No Other Gods (2 page)

Dead or alive, win or lose, it was always the same.

             
First there is cold. Then dark. As tubes disconnect and wires detach, you rise through layers of varisleep and approach wakeful consciousness. The oval, coffin-like inside of the pod becomes dimly visible as a comforting glow of pulsing status lights gently intrudes. Then abruptly, the lid seals break open, hissing with the release of arcane gases, the pod opens, and you are gently vomited you out to the warmth of the s.Leep room.

             
You rise, still half-drugged, snag some homeclothes from the locker at the foot of your pod, get dressed. And then you walk out of the barracks and into the hall of feasting.

             
I strode out into the hall, eager to see friends and acquaintances. There was Livia, and Jaca, and Helo. I winked, waved, greeted, but continuing to cycle through the hall, searching for one particular face. Turning, I found it.

             
I quickened my pace almost to a jog, and lowering my shoulder, butted right into Kin from the side, almost knocking him over. He bent, grabbed something from his boot, and corkscrewed unexpectedly up into me, sending me flying. I rolled, straightened from the floor, then froze as I felt a prick at my neck.

             
“Got you that time,” Kin laughed.

             
Slowly, hardly moving, I turned my head toward Kin at my side. Eyes burning, we didn’t move for what seemed like seconds that stretched like minutes. Then we couldn’t hold it anymore and, bursting into laughter, separated, punched each other on the shoulders, pantomimed horrific sneak attacks on each other, and generally got reacquainted.

             
“And you might have had me in the actual battle, too, if you didn’t keep pulling that same stupid move.”

             
“Oh, I’ll get you with it someday.”

             
I just laughed. Before I could explain to him for the twentieth time the necessity of changing favored moves from time to time to maintain personal fighting flexibility and ensure that regular opponents could not predict your movements, a clear cold gong sounded, just once.

             
It was the signal for the feast, and, hungry, we all obeyed instantly, finding our assigned places and sitting. Kin sat across from me; the rest of our cadre took their places around us. Livia, the one who connected us all, sat next to me. German and Jaca and Helo, fierce warriors, next to her. Lind and Tonia, calm and quiet, and Drago, loyal follower, on the right. And Jaca, plucky but not lucky, on my left.

             
“One of these days, just one, I’d like to be on your side,” said Kin. “In fact, I’d like our entire cadre to fight on the same team. Blue would be OK.”

             
Seconds after the hall quieted, mechanical servitors entered the hall, whirring on their wheels, bringing loaded dishes. We ate. Only after the first half hour of focused attention to refueling did we pop up for air, refill our glasses, and slow down, looking for conversation.

             
Livia started, smiling at me. “I saw you just about bite the dust in the first charge, G. Getting soft in your old age?”

             
Our cadre — and beyond our cadre now — had a pool when I would finally die in a battle. No-one could remember the last time I had even been wounded, and as far as I could remember, I had never — ever — been killed. This was getting to be a bit of a thing in all the cadres, which made me worry that someday, five or six of my opponents would throw strategy to the wolves and, regardless of the consequences to the battle, focus on putting me down. I had no idea how high the pool had gone now, and no desire. No sense tempting the gods.

             
One thing she did have right: I was the oldest in our cadre, maybe the entire army. At least 4 years older — essentially ancient.

             
“Not to worry, Livia. Still faster than you. Who else made it through this time?”

             
Livia had. Others grunted or raised a finger. Seven or eight of our ten had made it through the battle, though we had fought on both Red and Blue as assigned. Kin generally would have, except for meeting me. Jaca had been, of course, unlucky, caught in a shower of five or six arrows during the original Red ambush and wounded early in both thigh and shoulder. He had been easy prey during the battle.

             
We joked and laughed, same as soldiers for millennia, or so we had been told. The stress and fear of battle ebbed away, the good food and wine soaked in, and the comfort and ease of the company of our fellows washed away almost all remaining tension. Except … we knew how this feast would end. The same as all our other feasts.

             
Eyes not human had watched our battle. Minds greater than ours had seen, ranked, and judged. Decisions had been made, choices picked. And the consequences would soon be known.

