The Men of War

by Damon Alan

  One crow, head cocked to the side, gave them the evil eye while holding a half-rotten strip of bacon in its mouth.

  “This is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Wilcox said, as he shooed off the bird. “Nature’s taking what men left behind.”

  “You ain’t lyin’” Nelson whispered. “Keep your voice down.”

  Nelson’s squad consisted of another sergeant, William Gunter. Like the now dead Lieutenant Eads, he deferred to Nelson for some reason. He had Corporal Wilcox and Private McKinney from his original squad, as well as Private Connors. And, of course, Billy.

  “I’m going to write down our names and post them up in the command tent,” Nelson said, “in case anyone does come this way and attempt a rescue. They’ll know we’re on our way to Brest. You guys stick together, look for non-perishable food and any weapons we might want to take along.” He sniffed. “And change your danged clothes. You all stink.”

  “Should we get a vehicle?” Connors asked.

  Nelson shook his head. “It’d be nice, but we’d just draw attention to ourselves. We travel on foot and quietly as we have been. No deader’s got us yet.” He thought a minute. “But if you see a radio, I’d like to know about that.”

  They split up and he went to the command tent, which was easy to find. It wasn’t a big camp, and what there was had consisted more of supplies than men apparently.

  He opened the front flap and walked in, his Colt in his hand. He left the flap open to let light into the tent.

  Not a single soul inside. He sat down at what was probably the commanding officer’s desk. Lieutenant Colonel Alfred Manning, the paperwork sitting around the desk read.

  A cigar sat cold in an ashtray on the desk. Nelson picked it up and shoved it in his mouth to chew on. He’d lost his last one at the mess hall a few days ago during the attack on the line.

  Nothing in the front part of the tent indicated what happened to the men.

  A canvas wall separated the front from the back half. He opened the wooden door built into the wall and a smell hit him immediately. Someone was dead inside.

  “Lord, don’t let this be a deader,” he whispered, gripping his Colt tighter and stepping inside the much darker area.

  He stepped in something sticky. Nothing moved to attack him, but he did make out a dark mass on the floor. Certain that it wouldn’t be seen in the distance through the canvas of the tent, he pulled his flashlight from his belt. He sighed deeply as he turned it on, tired of horror, tired of death.

  A circle of light told him everything he needed to know.

  A body on the floor lay crumpled in the fetal position. The clothes were shredded, but he made out the silver rank of a Lieutenant Colonel. This was the commander. Why was his the only body in camp?

  A pistol lay on the floor, spent casings were scattered about. The commander hadn’t gone down without a struggle.

  The stickiness that Nelson was stepping in was the colonel’s blood. The body itself looked like something had dissolved the flesh where the clothing was ripped.

  He didn’t need to see any more. He holstered his own pistol.

  Deaders had been here but looked to be gone now. Either the men of the camp had run away, or they were led off in the deader trap the Army had warned Nelson about.

  His band of refugees would need to be doubly careful. If the deaders were here in force to take even this small camp, then Nelson’s band would be no match at all.

  He scanned the room. Office supplies and filing cabinets. Also, a hand cranked radio. That’s what the colonel had died for, he was trying to get a message out. A warning, a call for help… Nelson had no way to know if the man was successful.

  He grabbed the radio and laboriously hauled the behemoth device out of the tent and back to the mess hall.

  The men were coming down the main street to join him, carrying what looked like quite a few supplies. And a wheelbarrow.

  The radio was heavy, not exactly meant to be portable as it was full of vacuum tubes and a strong frame to mount the parts on. It looked like surplus equipment from the last war, to be honest. Despite the weight, he sat it up on one of the tables. He started cranking, wondering how much he had to work to get power. The dials on front lit up, the radio switch was on.

  “— BBC reporting —” came from the speaker.

  Hearing that, the men dropped their supplies at the door and rushed in, all of them talking at once.

  “Can you get that back?” Gunter asked.

