by David Weber
"We know they're coming at us from three sides," chan Hagrahyl said quietly. "We'll take position there." He pointed to a confusion of tangled wood on the far side of the clearing. "I want clear firing lanes, and someone to watch our backs, in case the bastards succeed in circling all the way around us."
"I'll cover our rear until your all in position," chan Himidi volunteered through clenched teeth.
"Good." chan Hagrahyl nodded. "But listen to me, everyone! No one shoots unless I say so. Got that? Nobody shoots. I know we all want revenge for Falsan, but there are men out there with weapons. If we have to fight, we fight all out, but first we try and work things out so that nobody else gets killed. Is that understood?"
Heads nodded all around, one or two of them a bit unwillingly, and he grinned tightly at them all.
"Good," he said again. "In that case, let's get under cover and dig in."
They took their positions in utter silence, facing south, the direction from which the bulk of their pursuers would approach, and fanning out slightly. Jathmar stationed himself and Shaylar in a sheltered pocket where a massive black walnut trunk, nearly five feet in diameter, formed a solid barricade. It was the best protection he could find, and branches thicker than his own torso jutted up and out from the main trunk, forming angled braces he could use to steady the rifle if it came to that.
Tymo Scleppis took up a position to Jathmar's left, near the center of their all-too-ragged line. The healer was opening his pack, trying to ready himself for casualties if it came to open fighting. Rilthan?their best marksman, by a wide margin?crawled in just to Shaylar's right. The gunsmith was the only member of their party armed with the new Ternathian Model 10 bolt-action rifle, with its twelve-round box magazine. He said nothing as he settled into position, but he flicked one glance briefly in Shaylar's direction before meeting Jathmar's gaze. It was only a fleeting look, but it told Jathmar that Rilthan had chosen his spot deliberately, and Jathmar's throat was tight as he nodded, acknowledging Rilthan's intention to protect her.
Beyond Rilthan was chan Hagrahyl's clerk, a dark-skinned Ricathian who'd joined straight out of high school. Not yet nineteen, Divis' color was closer to last week's ashes than its normal warm chocolate hue, and his hands shook as he tried to load his own rifle. The drovers formed their flank guards, such as they were, but they had barely five men on either side.
Jathmar crawled up onto one of the immense branches, using it as a firing step to get just high enough to shoot over the top of the trunk. It was too tall for him to shoot across standing on the ground, but thanks to other branches that had slammed into the earth, the fallen tree bole didn't quite reach the forest floor. There was a gap, about fourteen inches high, which allowed Shaylar to lie prone behind one of the big branches, protected from incoming fire, yet able to shoot through the gap if need be.
Everyone was checking weapons, including Shaylar, and Jathmar's hands felt clumsy as he pulled cartridge boxes out of his pack. He'd fired hundreds of rounds through the Model 70, and thousands of rounds through other rifles he'd owned, over the years. He'd hunted for food and for sport, and he'd run into bandits more than once, trading shots with desperate, lawless men. But he'd never seen real combat, and his hands refused to hold steady as the reality of what they faced hit home.
He slid his H amp;W out of its holster and curled his fingers around the reassuring solidity of its walnut grips. The big .44 caliber, seven-shot revolver was single-action. The hammer had to be pulled back for each shot, but the six-and-a-half-inch-barreled pistol was deadly accurate, and it had immense stopping power.
It was also too big and heavy for Shaylar to shoot accurately. She carried a Polshana?a much smaller and lighter .35 caliber weapon, with a four-inch barrel and smaller grip. Unlike the H amp;W, the Polshana was double-action, and Rilthan had worked long and hard to tune its action for her until it was glass-smooth. It held only six shots to the H amp;W's seven, but unlike Jathmar, Shaylar had four speedloaders, and he watched her tuck them into her the right hand pocket of her jacket.
He swung out the H amp;W's cylinder and loaded the chamber he normally left empty for the hammer to rest on. Then he slipped it back into its holster and finished arranging his ammunition boxes around him. At his feet, Shaylar was doing the same thing with the ammo boxes from her pack. From his slightly elevated vantage point, Jathmar could see others settling into equally favorable spots amongst the fallen trees.
