He might not have the magical slug-throwing weapons, but strategy, tactics, and the weapons of ancient Rome were all very relevant to the circumstances he inhabited, and he studied them eagerly. Finally, now was the time to deploy them.
He travelled to the villages where his fighters resided. In clearing after clearing, he had the men practice, endlessly practice. Lines, squares, protective formations. Shield making and maintenance. Pikes and bows, arrows and swords. He found the most sensible, reliable, and honored fighter, and made him the centurion. He didn’t go so far as to put them in helmets with horsehair combs, but in every other way, they were equivalent to Roman fighters.
Many villages held different kinds of humans, particularly amphibian versions, but a few other kinds existed as well. Wolfies would overrun columns of frogs, no matter how well they drilled in Roman tactics, so Fordice didn’t even try. Instead, they were deployed in intelligence and support roles. In many ways, they were engaged in the war far earlier than the regular fighters.
Finally, the word came down. The Wolfies, somehow, had tumbled to Fordice’s organization and plans, and were preparing to fight. Fordice saw this as odd. They should be melting into the landscape, not massing for attack. But several aspects of Wolfie behavior were puzzling. Well, if they want a fight, they’ve got one.
Fordice assembled the forces and sent away the flankers. Their job was to get to the side walls of the compartment housing the target village, and be ready to envelop the Wolfies and cut off their escape.
The target village, Asbewec, awoke that morning and went about its normal routine. The Wolfie calls the night before had been unusually numerous, as the various Wolfie bands aggregated and argued about the best strategy. The population was nervous, and the children had already been sent to the rear. The adults reluctantly agreed to stay, to give a semblance of normality. It was all a part of Fordice’s plan to lure the Wolfies to pitched battle.
Around mid-morning, the Wolfies let off a mighty howl and descended into the village. The villagers, predictably, fled. They made sure to run in zigzags, throwing off the Wolfie’s aim as they threw their favorite weapons, hatchets, at the heads of the villagers.
It was a pure rout. The villagers made no pretense of resistance, and the Wolfies poured into the village, seeking plunder. Fordice let them in, since a Wolfie ransacking a hut is a Wolfie who is not watching for a counterattack. More and more Wolfies joined in, forgetting their defensive stance in an orgy of destruction.
The villagers scattered through the woods, even though this put them at a disadvantage to the Wolfies. Scattered in the trees were some of Fordice’s chosen archers. Any Wolfie bent on running after the villagers was cut down as soon as it disappeared into the green gloom.
The slow decimation of their numbers went unnoticed by the Wolfies. Meanwhile, some three hundred meters to either side of the village, columns of men moved at a steady trot straight out. They formed, not a straight sided box, but more of a funnel. Into this funnel poured more and more of the enemy, intent on destruction, death, and plunder.
Fordice watched all of this from an elevated platform over a table filled with sand, on which the battle operations were marked with little flags, representing fighting men from various villages. A steady stream of runners came into the command post and streamed back out with orders. It was, quite possibly, the most intricate and managed battle against the Wolfie enemy ever devised. Why wasn’t this done before? Maybe keeping the fighters in their own village was the master stroke.
The flood of Wolfies into the funnel slowed. Fordice knew they would soon want out, somehow, and he sent out more runners with special instructions. The lines pivoted, and the slanted lines of the funnel turned inward, so the formation resembled a beaker—at first the straight-walled kind, then the sloping kind with one small opening at the top.
The Wolfies were, at first, unaware of this, since nothing impeded their lateral movement out of Asbewec, now completely destroyed. If they tried to head into the forest behind Asbewec, the rain of arrows soon dissuaded them. They spread out, and thus diluted their numbers.
If they lined up in a column, they could punch through the formations at the bottom. But their aggression outweighs their intelligence.
The first howls from the back of the Wolfie formation didn’t attract much attention at first. Soon, though, the ones in the front knew that something was very, very wrong.
“Forward, march!” shouted Cregnath, head of the Werthe fighters. The fighters stood up, held their shields chin-high, and began marching forward. The Wolfies in front of them tried to resist, but the archers at the center of the formation fired through the gaps between heads in front of them, and straight into the body of a Wolfie. The pikemen at the front, with pikes pointed straight forward and shields to ward off the thrown hatchet or occasional arrow, presented a Wolfie with a forest of points upon which they could impale themselves. If they managed to get past them, then before they would close their jaws on a human throat, the great broadswords of the second rank would kill them. It was a no-win situation, and after the first several minutes of one-way slaughter, the survivors turned and fled towards the rear.
They met up with the comrades of Cregnath, marching in the opposite direction. Left and right, the options were no better.
“Halt!” called Cregnath when the humans had boxed in the Wolfies. Within a half-hour, the destruction of all Wolfie fighters was complete. The humans did not stop to celebrate, but immediately reset the formations to the way they were at the beginning. They waited.
***
“Think they’ll go for it?” asked Cregnath, when Fordice came around to inspect the formations personally.
“Probably. Everything so far has been by the book. They’re a prisoner of their own psychology. They have to react to these events. Be on your toes, the second wave will be worse than the first.”
