by David Weber
A shattering blast of light and sound erupted inside the barracks. A stun bolt’s spellware had to physically contact its object to take effect. Area spells with the same basic capabilities were possible, but their radius of effect was broader than the range to which the average trooper could throw them, and intervening obstacles offered whoever had thrown them no protection against their paralysis. Flash-bangs, however, were designed to incapacitate without actually rendering their targets unconscious. The sheer intensity of the flash of light they released was sufficient to stun and temporarily blind anyone who encountered it, and the disorienting effect of the accompanying blast of sound was guaranteed to disable anyone who encountered it. While they were classified as nonlethal weapons, they could cause permanent damage to anyone too close to one of them when the spell detonated, and Nourm knew Fifty Sarma and Fifty Ulthar had hoped they wouldn’t be required.
Hope didn’t win very many battles, however.
He heard voices raised in anguish—probably from men who’d been farther away when the flash-bangs went off, although the barracks bay was too small for anyone to have been very far away—and nodded at Briahk.
“All right, you lazy bastards!” the javelin barked to the men of his section. “Let’s get in there before they figure out what hit them!”
* * *
Traymahr Sahnger heard the flash-bangs go off inside 1st Platoon’s barracks. Varkan’s platoon had been Sword Nourm’s first target, and Sahnger supposed he was happy for the sword, since detonating flash-bangs had a tendency to settle people down in a hurry. Unfortunately, there’d been only six flash-bangs available, and they’d all been issued to Nourm’s squad, since they’d been the ones tasked to deal with the other two platoons.
Which meant Sahnger and his men would have to do it the hard way.
His shoulder slammed into the second barracks building’s rear door, bursting it open, and he and the eight men with him went through it in a rush. Unlike Fifty Varkan’s platoon, the men of Commander of Fifty Dernys Yankaro’s 3rd Platoon, B Company had been sound asleep until the alarm spell sounded. They were still rolling out of their bunks, reaching for their trousers, wondering what the hells was going on, when Sahnger and his men erupted into their midst.
“Just sit where the fuck you are!” Sahnger bellowed.
“Who the hell are y—?!”
The shouted question ended in a grunt and the thud of a body hitting the floor as one of Sahnger’s troopers hit the loudmouthed 3rd Platoon javelin center of mass with a stun bolt. At that short range, even a stun bolt could do significant physical damage from an infantry arbalest, but it was unlikely to kill anyone. It did incapacitate its target quite handily, however, and Yankaro’s surprised men froze in shock.
“Every one of you back in your racks right the hell now!” Sahnger snapped, taking advantage of the moment of silence. Some of the 3rd Platoon troopers automatically obeyed the bark of command. Others looked at one another with varying degrees of confusion and building anger, and Sahnger nodded to Taswan Slokyr. The burly trooper took one step forward and slammed the butt of his arbalest none too gently into the back of one of the dawdlers.
Slokyr’s victim hit the floor flat on his face with a shout of anguish. It was entirely possible, even probable, that he’d acquired a broken shoulder blade in the process, but Slokyr was back in his original position, arbalest in a hip-high firing position, almost before the other man landed.
“I’m not going to tell you again,” Sahnger grated.
For just a moment, he felt it hovering in the balance. He and his eight troopers were hopelessly outnumbered by 3rd Platoon’s forty-eight men, but none of their opponents were armed and none of them had a clue yet as to what was actually happening. If they’d been willing to rush Sahnger’s squad, they probably could have swarmed them under anyway, but they weren’t willing to take the casualties. Not yet. Not without at least some idea of what was happening. And so the moment passed and 3rd Platoon’s men sank sullenly back onto their bunks, glaring furiously at Sahnger.
* * *
Ulthar and Sarma heard the flash-bangs as well as they hurried out of the administration building, leaving Hathnor to keep an eye on the immobilized Thalmayr and Bahbar.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Sarma remarked.
“Could sound a hells of a lot worse, unless you think there’s some reason for Vargan or Yankaro to’ve issued flash-bangs at their men,” Ulthar pointed out.