Fanthi chan Himidi had abandoned his post, watching for pursuers from the south, now that everyone else had gotten into position. He settled into a new spot of his own, behind everyone else, facing north into the forest behind them and scanning restlessly for any sign of the men trying to circle around to close the trap. Jathmar spotted chan Hagrahyl at the center of their little group, hunkered down in an angle where two tree trunks had fallen against one another as they crashed down.
Braiheri Futhai had crawled as far as possible from the expected line of fire, hiding in visible terror and doing nothing to prepare for self-defense. Elevu Gitel had hunkered down between Jathmar and chan Hagrahyl. The geologist was loading his rifle in grim silence, and glancing in the other direction, Jathmar found Barris Kasell less than a yard beyond Rilthan.
Try as he might, he couldn't see the others, which he took as a good sign. They settled in, uneasy, on edge?waiting in a classic ambush position to see what their pursuers would do.
Shevan Garlath had never seen a likelier spot for an ambush.
He stared, mesmerized, at the jumble of timber a tornado must have toppled in some relatively recent storm. The entire clearing was a twisted mass of jagged, broken wood, tree trunks, and branches that jutted out like the sharp stakes of a basilisk trap.
And he had to search it.
Had to go out there, into that deadly maze, and search it.
There was no question that their quarry had gone into it. The trail was clear to see?even he could follow it without difficulty?and the birdcall signals from the Scouts who'd worked their way around to the other side indicated that they hadn't come back out again. But the question was why they'd stopped here … and what they intended to do next.
And of all the thousands of soldiers spread out through this multi-universe, godsforsaken transit chain it had to be him that drew the job of finding out. Finding out if the murdering whoresons who'd killed Osmuna?that lazy-assed, sleep-on-duty, worthless piece of dragon-bait?planned on killing anybody else today. Garlath cursed the dead man, wishing desperately that there was a way to weasel out of this particular duty. If he'd dared, he would have sent his point men in alone. Would have stayed back here in the trees, where it was safe.
But Hundred fucking Olderhan?the name and rank stuck in his craw like a fishbone?was watching him. Watching, waiting with bated breath for Garlath to screw up. Regs?and tradition?were clear: a commander of fifty went out with his platoon. He had to be right on top of the action, especially in close terrain like this, to coordinate his troopers' movements and respond instantly to any change in the situation.
Garlath cursed the Regs, cursed the officers who'd written them, cursed the "follow-me" junior officer tradition of the Andaran military, cursed the judge advocates who'd established the punishments for failing to follow Regs … and, with a passion and a fervor which surprised even him, cursed Sir Jasak Olderhan for ever having been born to make Garlath look so bad in comparison.
The Duke's Golden Brat could do no wrong, he thought viciously. Fine, then. Garlath would just have to do such an outstanding job on this operation that he'd make Olderhan look sorry-assed inadequate for a change.
He ground his teeth together, bitterly aware that it would take a miracle to do that, given Olderhan's infernally good luck?not to mention his fucking birthright. But there was nothing he could do about that, either, and so he forced himself to stand there and listen to the bastard's voice.
"Remember," Jasak said, making his voice as calm and matter-of-fact as he could. "We want this situation co
ntained. We know they're in there somewhere, and we need to make certain we don't lose any of them. But I want this settled without shooting, if it's at all possible."
He looked at Garlath, trying to will him to comprehend.
"Understand me, Fifty. We're responsible for the lives of our own people, but our overriding responsibility is to the Union. To preventing this from getting any further out of hand. You and your men will not fire unless and until you are attacked."
Garlath stared at him, face sweaty and eyes wide. Jasak could almost literally feel the protest just barely locked behind the other man's teeth.
