmet and into her eyes. Makeda welcomed the sting. The cries of the dead and dying were all around her. The cohort of House Muzkaar seemed to be an endless thing stretching across the plains. She passed the time mentally steering her cyclopes toward the weakest points of the Balaash lines. She stood there, her back banner whipping in the wind. Makeda wanted all of the enemy army to see her, defiant. Let them tell their Tyrant that a scion of House Balaash was waiting for him.

  Makeda felt the pang of loss as the cyclops that had been injured earlier was dragged down and killed. She drained the last bits of vitality that had been dwelling in the cyclops tissues and gathered that strength to herself. She would need it shortly.

  The line of karax faltered, broke, and were swept away before the swords of House Muzkaar. Their center had fallen.

  A trumpet blew, and then another. A black banner was raised on the other side of the road and waved back and forth. The entire Muzkaar host seemed to hesitate, then their lines parted as a small escort of warriors and beasts advanced through the army.

  “That is a lot of titans . . .” Zabalam muttered.

  There were only two of the great grey beasts lumbering along behind Naram’s personal banner, but one titan was a lot of titan.

  “On my signal, rally your men and charge that banner. All that matters is that Naram dies. I shall use my power to give you speed,” she ordered. Zabalam conveyed that order to his swordsmen who were waiting in cover. She mentally summoned her remaining cyclops closer. “Runner.” Another messenger appeared at her side. “Tell Urkesh that when I draw my swords, his Venators must clear for me a path to that banner.”

  The knot of Muzkaar elite had advanced to the front of the army. The squat, powerfully built skorne in the lead had to be Naram. With a mighty spiked club resting on one shoulder, and his black armor gleaming in the sun, Naram appeared a formidable foe. She could sense his mortitheurge power, churning and hungry.

  “I remember when you were teaching me the way of the two swords, Primus . . .” Makeda said.

  “You were my finest student.”

  “I recall now one lesson in particular. Show your enemy one sword, and when they are focused upon that, kill them with the other. I am the first sword . . . Await my signal.”

  Makeda walked down the hill to where Naram and his army were waiting. She ran her hands across the tops of the thick grass. It was sharp enough to draw blood. The fury taken from her beasts was like a hot lump of power within her chest. She stepped through puddles of blood, and over the mangled bodies of her warriors.

  Naram was striding toward her, with a great wall of titan muscle on each side. “Makeda of House Balaash!” he challenged. The two beasts were obviously well controlled, as they took a few extra steps forward to shield their master.

  She stopped just within range of his voice. “Tyrant Naram.” She placed her hands on the hilts of her sheathed swords. Part of her grandfather was within those swords. She would never let them fall into the hands of someone so unworthy. “It has been a fine battle so far. Have you come to surrender personally?”

  The enemy Tyrant gave a hearty laugh. “I must admit, your tenacity impresses me. It has been a generation since I’ve seen someone so outnumbered account for themselves so well.” He had to shout to be heard over the hot wind. “Order your remaining warriors to lay down their arms. Swear fealty to me, and you may retain your caste. There is room in House Muzkaar for such as you. A political marriage will be arranged to one of my sons. Your father will have to withdraw from Kalos, but this will be best for both our houses.” Naram waved his free hand dismissively. “Or you can fight, and once you are defeated and shamed, you can join your men as slaves to my house. Choose quickly.”

  Naram’s words, though certainly filled with truth, did not sway her. He did not understand just how powerful Makeda’s mortitheurgy really was . . . Few among their people could. Their dark magic took decades of devotion to master, but no one was more devoted than a child of House Balaash. She closed her eyes and felt the world around her. Living tissue and pumping blood . . . She could sense Naram and his army before her, and then her few remaining warriors behind, each and every one of them reduced to their component
bits of muscle, bone, and sinew, cloaked in steel and laminate armor, powered by blood and spirit, all of it there waiting to be manipulated by her superior will. Gathering up the energy she’d gleaned from her fallen beast, she awoke the power residing within Zabalam’s waiting Praetorian swordsmen . . . In her mind’s eye, their blood turned to molten, pulsing fire.

  She opened her eyes. Zabalam’s standard bearer rose from the grass and waved the flag of the Praetorian swordsmen. They leapt from their hiding place and moved with impossible speed. Makeda drew the twin swords and charged.

  “So be it,” Naram stated. His titans both took another great step forward, completely shielding him from view.

  Urkesh had received her message, and his Venators fired. Makeda heard the high-pitched screech before she felt the passage through the air all around her, buzzing through the tops of the grass like angry bees. Razor needles exploded into the titans, and then Makeda was within the rain of blood.

  The titan’s leg was as big around as a tree, and the first sword of Balaash cleaved a chunk of meat sufficient for a feast from its thigh. She sidestepped as a massive gauntlet was swung past. Makeda was faster than any mortal had a right to be, and then she was behind the first titan. The second studied her, giant head tilting to the side in confusion, tiny black eyes blinking, before Naram drove it toward her like a great, flesh-covered weapon.

  A hand, palm as big as Makeda’s torso, reached for her, hoping to crush the life from her, but Makeda lashed out, the supernatural edge barely slowed, and the titan’s thumb went flipping off into the grass. Makeda dove and rolled, armor clanking, and she came up behind the second titan before it could even begin to bellow in pain.

  Naram was in front of her, surprised, but already invoking his own mortitheurgy.