Warworld: The Lidless Eye

by John F. Carr

  Wheelock’s Raiders waited until almost an hour after sunrise before they raised a great howl and began their charge. The first nomad to come over the ridge was completely unlike anything John Hamilton had expected. The man was wearing a brown flight jacket and blue jeans; he could have been one of the Hamiltons’ neighbors, except for the snarl on his face and the hate that glowed in his eyes. He crumpled in a hail of bullets.

  “HOLD YOUR FIRE!” shouted the Master-at-Arms.

  John looked down at his rifle, it was still at rest. He took it up and aimed.

  Six raiders topped the ridge at once and a concentrated volley pitched them from their mounts. The next group to come over was ten times that number and not so easily stopped.

  “MACHINE GUNS, FIRE!” John cried. The machine guns fired with an earsplitting din and the ridgetop was suddenly emptied of the enemy. A few moments later the ridge was swarming with their replacements and the line of fire was so crowded the machine guns were doing double duty. Some of the nomads hid behind fallen horses or used their dead allies as shields.

  John shot one bearded muskylope rider right out of his saddle, and was aiming at a second when he toppled from his mule. Then the ridge top was covered with so many raiders that he didn’t even bother aiming. Their coats and half-armors were every color of the rainbow and only a few were shooting bullets; the vast majority were armed with archaic but potent recurve bows shooting arrows.

  Hundreds of raiders died in volley after volley of concentrated fire, but Hamiltons’ liegemen were taking casualties as well. Steven Hammond dropped over with a red kiss in the middle of his forehead and Robert Frisse’s body just slumped over in final repose. Within what seemed seconds—but judging from the carpet of bodies on the ridge front, must have been minutes—the raiders were up to the stone wall that the Hamiltons were using as a barricade.

  A logical part of his mind reasoned that the moment they breached the stone walls the melee would occur, then the raiders’ numbers would give them an incalculable advantage. John turned to the snarling Master-At-Arms, who was using his empty rifle as a club. He shouted, “Call the Iron Men!”

  A large caliber bullet pinged off his helmet and he felt dizzy for a moment. He shook it off, grabbed hold of the Marshal’s arm and repeated his command.

  A film of bloodlust visibly cleared from Cromwell’s eyes and he turned to a young trumpeter and gave the signal. There was a loud trumpet blast and for a moment the crazed killing ground froze in front of John’s eyes. There were more than two thousand raiders on the killing floor, filling the twenty meters from the ridge top to their barricade. At least half that many casualties littered the stones, some caught in grotesque poses on bramble bushes they had strewn around the wall to stop the raiders’ mounts.

  The machine guns and Gatling guns were still taking a terrible toll, but, as he watched, the nomads overran one machine gun and fought to take another. John knew that if the Iron Men didn’t turn them back the tide of battle would turn completely, and he’d be lucky to survive with his skin intact.

  Then from the Hamilton right flank arrived a sight out of a history solido: a mass of gleaming armor charging forward on massive horses, with the Hamilton banner at the fore. He felt his chest swell with pride. The enemy seemed to be caught in a quick freeze as the massive tide of armor and horseflesh slammed into the raiders’ left flank. His liegemen, suddenly heartened by the carnage, regrouped and began to fire on the massed raiders who were caught between an iron wall on the left and a hail of bullets in the center. To the right was a sheer cliff face and already scurrying raiders were careening to their deaths over the stone lip.

  The raiders coming over the ridge were now stalled, both by bodies and by their own amazement at the sight of a living wall of armored steel. One or two of the Iron Men toppled from their mounts, but most were as oblivious to the hail of bullets headed their way as their mounts were to the bodies they trampled underneath their hooves. Suddenly hundreds of raiders were being pushed, thrust and carried over the ledge. Those fighters lucky or bold enough to evade the iron men were met with a renewed and invigorated volley of small arms from the Hamilton liegemen. The course of battle had turned.