“There’s that,” Sarma acknowledged. “Me to the barracks?”
“And me to the brig,” Ulthar agreed.
The fifties separated, running in almost opposite directions.
* * *
Javelin Lerso Jathyr heard the flash-bangs go off behind him and swore vilely. He had no clue what the hell was going on, but Fifty Varkan’s orders had been clear enough.
Two of his men braked to a stop, looking back over their shoulders, and he swore again, this time at them.
“Get your arses back in gear!” he snapped.
“But, Javelin—” one of them began.
“The Fifty told us what to do, and we’re going to do it!”
He glared at the rest of the squad for a moment, then jerked his head and all eleven of them started running again.
Jathyr grunted in approval, even though a part of him wondered if he was doing the right thing. The automatic response would have been to head back into the barracks to find out who was throwing flash-bangs around, but that might well be exactly the wrong thing to do. For all he knew whoever had used the first two flash-bangs had a dozen more of the things, just waiting for him to walk back into range before taking out his squad, as well. On the other hand, where the hells would Sharonians have gotten flash-bangs from in the first place? And if it wasn’t a bunch of Sharonians attacking the fort, then who the hells was it?
Either way, he told himself, his squad would be more useful—and probably safer—doing exactly what Varkan had told him to do.
* * *
Keraik Nourm did a quick count of the stunned, groaning men sprawled around the barracks and swore. They were short by at least one full squad, even counting the men they’d stunned on the parade ground. Somebody must have gotten out the back, but where the hells were they?
* * *
Senior Sword Barcan Kalcyr rolled out of his bunk even before his sleeping mind had identified the sound of the alarm spell’s clangor. The thunderclap eruption of detonating flash-bangs followed, and he scrubbed sleep from his eyes with one hand and reached for his trousers with the other in pure spinal reflex while his brain fought its way up to speed.
He heard voices now, shouting from the infantry barracks. There were a lot of them, and they didn’t sound happy, but all of them seemed to be shouting in Andaran. If this was a Sharonian attack, where were the Sharonian voices? And if it wasn’t a Sharonian attack, then who the hells—?
His jaw tightened as a preposterous thought ripped through him. He’d warned Fifty Cothar there was something going on with that lily-livered bastard Sarma! But had his own fifty listened to him? Of course he hadn’t!
As Kalcyr buttoned his pants and stamped his feet into his boots he reminded himself he didn’t actually know a damned thing about what was going on. He might very well be jumping to conclusions…but he might not be, too. And if he wasn’t, then what the hells should he do next?
He reached for his tunic and his jaw went tighter than ever as he realized he didn’t know the answer to that question. Hundred Worka had quietly warned him that he’d peeled off Fifty Cothar’s B Troop to support the Fort Ghartoun garrison because Cothar clearly didn’t have the stomach for what needed to be done. Personally, Kalcyr couldn’t imagine how any member of the 9th Seignor Light Cavalry could have any doubt about what the Sharonian bastards deserved. Their regiment was the one which had discovered the fire-seared bodies of the troopers who’d been assigned to protect Rithmar Skirvon and Uthik Dastiri while they negotiated with the Sharonian �
��envoys” at Toppled Timber. They knew the Sharonians had shot down at least twenty-one of those troopers in cold blood, then left the bodies behind to burn in the forest fire they’d set. And if there’d been any question about who’d been responsible for that massacre, the bullet which had blown out the back of Dastiri’s skull damned well should’ve put them to bed. The shot had been fired from so close the wound between his eyes was surrounded by a dark powder burn! And gods only knew what the murderous bastards had done with Skirvon and the three troopers they hadn’t left to burn!
But Cothar didn’t seem to see it that way. He’d actually complained to Hundred Worka about the way Kalcyr had made sure the Sharonian Voice he’d been sent to deal with here in Thermyn wouldn’t be sending any messages to anyone else. There was only one way to be sure a Voice didn’t get a message off—Five Hundred Neshok’s briefings had made that clear enough! And what the hells did it matter if the Voice in question was a frigging civilian? The Sharonians sure hadn’t shown any special consideration for civilians when they murdered Dastiri and vos Dulinah, had they? From where Barcan Kalcyr sat, that meant they didn’t have any kick coming when the boot was on the other foot, so why bother to drag the bastard all the way back to the fort before cutting his frigging throat? But did Cothar see it that way? Hells, no, he didn’t! He’d been on Kalcyr’s case for killing a civilian as if putting down a mad-dog Sharonian “Voice” to keep the freak bastard from warning anyone else the Army was coming was some kind of crime!
