It all weighed less than forty-five pounds. From years of practice jousting and dueling at events and Ren Fairs in it, David could move around and fight in that armor for an entire day or more.
Dirk Blackwood and the other armorers from the local medieval club had helped him make it out of sixteen gauge stainless steel. He bought the helmet and the mitten-style gauntlets from another armorer, but everything else he had made, riveted, and put together with his own two hands.
If he took the time to don it, he could even ride a horse or a bike in it.
As soon as he finished loading up, they pedaled back to the rendezvous point downtown.
By then it was noon and a crowd of several thousands volunteers milled about on such a chilly, sunny day. David spotted Dirk and Belinda helping out. Dirk already had his own battered suit of medieval armor on to show off for the crowds. Like David, Dirk was used to wearing armor and could do so all day, if need be.
But they would shuck it off to save their strength, when and where possible.
Belle carried her longbow and a quiver of arrows and stood with Dirk, but she remained slightly behind him when he stepped up to speak.
Communication continued to be a problem. Big megaphones had been set up on stands for people to give directions through.
The chaos and confusion only intensified with so many nervous people coming together. If the authorities weren’t careful, the attempt to raise a militia could easily turn into a riot. People weren’t in any mood to be messed with or to mess around.
But hurry up and wait seemed to be the order of the day. Typical military.
Dirk sensed the frustration building and took charge, just as David and Jerriel joined him and Belle near one of the main stands. Belle waved to them.
“I’m provisional militia commander Dirk Blackwood. Quiet down and listen up, people. Let’s get this started. There’s a lot to do.”
“C’mon,” David said to Jerriel. “People need to see more of us ready to fight. Let’s go behind the stand. Help me put my armor on.” He picked out the gambeson and the coat of plates from the bike carrier.
Jerriel nodded, grabbing his gorget and the arms. “I know what to doo. I grew up among armed warrioors.”
She continued to impress David. Jerriel made a great squire. Having her hands moving all over him was also thrilling.
Above them, Dirk shouted over the big megaphone in front of him. His hardened voice rang out over the mob.
“Listen up, people.”
A messenger ran in and handed Dirk a note.
“This is an important general announcement for anyone listening. The search teams have encountered several strange pools of glowing water in the area. At this time, we don’t know what they are, but reports state that these weird pools of liquid can at times be dangerous–even fatal. There have already been a number of unusual losses and injuries.”
David thought of the incident he’d witnessed involving one of those strange, glowing pools. Did the damn things appear randomly, or was there some pattern to them? Were they permanent? What happened when the pools dried up or drained away?
It continued to frustrate him that they knew so little about all of the many threats they now faced.
Jerriel rushed up to Dirk, tapping on his arm. He turned to her in surprise.
“Dirk. I must examine these strange pools. They may be magic. I must see them.” She looked back at David.
“Go ahead,” David told her. “We’re going to be swamped training the militia until tonight.”
“I will come back, Daeved, befoore the sun goes down.”
Dirk turned to Belle. “Send her out with some of the searchers. She must be kept safe. Take her with you tonight if you have to.”
“Got it,” Belle said, noting it in her book. “Come with me, Jerriel.” The ladies left. Dirk and David turned back to the monumental task at hand.
They divided the volunteers into units of three: sword and shield, spear and shield, and archer or crossbow. Three such units led by a corporal formed a squad of ten on the line. Three squads of ten, led by a sergeant, made up a platoon of thirty-one.
Three platoons comprised a company of ninety-three troops, led by an additional field command staff of seven–normally three second lieutenants (one attached to each platoon), a first lieutenant, a captain, and two aides or messengers.
Three battlefield companies of a hundred troops made up a battalion of three hundred troops plus support personnel, led by a major. Three battalions made up a legion of a thousand, or what was also called a regiment, led by a colonel, and support staff. Three legions or regiments of a thousand each made up a division of three thousand, led by a brigadier general, and support staff.
And finally, three divisions formed an army or battle group of ten thousand troops, led by a general. Support and supply units were also formed, but organized separately from frontline fighting units.
Dirk gave David the acting rank of first lieutenant, and sent him to help get the companies forming up, getting their weapons and gear, and begin drilling and training to fight and move as a unit.
“We don’t have a lot of time before nightfall,” Dirk told him. “Get the basics down. Impress on everyone the need to stand and fight and not break and run. With green militia, that’s going to be a big problem tonight–holding our lines together. Very few of these people have ever fought in any kind of battle, let alone one that’s going to be as up close and personal as this one will.”
“Got it,” David said.
First they had to get everyone suited up.
Staff had pieces of makeshift armor broken down into types and sizes, as more continued to pour in from the community.
Criers had been sent out by bicycle and on foot, asking for donations of anything that could be used as armor or weapons. Workers cut pieces of metal to be tied on and used in overlapping layers to protect chests, arms, and legs. Sometimes they were merely fixed in place and glued on with caulking guns.