  When most of the raiders had been pushed over the cliff, the wall of steel pulled up, wheeled and turned to the ridgetop. In the blink of an eye, they were over the ridge and running down the incline. John, along with most of his men, except for a small reserve held there by the Master-At-Arms, ran to the crest to witness a sight straight out of the thousand-years-gone Hundred Years’ War. The armored wave broke the nomads’ charge, going through and over the smaller horses, and turned the entire army into rout. Hundreds of bodies and mounts lay tossed in their wake. The Iron Men were now in hot pursuit, shooting nomads out of saddles with their pistols, riding them down with their lances and cutting them out of their saddles with sabers.

  Then, popping out of the gully where they’d been hiding, came the Hamilton reserve straight into the front of the fleeing raiders. The main body of Wheelock’s Raiders were enveloped and destroyed almost to a man. No prisoners, no mercy. Those who tried to surrender were shot out of their saddles or cut down with swords. Those who tried to flee were run down and trampled. The wounded were dispatched with blades across the throat.

  An hour later, going over the body-littered ridge, John estimated that there were between four and six thousand nomad casualties. Of the thousand or so that had turned tail, he doubted more than a few hundred would escape their pursuers. As with most battles, the vast majority of casualties occurred when the enemy broke formation and were killed by the pursuing victors.

  Still, one had to give the raiders credit; they had left more than a thousand dead on the ridge crest and at least that many again had been pushed over the cliff. John felt a little light-headed all of a sudden and forced himself to get down from his horse and sit down on a small boulder. The first thing he did was reload his pistol.

  The Master-At-Arms came over to report. “We got most of them, Marshal. I don’t think more than a hundred or two will escape pursuit.” Cromwell paused to catch his breath. “With the tales they’ll tell, we shouldn’t have any trouble from the nomads for a long time.”

  John nodded. “How do you explain their courage? I thought the machine guns would stop them cold.”

  Cromwell held up a suede pouch and pipe. “Most of them had kits like this. Their leaders had them smoke hashish before the attack. It’s a concentrated resin from the hemp plant. Under the right circumstances and if enough is smoked, the warriors come to believe they are invincible and feel almost no pain during the battle. It’s use dates back to Old Earth and the Muslim hashshashins. We were damn lucky!”

  John felt his vision begin to blacken. He felt dizzy, too.

  “Marshal! What’s wrong—”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The corridors of the ship resonated with the sound of their passage; all material that could be stripped from the Fomoria was long gone, particularly anything flammable. Diettinger and Althene’s boots rang on the naked durasteel decks. Power was at a minimum, so they took the access ladder to the shuttle bay.

  Waiting at the bay were Engineering with two of his assistants, Communications, Navigation, and the Shuttle pilot, a Fighter Rank whose name patch identified him as ‘Stahler.’ Diettinger remembered the name from the Battle of Tanith.

  “Stahler.” He read aloud.

  The Fighter Rank cracked to attention. “Yes, First.”

  “You were on the mission that lost one of our craft to the locals. I understand the enemy pilot rammed your wingman?”

  “Yes, First Rank. Brilliant compensatory maneuvering by the enemy pilot flying an utterly obsolete ship.”

  Diettinger had been impressed by the news the moment he’d heard it. Stahler’s personal rendition did nothing to dampen that earlier regard. Haven evidently bred hearty sons and daughters. All to the good for breeding purposes, but such resolve to fight would necessitate close
scrutiny of those “subjugated” peoples waiting below on the surface of the new homeworld.

  “Everyone accounted for, then?” Diettinger asked Engineering, after he had dismissed the Fighter Rank to begin preparing the shuttle for departure.

  Engineering nodded, held up a portable computer. “This is our remote piloting device. Fomoria has sufficient fuel left to maneuver and brake for most of her descent. After that, the engines will have drained the fuel tanks dry to avoid igniting residual hydrogen in the heat of entry into Haven’s atmosphere.”

  “Excellent, Engineering. You will allow Second Rank—” Diettinger caught himself, then continued, “I beg your pardon. You will allow the Lady Althene the honor of guiding the Fomoria to her last berth.”