No wonder the Hundred had detached Cothar from the rest of the company. And he’d left Kalcyr, the company’s senior noncom, here to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t give Hundred Thalmayr any of his grief. Kalcyr had done his best to do just that, but Cothar had been spending entirely too much time mind hobnobbing with Sarma and Ulthar. Kalcyr had picked up on plenty of indications that those two had their panties in a wad over Thalmayr’s supposed violations of the Kerellian Accords. As if the Accords applied to Sharonians! He’d thanked all the gods they weren’t his fifties, but what if they’d decided to do something genuinely stupid and sucked Cothar into it right along with them?
He buttoned his tunic, strapped on his breastplate, checked the sarkolis crystal in his thigh pocket, and reached for his saber. By The Book, he should be hunting for his company CO, but under the circumstances, this time he’d better start somewhere else.
* * *
Movement caught Thermyn Ulthar’s attention and he cursed inventively. Whoever that was, it wasn’t any of Sarma’s men, and he knew where all of his were already. There was at least a full squad of them, though, and they were running hell for leather towards the brig…just like he was.
Fortunately, he was closer than they were, and he dashed straight towards the door, shouting his name as he came and hoping to Shartahk that Harnak could get it unlocked in time.
Harnak did. Ulthar actually heard the cross bolt shoot back through its mounting clips an instant before his shoulder slammed into the thick, heavy panel. The impact was enough to spin him sideways as he came through the opening, and it slammed shut again almost before he was clear. The bolt racketed back into place, and Shield Sarkhol Gersmyn caught him before he could fall.
“Got a squad right on my arse, Evarl!” he gasped out, and the sword gave him a choppy nod.
“On it, Sir,” he said. “Only got one stun bolt apiece, though!”
“Use them first,” Ulthar panted.
“Yes, Sir.” Harnak looked at the others. “You heard the Fifty.”
Acknowledgments were still coming back when the first arbalest bolt drove halfway through the barred door. Lamplight gleamed on the sharp, edged wickedness of its head and Ulthar tried not to think about what one of those would feel like driving through one of his men, instead.
Marsal Hyndahr and Jyrmayn Yanthas had one of the brig’s two front windows. Gersmyn and Javelin Rohsahk had the other one, and he heard the thump of a discharging arbalest. He peeked through the small, barred window in the heavy door and saw one of the oncoming infantrymen go down limply. From his companions’ angry shouts, it didn’t sound as if they realized he’d been hit by a stun bolt instead of something more lethal.
More arbalest quarrels slammed into the brig’s walls. One came sizzling in through a window and he heard a Sharonian—it sounded like Velvelig—shouting for the prisoners to go flat. The spellware Harnak had activated was still up, translating the Sharonian words into Andaran, and Ulthar darted a look over his shoulder.
“Stay down!” he barked. “And stay out of the windows’ line of fire as much as you can!”
“And what about the cell window if they get around behind you?” Namir Velvelig shot back in a preposterously calm voice, and Ulthar’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t thought about that!
He looked back through the window in the door and swore again, even more inventively, as he saw three or four men disappearing around the brig’s solid northern wall.
“Shit,” he said, and grabbed the massive key ring off its hook beside the desk.
“I know all of you are pissed off, and you’ve got a right,” he said quickly, fumbling through the keys to find the one he needed. “If I leave you in that cell, you’re going to be sitting ducks for whoever’s coming at us. But if I let you out and you screw with us in the next few minutes, all of us are likely to get killed.”
The Sharonian officer bared his teeth in an expression with only a passing resemblance to a smile.