First thing, each militia trooper got a set of dog tags with their name, serial number, and any basic religious or medical info. The local military recruiters and ROTC people from the colleges had brought along several tag imprinters and boxes of blanks and chains.
Next came a helmet, shoulder and neck protection, torso armor, arm and leg armor, boots if they needed them, and tie-on protective plates or caps for their feet fashioned out of metal or plastic.
Next came weapons.
Everyone got a small hand weapon, usually a long hunting knife or a hatchet, to wear on their canteen belt. Every trooper received two canteens filled with drinking water, and a butt pack filled with bandages and basic first aid supplies.
Sword and shield fighters naturally received swords or machetes, and larger shields for the shield wall. Spear fighters got a six- to seven-foot spear and a smaller shield. Spears fought behind the shield wall, spearing as many foes as quickly as they could, while the shield wall held.
Archers had a bow or crossbow and were tested. They had to demonstrate some minimal skill or ability to fire it. They were issued two dozen shafts, and a hammer or hatchet with a hammer head on the reverse side.
The archers could cut and drive picket poles into the ground for position defense, and then sharpen the exposed end with their hatchets or knives. In a pinch, the pickets could even be yanked out and used as last-ditch spears. Picket lines could slow enemies down so that the spears and archers could cut the enemy down at close range.
Dirk and David knew that ammunition for their archers was going to be a running problem from the get-go. Entire teams of older and younger volunteers were organized by the emergency town council to do nothing but make arrows and crossbow bolts as fast as possible. Teams of runners were organized to distribute arrows and bolts by cart and backpack to each company on the line.
Finally, the troops received a backpack with a foam sleeping pad and wool blanket. They ran out of ponchos very quickly. Troops could use their own tents, sle
eping bags, and camping gear if they had any, but non-coms made sure their people did not carry too much gear.
If the troops were too heavily encumbered, they wouldn’t be able to move or fight very well. All packs had to be kept behind the lines during actual battles.
Time passed quickly.
Three hours before sunset, and the city only had one single division of three thousand green militia troops to send out, marching to take up defensive positions at key points.
Dirk Blackwood was appointed acting brigadier general.
David and the other leaders did their best to keep the units together, and attempt to train and instruct them as they marched–a very tall order.
There were three lines of defense: shield wall, spears, and then archers in direct support. Protect the flanks. Don’t get cut off or surrounded. Hold the strategic access points to the city, and take the enemy down. No negotiations with these creatures. Kill the bastards dead on sight.
It grew closer and closer to nightfall as more militia units came online each minute across the city.
David rode up and down his sections that he could reach on a bicycle in the fading light, checking their lines and positions. He tried to make sure that the militia had the basic formations in place: sword and shield wall, spear, and archer. Three lines deep–archers up in higher positions to shoot down at the enemy, whenever possible.
Everyone looked pale and scared.
David’s gut ached. They could all be in for a very long night.
12
Another night, with no further sign of the enemy.
“I’m leaving,” Mason announced that evening for all to hear, including General Benton and Captain Watkins. “With or without your help, I’m going to Elkhart. I need to go there myself, and find out what has happened to Tori.”
“You can’t do that,” Benton said.
“Watch me. It’s been over a week, and I’m done being patient. General, there have been no further enemy attacks, and we’ve also had no word from Elkhart in all that time. None of the people we’ve sent have been able to make it back. We need to know why.”
Benton looked as if he was about to lower the boom.
Mason rested a hand casually on one of his pistols.
Watkins broke the tension. “Let him go, General. Someone needs to get through, somehow. If anyone can, he can. Mason’s right–he needs his answers, and we need to find out what’s happening in Elkhart.”
Benton sat back and hesitated still. “What if something happens to him? What if we’re attacked while he’s gone?”
“Then we handle it the best we can, sir. And then we summon him back. Our recruitment is up. The militia is four times its original size now that we’ve had a few days to fully recruit, stabilize, and organize the city’s defenses. He’s young; he’s no good to us this hostile and distracted. Let him go–two problems solved.”
Benton waved one hand. “Very well. Send him. Give him and his friend horses or bikes–whatever they need. Go to Elkhart, Mr. ‘Pistolero,’ as people have taken to calling you. Do whatever you need to do there and make contact with whoever is in charge. Then return back here and report, as quickly as you are able. But if you hear we’re under attack, I want you back here–pronto–girl or no girl. More lives than just one depend on you. But let me still wish you good luck. You have already saved us, more than once, and we should all be grateful to you for that. I hope you find that young woman you are looking for, alive and well.”
Mason didn’t know what to say at first. He didn’t expect this level of compassion. Watkins had really come through for him. “Thank you, sir, and everyone else.”
He and Blondie stayed up two more hours, working with Watkins getting their horses, pack horse, and gear ready. Then they turned in.
“Do you mind if we get an early start, just before dawn?” Mason asked Blondie.