  “Crank the handle,” Nelson ordered Billy. The big kid jumped right on it.

  “— losses to aviation have been high, but Churchill assures the BBC that factories are ramping up production. He says that the dragons, although terrifying and difficult to kill, are vulnerable as the RAF has proved. The Prime Minister says that with enough brave men and stout aircraft the horde of evil creatures will be beaten back to wherever it is they come from.”

  “We can beat them,” Wilcox said, grinning. “I want to live to see that.”

  “We all want to live,” Nelson replied. “Ain’t a one of us going to die if I can help it.” He looked at the pile by the door. “Let’s divvy up those supplies and figure out if we can take this radio along.”

  “It’s huge,” McKinney complained. “We only found one wheelbarrow.”

  “Do you want to know what’s going on in the world?” Nelson asked. “We’re taking it.”

  “I second that,” Sergeant Gunter replied, backing Nelson up.

  “This ain’t a democracy,” Nelson said, nodding at Gunter, “but I appreciate us being on the same page.”

  The men passed out ammunition, new rifles, pistols, and C-rations. The wheelbarrow was loaded up with the radio, a small tent, and more food.

  “We’re good for at least a week,” McKinney said. “No need to go into the towns.”

  Nelson nodded. He wasn’t sure why, but most of the towns felt like a trap to him. The US Army had spared most of the French villages from burning, choosing instead to clear them out with street fighting. A few of the larger towns weren’t so lucky, those were now in smoking ruin since it was deemed too costly in men to take them.

  Now the villages seemed like a place where death waited, their graveyards ready to create armies of deaders for whatever evil Satan had unleashed on the world.

  “Just as planned,” Wilcox said. “We need to get to Brest. These supplies should get us there and back here again if need be. We’ll even have a bit of cushion if we move quickly.”

  “But only if we get moving,” Nelson replied. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 20 – Dynamus

  They’d left the Flitterboot gnomes two days earlier, and Harry couldn’t help but feel he’d made new allies in this hostile world. But the most important part of the interchange rested on his back.

  The sword Dynamus.

  It was everything the gnome traders had promised. An intelligent weapon that conveyed to the wielder certain benefits. Harry wondered if there was also a price.

  He now wore the armor from the trade. It fit perfectly. There was no cold for him. Despite the men around him complaining about the wind, Harry felt as if he were riding during a comfortable spring day. Harry’s horse seemed to feel the same, so the armor must affect rider and beast.

  The sword didn’t talk to him so much as feel at him. Harry knew certain things about the weapon based upon those feelings. The sword was feeling triumphant now that it had found its way into the hands of a human again, and it gave him a sense of the nearly immeasurable time that had passed since the last human hands grasped it. The blade was human forged, and it seemed it was loyal to humanity.

  Whenever Harry thought of their mission, to get back to Earth, or to find Hagirr and make him send Harry’s men home, the sword was angry. Harry didn’t know if it hated the idea of humans leaving Aerth, or if it hated Hagirr. It got equally upset when he thought of either concept.

  So he thought of the matters at hand instead.

 
; Hunting was now supplementing their stores. Cylethe mocked the British infantry for what bad hunters they were, but Harry thought them adequate. The dwarven crossbows and bolts made the job much easier. If Harry’d not seen the effect of the Elven bows they’d secured in France when used by a skilled archer, he’d think the thin and fragile-looking bows garbage.

  The other men ignored the elven weapons now. Harry practiced with the slender bows every evening, however, with arrows he’d found in the dwarven supplies. Apparently, the gnomes had simply thrown the elven missiles into the pile, thinking them usable by the crossbows. The strength and grace of the weapons was an acquired taste, and as he practiced, Harry grew more fond of them.

  He was getting better, and he was attempting to make his own arrows. At that he was not getting much better, but his efforts were entertaining Cylethe.

