by Jane Atchley
Gradually the tension left Duncan’s body. The temperature in the tent cooled off bit by bit until Faelan could breathe the air again. She released her grip on Duncan’s arm.
“You have thought this through?”
Roland sagged. “I haven’t had much else to think about tonight, sir. I can take her real close in your tiny rowboat. It sits so low in the water they’ll never notice us—not in this rain.”
While the cadet talked, Duncan stood behind Faelan running his warm hands up and down her arms as if he could not resist touching her, which was fine with her. As far as she was concerned, he could touch her until the stars fell from heavens.
“A tia’ki is not an ordinary canoe. It swamps easily and can roll over on you. Are you sure you can handle one?”
“Oh sure, sir, I’ve been practicing on my own time.”
“You have been taking my tia’ki without my permission?”
Roland dropped his gaze to his toes. “Ky’lara showed me how. She says I have a knack.”
“Well then, it is settled. The wise Addiri never argues with his House-holden. You shall have charge of my lady’s safe passage.”
Faelan could hear the smile in Duncan’s voice as could Roland. The cadet looked up, grinning.
“And you, my lady…” Duncan turned Faelan around so she could see his face. Taking the green ribbon from her hand, he tied it in a loop and slipped it over her head resting his too warm hands on her shoulders. “Remember your promise.”
“Move as far from the river as possible…” Each time she said goodbye to Duncan hurt more than the last. Her wolf howled in protest. Faelan pressed a soft kiss to his lips, pulled away, and opened her eyes to his blue fire gaze. Dear ancestor. She was so in love with this man. “I’ll remember.”
“Miss Faelan, if we don’t go now we can’t go at all.” The cadet pulled at the sleeve of her raincoat, breaking the thrall of Duncan’s hot possessive gaze.
Visibly collecting himself, Duncan stepped back and made a slight bow. “Thank you, Faelan, for…my memories.” He gaze shifted to the cadet. “Take her as close as you can, but no heroics.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Duncan rose with the gray dawn. Today the face of warfare changed forever. And the sun would come up tomorrow. He pushed his gloomy musings aside and walked into his bath chamber. With so many things that could go wrong today, he could do without unnecessary brooding.
His control slipped badly during Faelan’s nocturnal visit. Fire and ashes! He actually scorched the sheets. Ky’lara watched him with a wary eye yesterday, as well she should. All it took was one mighty slip, and he might set his tent ablaze or worse.
Rain pattered against the canvas as he washed and donned his dragon’s eye blue uniform. Close observation over the past weeks lead Duncan to believe the rain would taper off or stop altogether shortly before dawn and resume shortly thereafter. At best guess, he had a quarter hour window to launch hellfire upon his enemy.
“Breakfast, Addiri.” Ky’lara called from the outer tent.
Duncan gave his shell jacket a final tug, smoothing the shoulder line. Why did it matter how he looked? He chuckled to himself. He was still smiling as he entered the main tent.
“Dia’ kaji, Ky’lara.”
“Good Mornin’, Addiri. I thought we speak Elharan round here.”
He snapped out his napkin and laid it across his lap. “We are alone, Ky. This looks wonderful. Thank you.”
The island woman planted her hands on her hips. “Ti’ao kino o kaji?”
Was he calm this morning? What a thing to ask a man on the brink of the most important battle of his life. Duncan chewed, swallowed, searching inside himself for an answer. He had expected to crackle with dangerous levels of energy. Strangely, he felt cold inside, detached, and as if his passion filled night with Faelan tamped his inner fire. He had come so very close to losing control that now he was, he had to admit, a little afraid of himself. He could not afford anything but calm.
“T’ai. I am.”
Duncan’s smooth switch to Elharan benefitted the allied generals who had arrived while they’d talked. He dabbed his mouth with a snowy white napkin. “All is in readiness, gentlemen?”
General Rickman approached the table. “As ready as we’ll ever be. I have something to say.”
Of course you do.
Duncan placed his napkin in his plate and stood, his appetite deserting him. Morning just would not be morning without a complaint from General Rickman.