"I understand your concern for your men's safety," he said, his voice as soft and reasonable as he could make it even as both of them knew whose safety Garlath was truly concerned about, "and no officer likes giving an order like that. But it's a direct order, and it will be obeyed, Fifty Garlath. On the other hand, I'll understand if you feel unable to order your men to obey my instructions under these circumstances. If you do, I will relieve you without prejudice and assume command of your platoon and responsibility for any casualties it may suffer."
He felt Gadrial stiffen where she stood beside Chief Sword Threbuch, but he kept his own gaze on Garlath's, staring deep into the fifty's eyes, almost begging the man to accept his offer. Jasak didn't feel any more eager than the next man to wade out into that tangled, torn mass of timber, but he was completely willing to offer Garlath a way out of the duty which obviously terrified him.
Shevan Garlath managed?somehow?not to glare back at the officious, sanctimonious bastard in front of him. Relieve him "without prejudice"! Oh, yes. Garlath believed that, didn't he? If he declined the "honor" of walking out into that maze, his career would be over. Whatever he might say now, Olderhan's official report would slam him for "cowardice in the face of the enemy," and his own request for relief would "prove" the charge.
Which was a capital offense, if a court-martial convicted.
Besides, he told himself, searching frantically for something to bolster his own courage, he knows perfectly well that whoever's actually in command when we finally make contact with these bastards?however it comes out?is going to be made for life. And if he has to relieve me for "cowardice" to take over command, it'll only make him look better!
"No, Sir," he grated. "It's my platoon, my job. I'll do it."
Jasak swallowed a vicious, silent curse as Garlath spurned the offer. But there was nothing he could do about it. Whatever he might suspect, or even know, about Garlath's terror, he had no overt evidence of cowardice, and Garlath was right. It was his platoon, and under both Union military law and the Andaran code of honor, Jasak had to leave him in command unless he requested relief or openly violated regulations or the articles of war.
"Very well, Fifty Garlath," he said frostily. "You have your orders. Good luck."
Garlath clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt all the way down his neck as he nodded to Gaythar Harklan. The Second Squad shield nodded back, and started forward, slowly and gingerly, with the squad's arbalestiers deployed in a skirmish line.
Garlath followed behind them, hands wet with sweat as he gripped his loaded arbalest. The squad advanced slowly, painstakingly searching every twisted pile of branches that offered a hiding place, and the fifty felt his heart battering against his rib cage like a hammer.
Whoever these bastards were, wherever they'd come from, they were not going to get the drop on Shevan Garlath.
Shaylar watched the advancing men from her hiding place through a screen of barren branches, long since deprived of their leaves.
These men meant trouble. Big trouble. They were dressed in military style uniforms, practical and suited to an active life in rough country. Yet their appearance was so incongruous, so odd, that it took a concentrated effort to focus on them and what they were doing, rather than what they wore and the anachronisms they carried.
Their bizarre, medieval weapons made them look like play actors … until you got a good look at their faces. Even at a distance of fifty yards, it was clear the men behind those grim expressions were capable of carrying out any kind of violence to which they might set their hand. Shaylar hadn't grown up around soldiers, but she'd seen a lot of them since joining the survey crews, and the tough air of dangerous competence which surrounded these men left her trembling.
Not even a rabbit could have evaded their meticulous search. In fact, several didn't. Rabbits and chipmunks darted into the open several times, running in panic as men with swords?honest-to-goodness swords?poked them into hiding places into which no human being above the age of six months could possibly have shoehorned himself.
Each animal that exploded out of hiding tightened the thumbscrews on Shaylar's ragged nerves. From the reactions of the soldiers, particularly the man behind their advancing line, who seemed to be in charge, the strain was no less acute on their side. On an immature, emotional level Shaylar wanted to be glad these killers were afraid of them, but common sense and a chilling voice at the base of her skull told her how dangerous their fear could be.
Their advance narrowed the gap steadily, bringing them within thirty yards of her hiding place. They continued to search with methodical, terrifying thoroughness. It was only a matter of time before one of those grim faced men thrust a sharp steel blade through a pile of branches and came sword-point-to-gun-muzzle with Shaylar or one of her companions. She didn't dare move her head even to look for Jathmar or Ghartoun chan Hagrahyl. She scarcely dared to breathe. Surely it couldn't be much longer now!