  Stopping for the day, they set up camp in the way that had become the norm. Tents facing the fire in a circle. Miller would start the fire with magic, something he now did without any real concentration at all. The men would then go hunting, and if something was found it was butchered away from the camp, returned with just the meat and hides. The men ate the game they hunted, but if they needed to do so would supplement their meals from the pack horse supplies.

  “Why don’t you have your drakon hunt to help us out?” Miller asked Cylethe, once everyone was sitting around the fire. A foot of snow now coated the ground, but they had the uncured hides of previous kills that most men sat on. The rest sat on boxes from the pack horses since the pack animals had to be unloaded every night. Unloading allowed the horses to browse under the snow for grasses after a ration of oats.

  Cylethe pointed toward the venison roasting on sticks over the fire. “You’re doing well enough to eat something.”

  “Couldn’t we travel an hour or two longer if you hunted?” Miller persisted.

  “My friend is not a pet,” she replied. “I don’t demand he serve me or others. He does so, if he wishes, as my friend, not a slave.”

  “I thought you bought him,” Harry asked. “From a dragon? How does one even go about that?”

  Cylethe’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you can say it that way, but what I did was trade gold for the continued existence of my drakon. The things he does for me may stem from his knowledge of what I did for him, to some degree. But I think he feels we’re friends now as well.”

  “But how do you go about it?” Miller asked. “Could I do it?”

  “When dragons are with eggs, they pick out a cave that will suit them. Or other shelter, if need be, a hollowed-out castle will work well. The mother destroys the ground cover for a good distance so she can see any approaching dangers. That act, a circular dead zone, is indication that a dragon is nesting.

  “I found such a place, far away from home, on the other side of the Aldikkis as I wandered the world. The dragon had numerous offers for her one dead egg when I arrived, but she looked at me and decided that I was her choice. I still don’t know why. I carried less gold than many others who sought the egg.”

  Parker started to speak, but then seemed to think better of it.

  “Go ahead,” Cylethe demanded. “Out with it.”

  In Harry’s opinion Parker could use more courage. Cylethe shouldn’t intimidate him at this point. The man, however, seemed reluctant to talk to her.

  “Your drakon doesn’t look dead. Sickly maybe,” Parker finally spat out.

  “Dragons don’t die in the sense that you and I do,” Cylethe told him. “They are animated by a life force that we don’t fully understand. Long after their bodies die and rot away their essence may still animate their bones, still wield their breath weapons, and still behave as they did in life.”

  “Aaaah,” Miller said. “So the babies are dead, but they’re still animated by their life force?”

  “Not exactly,” Cylethe told him. “Their bodies still have some life in them. But not enough to grow as a dragon grows. In time my drakon, whose name is Meluthian by the way, may die and become bones. Today he lives, breathes, and eats as you and I do. But he will never grow to be the dragon that his brood mates will. Regardless, he will still be my friend.”

  Miller nodded his understanding. “I think I see what you mean when you say Meluthian straddles life and death.”

  “Why don’t the mother dragons just raise them?” Garrett asked. “Not too many mothers give up their babies.”

  “You’re thinking in human terms,” Cylethe replied. “And dek terms,” she admitted after a pause. “But dragons don’t rear any of their young. The normal ones can take care of themselves when they break the shell. The dead ones, like my drakon, can’t. The mother actually wants to find someone who will properly take care of the dragon spirit that resides within.”

  “Too deep for me,” Harry said. “I’m going to get some rest. Tomorrow we continue the climb, and I want to start more serious sword training with the men. We’ll travel one hour less.”

  “We shouldn’t do that,” Cylethe said. “If we get caught in the winter storms—”

  “Then we won’t get caught. We move faster, so we can cut off early and train.”

  The men groaned.

  Cylethe’s expression indicated she didn’t agree with that choice either.

  Harry closed his eyes a minute, his face probably revealed his frustration. His men needed to train. They needed to be able to fight or they’d be dead when the bullets ran out.