Two days later, they had their answer. Five times as many Wolfies poured into Asbewec as the smell of dead Wolfie carried throughout the Great Deck. The fight, this time, was more desperate, as Wolfies would occasionally attack a formation en masse and threaten a breakout. Fordice deployed his reserves with care and the humans won the second battle, although not as easily.
“Bury them this time,” said Fordice. “You’ve killed all of the local bands. You don’t want them coming in from all over.”
The men grumbled, for some of the Wolfies were quite ripe, but they could see the wisdom in the Minstrel’s guidance, and began digging.
The Minstrel, the path to his objective now cleared of most Wolfies, took his leave of the combined villages, though not without a week of celebrations.
***
The Minstrel made his way down the Great Deck. Wolfie howls didn’t sound in the night anymore, but Fordice didn’t believe for a minute that they were all gone. For all he knew, the war might have only taken care of just their young men, leaving the bulk of the population sitting around wherever they called home, busily producing more Wolfies.
So he walked with care, often in camouflage, tracing out the forest and trail for signs of Wolfie occupation, all the while looking for a working terminal so he could report in to his AI.
He proceeded carefully, taking his time. He knew his AI valued data more than speed, and so he ensured that he was taking a good ground survey while he was traversing the deck. He was examining an unfamiliar paw print in the soft loam of a forest trail when he became certain he was being watched.
He straightened from the print, and moved down the trail, nonchalantly readying his various weapons for action. He carefully unsnapped the tie-down strap around his main knife, opened the pockets where he kept his throwing knives, and shifted his bow from his right shoulder to his left, while checking how loose the closest arrow was in its quiver.
He put his hands on his belt, ready to confront his shadow, when the feeling abruptly vanished. He carefully turned around looked behind him, since that was where he had felt the gaze.
He turned around to continue down the trail when an elfin figure appeared, blocking his way. The young boy—no, a girl—smiled and waved her hand in front of her. Fordice could not move a muscle. She walked up to him and resnapped the tie-down strap, reclosed the pockets of his knives, and unstrung his bow. She backed up, waved her hand again, and Fordice found himself in possession of his body once more.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
“Magic,” the girl said in a voice so husky that Fordice instantly changed his estimate of this person to that of a middle aged woman.
“I don’t believe in magic,” said Fordice. “I do believe in science. You did something to me, and robbed me of my will. Everything else is crap.”
The woman chuckled, low in her throat. “So, an unbeliever. Why?”
“Because it only affected certain muscles. I remained standing, which is impossible if all you did was freeze my muscles. I should have crashed to the ground without my balance center in control.”
The woman spread both hands wide. “Then tell me how I did it.”
Fordice reviewed everything in his training. “I can’t.”
“Neither can I,” she said. “My name is BylerLynn. It’s a device of some kind. It’s been in my family for a long time. With it, I can make you believe that you’re paralyzed. I just do the hand passes to cover myself turning it on and off.”
“Thought so. What did you have in mind with me, once you caught me?”
BlyerLynn just shrugged. “I have no idea. I just capture everyone I can, just for the fun of it. Sometimes they’re Wolfies, and those we kill immediately. Others offer a bit of sport. Some, I just knock unconscious, and they wake up on the other side of the village.”
“Why let me know about this?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said BlyerLynn. “Something is different about you. You are someone to know, someone to trust. How I know this, I do not understand. It troubles me.”
“I’m not troubled,” said Fordice. He held out his open hand. “My name is Fordice, but I am known as the Minstrel. I sing for my supper, when I am around people, otherwise, I hunt.”
“That explains the knives,” said BlyerLynn.
“That, and the occasional Wolfie,” said Fordice. “There should be a whole lot less of them around now.”
“Did you have something to do with that?” she asked, astonished. “We’ve never seen so many Wolfies on the trail before. We killed twenty or more with my family’s device. The local graveyard is overfull with Wolfie corpses.”
“I thank you for reducing their numbers,” said Fordice. “We were at the far end of their pilgrimage. You will notice that none came back.”
“True. None did.”
“I am worried, though,” said Fordice. “I examined a sample of the bodies. All those whom we killed were young males. No females. They are somewhere, making more Wolfies.”
“Yes, that must be true,” said BlyerLynn. “But if so, they must be far from here. I have heard no howls in the night, no screams during the day.”
“We probably do not have to worry about them,” said Fordice. “Their young men would be the ones who hunt the most, and the rest of the pack is probably old, tired, pregnant, or sick.”
“This is a good thing,” said BlyerLynn. “A rest. A peace, perhaps.”
“There is no peace with Wolfies. Only death, theirs or ours.”
The middle-aged woman shook her head. “Too much talk of death. Let us talk of other things. From where do you travel, and to where are you bound?”
Fordice bowed low. “I am Minstrel. I have no home village, and I am bound for whatever village will have me. But today, I am bound for the first place that will give me a good evening meal and a place to lay my head.”
“Then we are the place for you, Minstrel. Come, let me lead you to our elders.”
