The Ancient Enemy

by Christopher Rowley

  The King was listening while Toshak and the Grys Norvory huddled with him, talking about some problem. Thru wondered what it would be like working with the Grys Norvory, considering the history between them.

  "Good to see you again, Meu. How long have you been here?" he said, taking a seat beside his friend.

  Meu shrugged. "I came in a few days back. There was a raid at Deepford, but just one ship, and we beat it off."

  There was a rap of the gavel. The King called for quiet.

  "Toshak wishes to recapitulate what we have decided. Listen carefully, and then we will come to objections and considerations."

  Toshak had three long pieces of paper in his hand from which he began to read a few quotes.

  "Training is proceeding well. We have passed two thousand of the first arrivals through the early training period. We are now working with the second two thousand. We have established six regiments so far, and we may start a seventh soon."

  Toshak paused and looked them over.

  "The chain of command is clear. His Majesty is commander in chief, I am second-in-command, but will be acting commander. That is the pattern through the rest of the army. Hereditary commanders, such as the Grys Norvory and the Kark of Duglee, will be accompanied by our newly appointed colonels. We will expect close cooperation. Disputes will be passed up the chain to my staff when possible. If we work together, we can minimize disputes."

  Thru exchanged a look with the Grys Norvory. Please, not that, he prayed.

  "Regiments will be composed of seven companies of one hundred apiece. Each company will be commanded by a lieutenant. Captains will command two companies apiece. Companies will consist of five squads, each of twenty mots. These will be lead by sergeants, assisted by corporals."

  Toshak looked them over again.

  "Your assignments will be given out at the end of the meeting. We are in the process of organizing the central staff. It will take time for that to settle out. At any time anyone may be redirected into a new role. We all have to be as flexible as possible and prepared to work harder than we've ever worked before."

  Thru was realizing what a huge undertaking lay in front of him. Seven hundred country mots, armed with a motley bunch of spears and swords. They had to be trained very quickly to fight men as more than just a suicidal mob.

  May the Spirit protect us!

  "Now," said Toshak, setting down the paper, "we have some strange, possibly wonderful news from the scouts around Tamf. The men there seem to have fallen sick. There has been little activity for days. Nor have any boats put in from the ships. We think they may be suffering from a widespread pestilence."

  "Great news," said Melidofulo. "Perhaps we need not turn our Land into an armed camp after all."

  Toshak chewed his lip.

  "That would be wonderful, but I expect they will still come against us. No plague will kill all of them. And there might still be other fleets of them to come. We must prepare ourselves, or we will be wiped out sooner or later."

  Most of them agreed, though Melidofulo looked scornful still.

  "What we need," continued Toshak, "is prisoners. We need to learn their language. We need to understand who they are, where they come from, and how many there are in their host."

  They nodded.

  "So I plan a raid on their sheds. We will try and capture as many of them as we can, so we can interrogate them."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Thru Gillo and ninety-seven other mots crouched in the damp woods outside Tamf. It was cold in the hour before dawn, and they were all shivering slightly, scared but determined.

  The early glimmerings of dawn were visible on the eastern horizon. A short birdcall came from their front, where the trees thinned toward Tamf.

  Thru nodded to Meu and the other second officers.

  "It's time." The officers dispersed quietly through the woods. Now the other mots rose up and began to move forward.

  Soon more small birds were calling, swelling toward the full chorus of dawn. Through the woods below passed a line of mots.

  Shortly, they emerged on the edge of a field, across from which stood the log palisade that the men had erected around their settlement. Beyond the dark line of the wall humped up the rude shapes of the large buildings they'd thrown together. The whole thing had been done hastily, and the work was shoddy. Their wall was irregular in height, in places ten feet, in others only eight or nine.

  At the edge of the woods the assault party halted to pick up the ladders that had been hidden there the day before. Four mots carried each twelve-foot ladder.