“Hell of a choice, isn’t it?” he asked. Their eyes locked for just a moment, then Velvelig shrugged. “All right. Let us out and you’ll have our parole at least until the fighting’s settled. Good enough?”
“Good enough,” Ulthar replied, hoping to Seiknora he wasn’t about to make the worst mistake of his life.
He shoved the key into the lock, turned it, swung the door wide, and stood to one side as Velvelig and his subordinates flowed out of the cell in a tide which somehow kept from jamming solid in the opening. It took them several seconds, and while they were doing that, Ulthar snatched up one of the arbalests the original guard detail no longer needed. As soon as the Sharonians were out of the cell—the last four of them supporting a staggering Golvar Silkash and carrying Tobis Makree bodily—Ulthar charged into it.
Before he could reach the window, an arbalest bolt hissed past him. He swerved, dodging the follow-up, then shouldered his newly acquired weapon and squeezed the trigger.
The cell’s window was higher above ground level than above the level of the cell floor, and someone cursed loudly as the return fire came close enough to clip a lock of his hair. Whoever it was dropped down below the window sill for cover, and Ulthar plastered his back against the interior wall to one side of the opening and worked the cocking lever.
“Shit!” someone grunted, and he looked up to see young Yanthas clutching at the arbalest bolt which had suddenly appeared in his left shoulder.
“Idiot!” Hyndahr barked. “Told you to keep your stupid head down!”
The demoted sword had been Charlie Company’s senior hand-to-hand and swordsmanship instructor, but he’d been a marksmanship instructor in his time, as well, and Ulthar heard a shrill scream from outside the brig as he sighted quickly and then fired. Hyndahr, at least, was obviously out of stun bolts, the fifty thought grimly.
Someone moved closer at hand, and his eyes narrowed as he saw Velvelig shoving his way back into the cell carrying another of the original guards’ arbalests. Ulthar was none too happy to see the weapon in Sharonian hands, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to be choosy. He started to offer some quick instruction, then shut his mouth firmly as Velvelig pulled the cocking lever and nocked a quarrel as expertly as if he’d been using an arbalest all his life.
His surprise must have shown, because the Sharonian grinned at him again, much more warmly this time.
“Couldn’t afford a decent rifle when I was growing up back home,” he said. “Nice piece, though. Cocks really easily, doesn’t it?
More of that ‘magic’ of yours, is it?”
Ulthar started to answer, then paused as the Sharonian whipped around and sent the steel-headed bolt back out through the window. An explosive grunt answered his shot, and he jerked back to press his back to the wall on the opposite side of the window.
“Your turn next,” he said as he pulled the cocking lever again.
“Fire in the hole!” someone else shouted, and Ulthar looked back just in time to see Sarkhol Gersmyn snatch up the grenade someone had gotten through the window. The wiry garthan’s arm whipped forward, throwing it back the way it had come, but its spell activated just as it cleared the window. The outer wall absorbed most of the fireball’s fury, but enough of it blew back through the window to sear the Scout’s hand to the bone.
He went down, clutching his wrist, jaw muscles standing out like iron as he bit down on a scream of agony, and Company-Captain Silkash shoved himself shakily to his feet. He staggered across to Gersmyn and grabbed the Arcanan’s arm, forcing it straight so that he could peer at it through his swollen, blackened eyes. The Sharonian surgeon’s own hands were already bloody, Ulthar realized, and another Sharonian, one of Velvelig’s senior noncoms, knelt beside Yanthas, putting pressure on the improvised dressing which had somehow appeared.
“We have to keep them out of throwing range of the windows!” he shouted. “If they get another of those things in here we’re all cooked!”
* * *
“Mother Jambakol!”
Lerso Jathyr watched the grenade detonate outside the brig and wondered how the hells the bastards in there had managed to get it back through the window in time. They hadn’t gotten it clear by much, but close didn’t count when there was a solid wall between the grenade and its intended target. Worse, he only had three of them left. Of course, he wouldn’t have had any of them, if Bersal Darnaiyr, one of his more idiotic troopers, hadn’t tucked them away under his bunk in violation of about five dozen regulations “just in case I needed them.”