  Engineering bowed and presented the pocket computer to his former superior officer. Althene accepted it with a murmur of thanks and a look of pure gratitude at Diettinger.

  “Make your goodbyes, then,” Diettinger said quietly, scanning the naked, featureless bay surrounding them. Every removable piece of equipment and metal had been shipped down to the surface aboard the shuttle; now, even the air was getting stale, life support equipment having left two hours ago on the shuttle’s last cargo run. Breedmaster Caius had insisted it would be necessary for decent hospital facilities and breedchambers.

  Outwardly an unemotional people, the Saurons were no less prone to pathos than anyone else; they simply resolved such emotions more quickly. Single file, they followed Fighter Rank Stahler up the ramp into the cramped shuttle, found seats and strapped themselves in.

  Althene activated the shuttle terminal immediately upon securing herself into the acceleration couch. Diettinger, seated beside her, watched as the screen resolved itself into a miniature duplicate of the Second Rank command station on the Fomoria’s bridge.

  In minutes the Fomoria was “dry,” her remaining internal atmosphere vented into space. With internal power down, Engineering threw the emergency switch that blew open the now-powerless shuttle bay hangar doors. As the great triangular slabs drifted aside, Haven was directly visible for the first time. Beyond the horizon of the new homeworld hung the colossal mass of the parent planet.

  “Cat’s Eye,” Diettinger said aloud. The gas giant’s storm center was aligned almost perfectly with Haven’s horizon and the Fomoria’s orbital path. Cat’s Eye was looming over the equatorial horizon of Haven, an aroused god peering over an azure fence, its gaze boring directly into the hanger bay of the Fomoria.

  “‘…and the warriors of the Tuatha Da Danaan halted their charge, for there before them the Fomorians had brought forth onto the field of battle their mightiest Champion, who was Balor of the One Eye.’” Althene was looking out at the spectacle, quoting from another myth cycle she had drawn from the history of old Earth.

  “‘And lo, the warriors of the Fomorian host brought forth great bars of bronze, for the touch of iron was anathema to them; and with these bars they prized open the orb of Balor, and from it issued forth the Death, and the army of the Tuatha Da Danaan withered as autumn leaves cast into a forge….’”

  Diettinger had never seen a deciduous tree; for a moment, he wondered idly what “autumn leaves” were. No matter, he decided. He had the feeling he would soon know both the meaning of the phrase and the reality for which it served as a metaphor. In many ways, he thought, the battle has only just begun.

  The shuttle exited the Fomoria’s hold and took up chase position three kilometers from the great, gutted starship. Studying the data on her screen intently, Althene appeared to see something she had been waiting for. “Drop window approaching, First Rank.”

  Diettinger smiled. Once a Soldier, always a Soldier, he thought. “Take her in, Second Rank.”

  This time no one reacted to his use of his new mate’s former active duty rank; Diettinger’s consort was being given the honor of piloting the Fomoria on her last flight, the only time a Sauron starship had ever intentionally entered a planetary atmosphere, for, of course, such ships were never designed to make planetfall. It was fitting Althene should fly it with her full rank restored.

  Diettinger watched the fire in his new wife’s eyes. Sauron’s death stroke had come with the impact of a hundred Imperial vessels streaming into her atmosphere, raining destruction from on high. Haven was an Imperial world, and now we send a Sauron vessel crashing into her. But to build, not destroy. I wonder, does Althene feel some small measure of revenge at the thought of turning the tables here? As I do…?

  From their position to the right and rear of the Fomoria, the passengers of the shuttle watched as the great ship’s maneuvering engines glowed feebly.

  “The Fomoria will drop aft foremost.” Althene reviewed the drop plans with Diettinger, more in affirmation of her upcoming duties than in any need to instruct the First Rank. “That lets the mass in the engine section absorb most of the punishment and heat from atmospheric entry, as well as deflecting the ionization effect away from the bulk of the shuttle trailing the Fomoria. The denser materials of the engines will also burn away more slowly, prolonging the protection of the forward sections.”