“You have a lot of new-fangled ideas, new ways of thinking and doing.” Rickman cleared his throat. “I haven’t been accepting of them or you, but I have to give you your due. Your new weaponry is brilliant, and the men—the men better prepared than I’ve ever seen them.” Rickman raised his arm and snapped off a crisp salute. “Good luck today, Field Marshal Duncan, and as your troopers like to say, be careful.”
Duncan expelled a pent up breath. A smile stretched his lips. “First chance I get, General Rickman.”
****
Men rushed to join their units. Duncan maneuvered Swift, his most reliable horse, through the crush. He frowned over the clank and rattle of swords and shields as men jogged past him worried the noise would cost him the element of surprise. The pelting rain eased to a light drizzle as he reined up at the rocket bunker. Here, handpicked artillerymen loaded twenty launch boxes with black powder rockets. Duncan settled on a box apparatus over his earlier tubular design, sacrificing accuracy for volume. Using the boxes, he could launch 100 rockets, per box, per launch, repeatedly. He hoped.
“Specialist Harding, launch in five minutes.”
“We’ll be ready in three, sir.” Intent on his work, the specialist never looked up.
Duncan wheeled his horse around and trotted down to the bridge site. He glanced around, satisfaction humming through his senses. The bridge crews had already constructed two pontoon sections for each of the bridges and were busy stretching canvas on six others. Red Fist stood holding their mounts, already aboard the flatboat set to carry them across the river.
Duncan led Swift across the narrow gangplank and handed the horse off to Bird for a moment. Standing at the stern as the flatboat was poled away from shore, gave him a panoramic view of his camp. He had visions of a composer about to conduct his first symphony, Destruction in “D” Major. He barked out a short laugh.
“Something strike you funny, Shug?”
“Not at all.”
Duncan cupped his hands around his mouth. “Launch!”
****
Kree Fawr watched the first rocket salvo, hundreds of the little buggers streaking across the predawn sky in something close to awe. His man was a fucking genius.
Leaning sideways he whispered to the trooper at his side. “Dress the line, lieutenant.” Behind his point position, Kree heard armor rattling as horses jostled and moved into formation, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the bright red arcs rushing toward them, well not toward them exactly, rushing toward the enemy encampment just below the rise. Before the first salvo struck, a second volley launched. Kree touched his heels to his warhorse’s flanks setting the animal trotting up the rise.
Behind him, the acting first lieutenant bawled, “Step off.”
****
Faelan rose in the dark confines of her little patched together tent and threw a wrapper around her shoulders. Shortly before dawn, the ever-present rain paused to draw breath before its next deluge. This brief respite was her chance to take a quick turn around her small corner of the camp and pick up rations available to noncombatants. Duncan’s army had kept her people pinned here on this side of the river for the better part of three months. As a result, pickings were sparse for people like her. It paid to get up early if she wanted something green. Meat she foraged for herself.
She moved quickly, watching her feet as she picked her way around the puddles. A flash of light from the opposite shore, followed by a high-pitched scream, pulled Faelan’s head up. Her bask
et fell from her hand, forgotten. Faelan ran. As she splashed and slipped in the mud, the sun peeked over the rise, backlighting dragon’s eye blue banners. Duncan’s cavalry was in their rear. Faelan put on a fresh burst of speed.
She plunged into her tent and raced to her cot. Tossing her mattress off its frame, she dug Duncan’s green ribbon from its hiding place mere seconds before the first hideous screaming rockets exploded in camp.
“The end of the world has come!” Came her old servant panicked scream.
Faelan shot the older woman a darting glance. Poor Martha, she did not deserve this. None of the women did. “Duncan has come. Keep tight inside the tent, Martha. Promise me.” The woman nodded in the near darkness. It was the same promise Duncan had exacted from Faelan. Martha could keep it. Faelan could not.
****
“Did you plan on that hellish noise?”
It was raining again. Big fat drops dappled the deck where he stood, but Duncan hardly noticed. His transfixed gaze followed the rockets’ arc. The sight of their flight set off a strange yearning in his body. “I knew they gave off a shrill whine, but still…I never expected this.” The first rockets struck deep into the enemy camp, something else he didn’t expect. The explosions set off an odd vibration along his bones. “Chilling is it not?”