His new friend held his hands up in the air. “Like a guy who still doesn’t know who he is has anything better to do.”
Mason grinned and clapped his buddy on the shoulder. “Thanks, Blondie. Let’s hit the sack.”
Blondie grinned. “Mace, as much as I have come to adore your company, and your light snoring and mumbling in your sleep, I’ve arranged to have my own room next to yours. I hope you won’t mind.”
Mason looked at him. “What brought this on?”
His friend grinned even wider. “A certain young lady has made it very clear to me that she wishes to keep me company tonight. I thought I might oblige her.”
Mason raised both eyebrows. “Well, okay then. Have good time, my friend.”
“I fully intend to.”
Good for Blondie. Mason was happy that his strange friend had found someone so quickly, but Blondie did happen to be just the kind of bad boy character that many young women probably went for.
Mason knew what it was like to really want to be with someone, but his Tori was the only woman he needed or wanted.
For the first time, things seemed to be on the way up.
Mason stopped being happy for Blondie and whoever his new gal was very quickly over the next three hours or more.
Not only were the walls between his and Blondie’s room right next door apparently too thin, but this young lady was definitely a screamer–and quite possibly a budding opera star or something.
Despite being dead tired the night before a big mission, Mason was forced to endure the torture and annoyance of repeatedly listening to said young woman cry out in passion at the top of her lusty lungs.
And she only had two modes that she switched back and forth between. She was either incredibly agreeable to what Blondie was doing to her, or she kept calling on the Almighty Himself for either some kind of divine notice or assistance.
After three hours, he could hardly stand it any longer.
Mason seriously considered shooting a few lesser holes through the wall.
But even as Mason cocked the hammers on his Spillers and aimed high, Blondie and the young woman apparently collapsed and passed out from their exertions–at last.
If the young lady in question had lost her voice by morning, it would not come as any surprise. The entire county must have heard her cries that night.
Mason collapsed to grab what rest he could.
Whoever it was came for him in his room two hours later. They were quiet, and Mason was exhausted. But something tried to tell him he was in trouble.
They jumped him a split second before he grabbed one of his pistols. Someone cracked him on the back of the head with something hard, and the last thing he recalled was being dizzy and mostly out of it while his wrists and ankles were being bound with either duct tape or zip ties.
He never completely blacked out, but when Mason could make sense of things, it was still dark. He could determine that much, even with the dark bag or hood that had been shoved over his head. His skull still ached where his abductors had struck him.
When he tried to move, he discovered he was sitting on some kind of a metal, perhaps a kitchen chair, tied down to it by his wrists and ankles. His muscles had gone stiff and there was duct tape over his mouth, the adhesive of which tasted lousy.
He couldn’t do much but breathe through his nose. Even though the room was chilly, having a bag over his head made him hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable.
It was quiet around him. He was probably alone.
His bonds held fast. The metal chair was very sturdy. Tipping over in it would just make him more uncomfortable, and risk bashing his head on something.
If it had been a wooden or folding chair that might break apart or collapse, he would have risked doing so. Things did not look good.
After a while there was nothing to do but sleep and keep his strength up. Perhaps a chance to escape or break free would come later, when they cut him free from the chair.
When Mason woke up again, it was already getting light out. The bag was dark, but not completely dark. People were moving and talking around him in hushed voices,
but he could still make out what they were saying.
Mason considered his situation. Someone in the militia had to have helped these people. This had inside job written all over it.
“Did you try the guns?” one voice said.
“Yeah.”
“All of them?”
“None of them work, just like I told you. They only work for him.”
That would be a militia person who knew that.
“Then that’s a damn shame, cause this bastard’s going to swing. My brother and another good friend of ours were in one of those buildings fighting the monsters. This jerk blasted them and that entire building to bits with his damn guns. He killed them all and he doesn’t even care. He has people thinking he’s a hero–when he’s just a filthy murderer. He doesn’t give a damn who he cuts down. We’ve all heard that.”
“Then let’s get this over with. They’re already looking for him everywhere. If you want to do this, we need to move on it and get it over quickly.”
“Everyone’s here now. We’re all ready. Let’s string him up and get to it.”
Now Mason was scared. These people obviously hated him fiercely. They were going to hang and kill him–no trial, no questions, no chance to explain or defend himself.
They just wanted him dead. It was that brutally simple.
“Keep his hands tied. Cut his feet loose and bring him out to the tree. We’ve got the rope ready.”
“I think he’s awake. He’s probably listening to us right now.”
“Good. Then he knows he’s about to die.”
Mason started kicking and trying to get away as soon as his legs were free. It wasn’t very easy to go on the defensive with the bag on his head and his hands still bound.
They all cursed and grunted.
His captors shoved him down and kicked him into submission.
Then they jostled him back up to walk. He was stiff and hurting, but they shoved him out what was most likely the back door of a house.
They led him down some short steps.
No, he couldn’t die like this.
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