  Now they were in the open, running across a field used for pasturing ponies and donkeys. They covered the ground quickly. Thru had his bow in one hand, arrow ready in the other. He was slightly in front of the line, and like the other good shooters he was scanning the top of the wall ahead.

  They were aiming for a section of the wall that was no more than nine feet high. As far as the scouts could tell there was hardly anyone on the walls at this time. The men had grown lax in keeping watch in the last few days.

  Thru waited for the first shout from the wall; they were close now. He could see how the wall had been built of a mixture of roof beams, some charred, some not. The light was getting stronger every second though; still there was no one on the section of the wall ahead.

  The buildings were ugly things, like huge barns. Whole sections of buildings from Tamf, spared the fire, had been torn down and reused. Twelve barns built from the ruins of lovely Tamf. They aroused hate in the hearts of the ninety-eight mots and brilbies legging it toward the wall.

  Toshak had picked Thru to command this vital mission, and sent him south with the best-trained company in the army. The ladders went up against the wall. As much as they tried to be silent, this still brought some noise. Still no howl came from above. Thru and Meu exchanged an exultant fist in the air. This was better than they had dared to hope.

  The first mots scrambled up and signaled that the wall was not occupied. They were joined by a couple of big brilbies, and then more mots with bows. Then Thru was climbing the ladder himself. It was solidly set and seemed to take but a moment to climb, and then he swung a leg over and dropped onto the platform behind the wall. No men were in sight.

  Mots were moving quickly along the wall, a couple descending onto the ground inside. The nearest of the big buildings was about a hundred feet from the wall and now he could see smaller structures of only a single story. Most were grouped around the gate.

  More mots and brilbies were coming over the wall, heading down into the Man-Place. And now, at last, there came an astonished shout from the direction of the gate.

  Thru's mouth had gone dry. He felt his pulse quicken. There would be men to fight.

  A door opened in the tower, and men came stumbling out onto the platform behind the wall. They were met by a flurry of arrows and fell back in a hurry, but not before a couple had gone toppling off the platform. The door closed again.

  Men on the top of the gate had begun firing back, and their shouts had brought answering shouts inside the giant barns.

  Thru dared to hope that Toshak was right. The place was virtually defenseless. He dropped down inside the wall and started for the nearest of the big barns, whose door had been carelessly left wide-open.

  The ground had been churned to mud by heavy traffic, but for now there wasn't a soul abroad in the muddy streets. More shouts and noise in general was coming from the far end of the settlement. Thru peered inside the door. There was a sour smell from the interior, as if something had died there.

  A bugle was blowing. Now a drum was going.

  A large room filled with tables occupied much of the ground floor. It was empty.

  "Colonel, there are men!" said someone from outside. He turned back.

  Men were in the street, tall figures grouping in a column. A bugle was blowing the same hysterical notes over and over while the drums thundered.

  A scout returned from the
upper floors of the barn.

  "They're gone, they're all gone."

  "Not quite," said Thru.

  A small mass of men, spearpoints flashing above their heads, was coming toward them. Mot archers tested a few long-distance shots, and they broke into open files and kept coming, shields up against the arrows.

  At the rear of the files came a smaller group, centered around a flag bearer and the drummers. Thru studied them a moment. These were the officers and leaders. They would be better informed than the ordinary spearsmen.

  Could they capture one of them?

  As the men came closer it could be seen that many of them were weak, even stumbling a little.

  Thru's faith in Toshak's hunch was confirmed.

  The men began to chant, but their sound was weak and did not terrify the mots and brilbies. The men picked up the pace and came hurrying down the street, keeping the open files and straight lines while they spread out. Man was coming!

  Thru shook his head to wipe away the strange, irrationally powerful terror of Man and flashed the signal. Every mot with a bow let go, and a storm of arrows fell on the men.

  They kept their shields down and ran hunched over while closing together as they came to the corner of the muddy street. Here and there a man fell where an arrow had gone past the shield and through some chink in his leather armor. The rest came on with a steady, disciplined charge.