Duncan’s gaze snapped back to the shoreline in time to watch as the second salvo streaked into the air. A massive fireball exploded at one end of the launch line. Catastrophic failure. Disappointing. But at the moment Duncan was more concerned with the rockets in the air.
Tightening his hold on Swift’s bridle, he shouted to his fellows, “Brace for short-fall.”
Seconds later, rockets struck the water not three feet off the stern. Swift reared pulling Duncan off his feet. He kicked out for momentum, yanking down hard on Swift’s bridle. Another rocket sizzled into the water, and Swift danced backward slipping on the wet deck. The animal’s hind legs hit the side rail. Over it went, dragging Duncan with it.
Duncan held his breath letting the weight of his shiny brass clamshell armor drag him down until his backside touched the river’s rocky bottom. He loosened the armor plate and slipped out of it. Gathering his legs under him, he gave a mighty upward push. Where he came from, you learned to swim early, and well, or you did not live long.
His head broke the murky surface. He gulped air, shook water out of his eyes. It took a minute to get his bearings. The rain had picked up, wrapping everything in a blurry haze. He was close to shore, less than thirty feet. Easy swimming. In fact, he could just make out Swift wading ashore. He and that horse were going to have a long talk. Duncan tread water in a tight circle, where was Red Fist?
****
It was the end of the world. Fire fell from the sky just as in the ancestor’s scary stories. The closer to the heart of camp Faelan got, the worse it became. Smoke veiled everything. So much smoke it stung her eyes, her nose, and burned her lungs. She tripped over bodies, parts of bodies, and other things she prayed she’d never see again.
The smell of sulfur mixed with burning flesh and human waste threatened to suffocate her. Bile rose in her throat. Faelan fought back nausea and a rising swell of panic. She watched men throw down their weapons, and was helpless to warn them of the dragon’s eye blue juggernaut pouring over the ridge. These would-be deserters did not deserve her pity. Faelan focused her energy on the women and children who did.
Faelan staggered under the impact of another rocket strike as she made her way to a woman clutching a baby to her breast. Knocked off her feet by the concussion, this woman was one of the lucky ones. Nothing remained of the men who had shoved her aside in their callous haste to flee.
Ignoring the stench of burning flesh, Faelan helped the woman to her feet. “Go to my tent at the north edge of camp. You’ll be safe there.”
“Safe,” the woman wailed.
Another rocket slammed into the ground. Another dozen Descendants died. Faelan gave the terrified woman a nudge. “Safer than here, I have his word.” No need to say who he was.
The woman clutched her child tighter and ran, picking her way through a camp of horrors. Faelan called after her. “Tell any others you see.”
Faelan spotted another group of women and children huddle behind an overturned wagon as if it could protect them—as if anything could—and sent them to her tent.
Just beyond the range of the rockets, Faelan spied her brother, Quinn, trying to rally men into some sort of order. Torn and terrified, she hesitated. Quinn would never agree to cower inside her tent. She loved her brother’s selflessness, but in this moment, everything inside her wanted to beg him to hide.
Another rocket barrage made the decision for her. Quinn disappeared, engulfed a wall of smoke and fire. Children squalled. Mothers screamed.
****
“He’s there to the left—port damn it.”
Duncan turned his body toward the sound. Sometimes water distorted sound. Heavy rain could too. But if he was port, simple reasoning told him the flatboat was on his right. Sure enough, it bobbed about twelve feet away. Strong strokes, finned him toward the boat.
Nine pairs of hands hauled him aboard. Every man…or woman in Red Fist needed to touch him, feel part of his rescue. Never mind that, Duncan didn’t require rescuing. He could have swam to shore, but he felt their relief as a thing alive. Not one of these elite troopers had the least confidence in their ability to complete the mission without his guidance. Their fear shook Duncan to the core. For once, he had the good sense to let them have their comfort.
After scrubbing wet hair out of his face, Duncan made a quick check. Aside from his armor, he’d lost a knife and his field glass. It could have been worse.
Duncan held out his hand. “Field glass, please.”
Just like that, the requested tool appeared in his hand. He didn’t see who handed it to him. He gave an order, people obeyed. It was magical, really.