***
Fordice left the village of BlyerLynn with a good breakfast under his belt, a bit of hard cheese and bread and some salted meat in his knapsack to hold him until he arrived at the next village along the road. He protested at the sheer amount of food urged upon him, but stopped when he was informed that the next village was some three days of travel ahead.
On the third day, with provisions running low, Fordice spotted the telltale ribbon of smoke in the air between the two decks, and knew his journey was nearing the end of its first part.
He bore a message from BlyerLynn’s village, written in the hand of Old V’Mouth, the elder of her village, introducing him to the elders of this last village before the Great Metal Barrenness.
Fordice was met with wariness, but his message was enough to get the elders to approve his entrance, and the formerly suspicious guards reformed into an honor guard, ensuring a clear path into the center of the village.
He was required to sing for his supper once again, but this time was amply rewarded with an evening visit by the elder’s concubine and a message.
“Dear Minstrel, you appear to be a man of wisdom. Take Frarina for the night, to ensure that our genes mix, even though we seldom leave our village. We will raise your child as one of our own. Signed, Tavenov, Elder.”
“You don’t have to ask twice,” murmured Fordice, opening his arms wide.
***
Fordice appeared to Tavenov the next morning with a request that could only be shared in private. He was led to the elder’s hut, and left in peace.
“Sir,” said Fordice. “With greatest respect, we must walk in the fields before I can discuss my request with you. I know you to be a good and honorable man. I cannot say the same with those whom I find in your court. I wish to discuss something with you in ultimate secrecy.”
The old man sighed and held out his hand for Fordice to help him to his feet. Without a word, he pointed to the rear exit. The two of them emerged into the light of the Warden day. Fordice led the way to a field he had seen on the way in. Tavenov followed.
They had gotten to the first row of mutated corn when the old man stopped and turned around. “Speak. I weary of games, of secrets. Tell me this thing that requires so many precautions.”
Fordice told him of his true mission, and his desire to seek a terminal for the great AI who had summoned him.
“Why do you think I would know of such a thing?” he asked.
“A reasonable question, sir. Consider, you live near the back of the Warden. You may have noticed activities concerning the engines. My AI told me that most of the machinery in the rear of the Warden is at least partially operational. Thus, if there’s a terminal that works, you should know about it.”
Tavenov nodded his head. “Logical, logical. You have put much time and thought into this, o Minstrel. I will have my son show you where one such terminal can be found. However, there is no guarantee that the terminal will be able to summon your AI.”
“That’s all I ask, sir.”
***
Later that morning, Keitan, son of Tavenov, tapped the Minstrel on the shoulder. The man spun around, but the boy was already two arms’ length away.
“Don’t try that again, son. You might be missing parts by accident.”
“My apologies, sir. I understand that you have need of me.”
“Yes. Pardon me, ladies and gentleman, but duty calls.”
They walked out of the village clearing proper, each holding his tongue until they were clear of other villagers.
“How far?” asked Fordice.
“One half cycle, Minstrel,” said the boy. “We will arrive shortly before the end of the day.”
“Good enough. I take it you have brought provisions.”
“In my knapsack, sir. Here, let me lead, it will be faster.”
Fordice stepped away from the path, waving the boy forward.
“How old are you?”
“Sir, with respect, we should save our breath for the journey. We have made a late start. The path is no place to be caught with the light fading.”
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br /> “Carry on, then,” said Fordice. He turned the thoughts over in his mind while he grimly set out after the youth.
The path varied greatly during the journey, from broad and easy to tread to almost non-existent. It led ever upward, though. Fordice wondered, in an abstract way, where all the soil had come from to make up the ground upon which he trod. It was one of life’s many mysteries. Dust, he supposed, from other parts of the ship, dumped here in some fashion. Perhaps parts of the ship’s waste removal system. A large part of it was undoubtedly made of the decayed and compacted remains of the plants and animals that lived here. But wasn’t that mined back out by other plants and animals?
He bumped into the back of the boy, who had stopped suddenly, arms wide and holding Fordice back.
He peered over the boy’s head at the band of Wolfies between them and the terminal.
***
They backed away slowly, thankful for the sound-deadening loam beneath their feet. Fordice could tell that these were not warrior Wolfies, but the old, sick, pregnant, and young. But they were still deadly to him. Keitan was far too young to be of any use in battle, and with just him, there was little chance that he would be able to survive a battle to reach the terminal.
They retreated as far as they could in the dimming light, until they found a place where they could set up camp. They set a minimal camp, no fire, no cover. Just a blanket on the ground and one over top, for light sleeping and instant alertness should a Wolfie show itself.
Fordice slept lightly during the night. When the lights finally began to brighten in the morning, he tapped Keitan lightly, held his lips close to the boy’s head, and whispered.
“We need to go back up and see if they are still there.”
They left their bedrolls where they were and crept up to their earlier vantage point. Fordice grimaced when he remembered how much noise they had made when they first ascended. They got to their earlier vantage point. Fordice looked through the foliage without touching it.
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