  Diettinger nodded, his mind already elsewhere. The Fomoria would create a huge ionization field as it entered Haven’s atmosphere. He turned to Engineering. “How much difficulty will we have contacting the surface after Fomoria begins entry?”

  Engineering considered a moment, frowning. “As close as we will be to the effect, First Rank, we will be effectively cut-off. If you have anything you want to say to the ground forces, you’d best do it now.”

  Anticipating this need, Communications had kept a tight beam link with the communications station at the Citadel. Wordlessly, Communications passed Diettinger a handset.

  “Diettinger here.”

  “Ground Force Commander Quilland standing by, First Rank.”

  “Drop is initiated, Deathmaster Quilland. Status?”

  “Ground Forces are stationed in the foothills and along the valley floor around the drop zone perimeter. No cattle activity for the past three days. There was a skirmish two days ago with forces from some northern valley fiefdom; very good, very well-led, but they evidently realized the futility of a protracted conflict with our forces.” Despite the wording of his report, the Deathmaster’s voice carried no tone of arrogance.

  Diettinger was still uneasy. He felt he had prepared for every eventuality, but his training reminded him that the commander who could do that had yet to be born, as Lucan of the Wallenstein had learned at the end.

  “Double the watchfulness of the perimeter troops, Deathmaster. The cattle did not have much to resist with, but they gave all they had. Some units have fought to the last man. Such people do not accept defeat readily.”

  “Acknowledged, First Rank. Permission to speak.”

  “Granted.”

  “The entire Ground Force wishes you and the Lady Althene good health and a Long Line.”

  Sentimentality like this was inevitable from a swashbuckler like Quilland, but Diettinger was pleased, nevertheless. It let him know the troops were firmly behind him, despite the sometimes overawing influence of the Cyborgs planetside.

  “We thank you, Deathmaster Quilland.” Althene smiled briefly, her attention still riveted to the control terminal balanced in her lap.

  “We will see you at the Citadel, First Rank.”

  “Until then. Diettinger out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I

  “Fomoria entering atmosphere, First Rank,” Althene spoke without looking up. “Three minutes to first braking fire.”

  Diettinger looked out the port beside him for a glimpse of his old command. The ship was falling toward Haven like a short sword dropped pommel-first. The aft engine section and the extended drives and launch bays, the ‘hilt,’ were blackening with the gathering heat; seconds later, the anti-corrosive coating vaporized, and the metal beneath began to glow red.

  Fighter Rank Stahler paced the big ship down, keeping the shuttle at a s
afe distance yet easily in range of Althene’s remote control terminal.

  “First braking fire.”

  The glow from the heating tail of the Fomoria was dimmed by the glare of her engines firing. With no oxygen stores aboard her, tons of her remaining fuel was consumed inefficiently as the intakes gathered meager quantities of oxygen from Haven’s thin upper atmosphere.

  “Slowing appreciably, First Rank. Fomoria now entering stratosphere.” Althene looked up from her terminal to Engineering. “I had some trouble with my signals for a moment.”

  “It’s partly range, partly the ionization effect,” Engineering said, “communication to and from Fomoria will be increasingly difficult, then impossible. All the braking telemetry will have to be finished before that happens.”

  “Boosting the signal won’t help?”

  Engineering shook his head. “Like trying to shine a dim light through a steel wall, Second Rank. Sorry.”

  Lady Althene shrugged, returned to her terminal with a frown, and began calling up more data. In a moment she looked up again at Engineering. “Can we risk leaving fuel in the Fomoria’s tanks until after the ionization effect has dissipated?”

  Engineering looked at Diettinger, then back to Althene. “I would estimate a sixty-percent chance such fuel would be ignited by the heat. The Fomoria would likely disintegrate.”

  Althene looked at Diettinger. “Too high a risk.”

  He nodded. “Survey tells us Haven is drastically poor in metals in this area. The hulk of the Fomoria will be our single greatest asset in the years to come. We can’t be roaming this continent picking up the pieces. Do your best, Second Rank.”