Raising the glass to his eye, Duncan scanned the far shore. “Looks like our bridge crews have already deployed six bays of balks, one hundred and twenty feet. We will have to hump it if we are to have landing abutments ready. Hunter, Archer, Hawkeye, drop oars, please.” Just like that, magic happened again. The boat picked up speed.
Rockets continued bombarding the enemy camp. Duncan swung the glass to his side of the river. “At least we have not lost any more launch apparatus.”
“You expected those damn boxes to blow up, Shug?”
Duncan lowered the glass and turned his gaze on Bird. “Each firing degrades the apparatus. There is no help for it. Catastrophic failure is inevitable. The artillerymen accepted the risk.”
The other man whistled. “I never thought I’d say this, but you’re every bit as cold-blooded as My Captain. Only difference is you decide beforehand how many lives you’ll spend to win the day. He flat-out doesn’t care.”
“He cares.”
Bird grinned. “Sure he does, when he’s cleaning up the mess.”
“I feel the loss of every man.” Duncan’s fisted hand thumped his chest over his heart. “Here.”
“I believe you. I’ve seen how it slows you down, but it doesn’t stop you, does it? Because see…you’ve got the same monstrous will to fight he does. Don’t look at me like I kicked you in the balls. I envy you. With these fiendish new weapons you’ve cooked up, you’ll probably surpass My Captain’s twenty-year kill-count in a single day.”
Duncan raised the field-glass to his eye focusing on the enemy camp. This close to shore, and owning to an eight foot overhang, he couldn’t see anything but smoking ramparts, which thanks to his fiendish weapon, now looked more like a child’s gap-toothed smile.
Snapping the glass closed, he turned to his fellow trooper. “What would you have me do, Bird, let them sit behind their ramparts and pick us off one-by-one? Am I willing to lose twenty men in order to save ten thousand? You bet.”
“Like I said,” Bird nodded. “That’s why you’re the man in charge, Sugar-babe.”
His sergeant major actually laughed, though Duncan saw nothing humorous in their exchange. And no one, save Captain Fawr got away with calling him, Sugar-babe. “What?”
“Sorry sir. I know you don’t like— Are your clothes steaming?”
Wonderful. Duncan favored his man with an incredulous glare while rockets flew overhead and fire spouted in the air. Something about the rockets tugged at instincts out of his control. They vibrated his bones, unsettled him. As a philosopher, he longed to sit and examine the phenomenon. As a soldier about ten feet from stepping foot on enemy held soil, he did not have the luxury.
“Ship oars, please. Secure the horses and pole us in.” Duncan balanced a small box of explosives on his shoulder and straddled the rail. He needed to get out from under Bird’s scrutiny before the man asked him any more questions or he lost control of his inborn instincts and set the boat ablaze. “I will see you ashore, Bird.”
****
The rocket barrage stopped as suddenly as it began. Inside her stifling, jam-packed, claustrophobic tent, women raised hopeful faces. They believed the worst was over. Faelan knew better. The lull meant Duncan had crossed the river. His army was merely catching its breath before grinding her people to dust between their infantry and their cavalry. Faelan felt the ground tremble under thousands of marching feet and heard the thunder of the horses’ hoofs.
Keep tight inside your tent. How easily Faelan made that vow. She had meant to keep her word. She really had, but she never imagined how hard it would be. The worst part was the sound, the dull thud of steel hitting flesh, the piteous cries of the fallen, curses, grunting, running feet. The earth shaking explosions were closer now. She’d spent months in Duncan’s camp where blasts went off at all hours, night and day, but the sound still rattled her bones. She flinched every time. She couldn’t sit on her hands doing nothing, not when her brother was out there fighting. Pushing to her feet Faelan darted outside.
She caught her breath. Seeing was so much worse than hearing. Duncan once told her there was nothing much to see in combat, just dust and the man in front of you, but today, a steady rain kept the dust at bay. Her little tent was behind the line now. The fighting had passed her by. But the carnage left behind appalled her. Crows flapped and feasted among the fallen. So many were dead, it felt surreal. And the smell, Faelan swallowed back the bile crawling up her throat.