  As they came to the end of the street, the mots and brilbies rushed out from where they'd waited along the barn wall.

  The men turned quickly, with practiced skill, and presented a wall of shields and spears. The mots and brilbies could not hold back and, snarling with hatred, went in, sweeping aside the spears and crashing shield to shield against the line of men.

  Spears and swords flicked and stabbed. The dreadful clatter of weapons broken by the hoarse screams and staccato grunts of men, mots, and brilbies rose up. The men were outnumbered and many of them were sick, but still they fought, and they were still hard to kill.

  Thru found himself swept forward into the fighting when two mots just ahead of him suddenly went down, both thrust through with spears after their shields were knocked aside by a clever trick. The men would slip their shield edge around that of the mot and then pull sharply back. The mot shield would be pulled around to expose its bearer, and the spear would be rammed home. Nor did mots have much body armor, another thing they had to reinvent since the art for it had lapsed long ago.

  Now Thru found himself in a whirling dance of lethal weaponry. He knocked aside the spear thrust from the right with his sword, and was fortunate to dodge the skillful thrust from his left that missed his thigh by a hairbreadth.

  He slammed a foot into the right-side man's shield, sending him tumbling back. Thru's sword flashed down, the man jackknifed with a scream, and Thru was almost knocked off his feet by the man's legs. A spear from the left side almost got him again, but chipped off the bottom of the shield.

  He spun, saw a mot go flying back, blood spraying from a ripped throat, and then countered the spearsman from the left with a kick to the shield that knocked him back a step. The man pulled back and dodged to one side to avoid Thru's sword thrust.

  Something clipped Thru on the back of the head and he stumbled, seeing stars. Straightening, he glimpsed a man go hurtling over a brilby's shoulder to land facedown in the mud. Mots and men were rolling on the ground.

  His right side was momentarily free.

  The spear thrust again came from the left, and he barely knocked it aside with the shield and countered with the sword, but now he found an advantage, for his speed allowed him to keep the man on the defensive. Again and again he hewed into the man's shield and kept him from wielding his spear. Back he went a step, back another, and then Thru dropped down low, swung the sword, and clipped the man's ankles. With a howl the man went down, clutching his foot.

  There was a moment to exult; two men he had taken down, his front was cleared. The weight of shame he'd carried since the defeat on the barricades at Harfield was gone. In the next moment he dodged a huge mace that swung low enough to have removed his head from his shoulders.

  A giant of a man, almost seven feet tall and massively built, came storming through the press.

  Hob was there to face him, but the brilby was hammered backwards a moment later as the mace flicked back with an unholy speed for such a huge weapon.

  Other mots thrust with spears at the giant's back, but he was protected by men to either side. The giant was frighteningly supple for such a bulky figure. His shield was heavier than that of any brilby's. A string of victims lay behind him.

  Thru didn't have time to ponder his odds of survival, because he was too busy dodging the backflick of that mace.

  Hob darted in again at the giant. They met, shield to shield, and the brilby was borne back. Thru cut back in, swinging at the giant's knee, but the huge shield swung down just in time. The mace flicked toward him. His shield took the blow, but Thru was hurled off his feet to land in the mud. His shoulder and chest were ringing like a bell, and he couldn't get his breath for a few seconds. The giant stepped over to finish him, but was distracted by a huge blow from Hob swinging back with his sword. Another mot was coming in behind, where the men were too hard-pressed to stop him. The giant could not find the second required to kill Thru.

  Another brilby came in, the numbers were telling. The men were falling back under the pressure. The giant was surrounded by them now, a string of mots circling him. There was an arrow sticking from his thigh, another from his shoulder.

  But he was far from finished. A mot charged in too recklessly and was caught by the mace and hurled headlong, brains dashed into the mud.