The same thought must have crossed chan Hagrahyl's mind. The nearest soldier was twenty yards out, and chan Hagrahyl stood up.
Without his rifle. Without even a handgun. He simply stood up, in the most stunning display of pure, cold courage Shaylar Nargra-Kolmayr had ever seen in her life.
"If you don't mind, that's far enough," he said in a voice that sounded like someone talking to his grandmother, not to a pack of armed strangers who'd already murdered a friend of his.
He held his hands out in the open, empty, nonthreatening, trying to show them he was no danger. The men in the clearing whirled at the sound of his voice, then froze where they stood, taking stock through wide eyes. They stared from chan Hagrahyl's empty hands to his tense but pleasant smile, and two or three of them turned uncertainly toward the trees behind them, rather than towards the man Shaylar had thought was in charge.
Then she realized that that man wasn't frozen in surprise.
The sound of a voice shouting alien gibberish sent terror scalding through Garlath even as his mind shrieked the word: Enemy! The jabbering stranger thrust himself violently out of hiding, ready to strike with some terrifying murder weapon, and the sorry-assed men of Second Squad weren't even moving.
Terror fluttered at the back of Garlath's throat, like a trapped basilisk, yet even as it strangled him, a sudden wild exultation swept through him, as well.
I've got him! He's mine! Not Jasak Olderhan's, not anyone else's, but mine!
Visions of glory, of promotions and the adoration of all of Arcana roared through him like dragonfire, spreading to his fingertips and toes, and his arm came up.
Jasak saw Garlath's arbalest twitch as the stranger stood up, calling out in a friendly voice. He saw the weapon start to swing up, start to track around towards the voice.
"Hold fire!" he shouted. "Hold fire, Fifty Garlath! Damn it, I said hold?"
Thwack!
The crossbow quarrel hit chan Hagrahyl directly in the throat.
Shaylar screamed under Jathmar's feet, echoing his own shock. Blood drenched the pile of wood, spraying hot and terrible over chan Hagrahyl's hands as he clawed at the shaft, choking on blood and steel. And then he was falling backwards, against the pile of wood.
Jathmar snarled and threw his rifle to his shoulder, but Barris Kasell beat him to the first shot. The ex-soldier's rifle cracked like doomsday, and the bastard with the crossbow staggered. Jathmar's shot slammed into him a sliver of a second later
, and then the entire survey crew opened up.
Sir Jasak Olderhan stared in horror. Thunder shook the world. Crack after sharp, ear-splitting crack tore the air, and he couldn't even see the weapons, let alone the men using them. Puffs of smoke jetted from the toppled timber here and there, and blood fountained from his commander of fifty. The projectiles smashing into Garlath exploded out of his back, ripping it open, turning him into so much torn and shredded meat.
He went down, and before Jasak could react to the stunning, horrifying response, Shield Harklan's skirmish line returned fire. They brought their arbalests up, shooting at the puffs of smoke which were the only targets they could see, and then the entire clearing erupted.
Chapter Eight
Darcel Kinlafia was worried.
The initial message from Shaylar?terse, shaken?had been to wild to believe, too threatening to grasp with anything but cold horror, and yet too vividly accurate to doubt. She'd sent him not only the message from chan Hagrahyl, but also the images of herself splashing down into the creek, watching Falsan die under her hands. Darcel had felt everything she'd felt, and he wanted to do murder. He wanted his hands around the throat of whoever had killed Falsan and put Shaylar through something so horrifying.
Worst of all, there was absolutely nothing Darcel could do to help. Even if Company-Captain Halifu emptied the entire half-built fort and set out now, Shaylar and Jathmar, Barris and Ghartoun?all of the people who'd become his family over the past several years were simply too far away.
And so he paced his solitary camp, not wanting even the company of Halifu's soldiers, since anyone's presence would rub him raw, like sand in a open wound.