  “We’ll march until we go as far as we went today,” Harry offered. “I didn’t see you complaining about that. I want us to move far enough, fast enough, so we can train.”

  The dek nodded her agreement.

  Speaking to him without words from the scabbard on his back, Harry could sense the eagerness of Dynamus to train. It anticipated whatever came after the men being ready and able to fight.

  The sense of contentedness that followed Harry’s realization of that let him know he was on the right path as far as the sword was concerned. What lay in the future that would require fighting men? And men who were capable of sword combat?

  Or did the sword even sense the future?

  Time would tell.

  Chapter 21 - Deep River

  Irsu was no different than any other dwarf. He loved his wife; he wanted a family. He loved his Hold, his King, and his people.

  Finding himself in the bottom of a river-cut cavern deep underground and back on Aerth was not part of his life plan. His soldiers, however, were the best of the best. While here he would serve them, and if needed, offer his life for them. He was not the dwarf he was five years earlier. Now he was a warrior and a commander of other warriors.

  Which is what made the thought of where he was survivable. It was extremely unlikely he’d see Kordina again inside a year. Gates to Earth weren’t simply laying around to be found. He knew of precisely two of them. The one in Iron Mountain Hold, and the large gate created and controlled by Hagirr that sat on the plains far south of his current location.

  Hevreg would never let him back into Iron Mountain. The guardians of the Hagirr gate would question him, wondering how he got back to Aerth, a secret he could not reveal without betraying his people. The guardians may or may not let him return to Earth via that gate. He had no path that wasn’t risky, including the river in front of him.

  For the most part it was four to six hands deep, but occasionally it slowed and grew deeper. The walls as the edge of the river had an occasional sandbar they’d utilize to rest, but for the most part the river filled the ravine edge to edge, and they spent the majority of their time in the water. Numo, the only one of them that could swim, scouted ahead at the deep points to determine the safety of the far side, then the lizards would ferry the soldiers through the deep sections a few at a time.

  Fortunately, that was rare. Most of the time the river was shallow and fast, dancing along through boulders and gravel.

  He wondered what sort of fish lived here, and if they were edible, until Coragg inter
rupted.

  “You’re thinking again,” Coragg chided him. “One foot in front of the other. It’s the only way to get on down here.”

  “It’s my job to think,” Irsu replied. “I’m wondering how we’re going to get back to Earth.”

  “I’m wondering what’s around the next bend,” Coragg countered. “You should be wondering the same. I’ve talked to Numo. He’s never been down this particular ravine, although other scouts have. He tells me the scouts each have territories to cover, so they get very familiar with it. This wasn’t his.”

  “So we’re scouting now. We’re fourteen of the best Iron Mountain has to offer,” Irsu told his friend. “Whatever we find, we’ll deal with it.”

  “We lost Horgra on our first encounter with an enemy. I think we’re going to need to deal with it better.”

  “I don’t disagree. You’re my second. Help me.”

  Coragg gently clasped Irsu on the back. “I’m your brother in arms, and your brother in blood. I’m more than your second. If I don’t get you home to Kordina, I’m not going home at all. Trust me, I’m helping you.”

  Irsu grinned and started to tease Coragg about getting all mushy, but Numo returned from scouting and interrupted.

  The scout was soaked to the bone. From his breathing it was clear he was tired. “Our journey eases thirty dokadros ahead. Someone has cut a road into the cavern wall on the right side facing downriver, wide enough for the pack lizards and for fighting if need be. While not Dwarven, they did a good job, all the rock they cut is gone. Moved somewhere else.”

  “That’s several days of travel for these lizards, Numo, you move fast. Does the water get deeper again or did you decide it was bath day?” Coragg asked.

  “Bath day,” Numo answered. “Definitely bath day. I slipped on a rock.”

  Irsu couldn’t see well enough to tell using the darkness vision that every dwarf was born with, but he assumed Numo was blushing. A slipping scout was much like a sword-dropping soldier.