  The mace clattered back against other shields, knocking mots headlong. Two brilbies finally checked him, and he fell back a step.

  Thru got to his knees and then, a little slowly, to his feet. His shoulder ached. He was still sucking for air, but there was no time. The fight came his way again. He warded off a spear with his broken shield and the spearhead flashed just over his shoulder. He struck at the spearsman and then both he and his opponent were knocked over by a brilby tumbling back from the giant's mace.

  Thru rolled free onto his back. A huge foot stamped down and pinned his shield to the ground. The giant swung the mace, Thru dodged and thrust his sword up into the monstrous thigh beside the knee. The mace smashed into the ground beside Thru's head as the giant screamed.

  Then Hob brought his sword down on the giant's helm. There was a flash of sparks, and the huge brute toppled to the ground right beside Thru.

  "Many thanks, friend!" he said to the brilby as he got back on his feet. He noticed that he was trembling. Death had never before seemed quite so close.

  The fight was over. Most of the men were down, dead, wounded, or simply too weak to go on. A few were running away, arrows darting among them.

  The mots poured forward in pursuit.

  "Prisoners!" shouted Thru. "Remember to take prisoners."

  They coursed through the buildings. A few small groups of men tried to resist. None would surrender. Most had to be cut down or knocked unconscious.

  In the end only a dozen or so were saved. The rest were slain, and their bodies piled up in the street. Many more bodies were dragged out from the buildings. When it was done more than a hundred dead men were counted, thirty killed in the fight.

  Thru ordered a mass grave dug and then set about accounting for his own forces. There were eighteen dead mots, a couple of brilbies. Even men weakened by the fever had taken a deadly toll.

  The mots' bodies were to be ferried to Sonf, then buried with proper honors.

  "What of the buildings?"

  "We will tear them down," Thru said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Simona had plenty of time on the gallery. The squalls and rain had driven the other women inside. She preferred it out there, in the wind and under the sun, and she could stay out there all the time if she so wished. Ju
guba Heuze's death had thrown the women's deck hierarchy into chaos. When it re-formed, it included Simona in a high position, because Filek Biswas had been made Surgeon General of the Fleet.

  The death of the top admirals and the failure of Nebbeggebben to regain his health had created a leadership vacuum at the top. Admiral Heuze had vaulted into the leadership position.

  Since they'd just consigned a third of their number to the deeps, Admiral Heuze had decided that Filek was the best thing the fleet could have as surgeon general. It was a great challenge, and he'd leaped at the chance to produce a revolution in medical practices. Admiral Heuze had backed him all the way in a cleanliness crusade.

  From above her position on the stern of the great ship there came the thudding and wailing of the priests. In a frenzy they begged forgiveness from Orbazt Subuus. Their blood ran to the deck under the scourging. The priests were worried. They had thrown so many bodies into the sea that doubts about the power of the Great God had become widespread. Heresy was steadily growing among the discontented survivors. They whispered of the older gods, like the sweet Goddess Canilass, or the God of the Waters, Oonch. Louder and louder did the red tops wail, but still the seditious questions were asked. If Orbazt Subuus was really the Great God, then why did his people suffer from this terrible plague? Why were they dying in such numbers?

  Simona had grown tired of the bloodthirsty Great God, too. For years she'd been ambivalent about Him. When she was in the temple in the midst of the shattering emotionalism of His rites, she believed. He was Great and Just and sat in judgment on sinful man and even more sinful woman. She threw herself down before His totem and begged for forgiveness. At other times, as she read the forbidden history books and the even more forbidden philosophers, she found the whole thing ridiculous. An all-powerful God who saw everything, everywhere, and whose symbol was the Raven and the eyeless face of Man, plucked while hanging on the punishment wheel? No it was too much, simply too tribal with its bloodthirsty threatening quality. And why did such a God, an all-seeing good God, demand blood sacrifice? The older gods and goddesses had not demanded the deaths of their worshipers.