             
It never happened before three hours, and never longer than six. Some joked and said this was the last treat of life: a good feast. Not so bad a way to go, they said. Others would prefer the end in battle be the true end. But human wishes mattered little before the will of the gods.

             
The floor of the hall shook, and deep, thudding sound staggered the tables and blasted our bodies. The air at the front of the hall shimmered and condensed, grew thick. Heavy mists fell to the floor, splashing in great heavy waves at our feet as the air quivered and a small silver liquid ball appeared, then grew rapidly to the full height of the hall. It was a turgid, rippling, mirrored sphere — something from an alien world reflecting shattered slices of ours, of us, as it flexed and quivered and stretched and grew.

             
Instantly the sphere became transparent, sound vanished in a sudden deafening silence, and we all bent our heads respectfully. It was time for Hermes.

             
He appeared in the sphere. Human-shaped but not human — or not just human. More than human. Twice the size of the biggest of us, his body shone as if lit with an internal sun, and when he spoke, we all heard his words without sound. Silent yet thunderous, his will filled our minds.

             
“It is time.”

             
Many of us bowed our heads, consciously or unconsciously surrendering to Hermes the right to decide. I kept my eyes on his as he turned to me.

             
“Geno, you have done well. Prepare yourself for the next test.”

             
Well, I had survived. Usually, that was enough, unless a warrior had only survived through cowardice or avoidance of combat. Hermes continued to name names, walking through the list of those the gods had judged to fight well. As each name was mentioned, I saw faces smooth, tension ease. Men and women who would live and fight and feast another day.

             
Other faces, however, grew more lined, more tense. We had been seven hundreds, once. Now the hall held perhaps half of what it had once sat.

             
I snapped my attention back to Hermes as he paused.

             
“Those who have not been named, stand,” Hermes commanded.

             
Ten or more, none from my table, stood. Some trembled, some raised imploring hands, some wept. Others simply stood and waited. One clenched his fists and looked ready to charge the divine Messenger and fight him bare-handed. None of it mattered ... the gods cared little for your reaction, and nothing seemed to change either their decision or the inevitable action.

             
“Return to your varipods. Sleep.”

             
I knew that they would not wake up. It was possible that they were not dead — Hermes had assured us once that such was the case — but we had never seen a daysleeper return. Once Hermes had told me that they were stored, saved. I wasn’t too sure how you stored people, or if the process was like canning or preserving fruit. But the gods were the gods, after all. If they knew how to do it, who was I to question?

             
The naming was finished. Hermes turned, bade us a good day, and vanished in a cloud of smoke. The feast was over, and another day was about to begin.

Restart.

             
Eyes open, on feet, quick scan of the horizon. Rolling hills, trees, grass — no immediate threat. The rest of my group still lying at my feet.

             
Inventory of weapons, armor: 14th or 15th century medieval. Lances, swords, crossbows, daggers. No plate armor; mail over padded leather.

             
Horses whinnied over a slight rise to my left — we would not be walking today. The others woke as well, and came to the same conclusions as I. In just a few minutes we were on our way.

             
As we cantered down a green valley towards a small brook, I took a moment to wonder. Battle groups usually were about half and half for a relatively even contest. Given that only ten had been retired after the last battle, however, it looked like we only had about a third of the fighters in the hall, if that. Maybe less.

             
I signaled a halt, suspicious. What were the gods up to this time?

             
Sending Kin with four or five scouts ahead on our fastest horses with light armor, I had our company trot slowly, and pause often, conserving strength until we knew what we were facing. At least water was no worry in this land. The horses and men would have all they wished to drink and more. Another hour of this and several of the warriors showed impatience. They looked ready to charge ahead, seeking battle. I sent them back into the group with a gesture and we continued our slow, restful pace.

             
Finally one of our scouts returned. We halted, the horses immediately found some grass to munch, and she scratched a rude map into the muddy bank.

             
“The reds are about ten klicks ahead. Twice as many as us. If we continue through this valley, we’ll come right on them — they’re following the stream. If we stay here, they’ll be here in two hours. Kin and the others are still tracking them. They’ll send a fast rider to warn us if there are any changes.”

             
I considered our options as she continued to scratch the landscape in the sand — natural choke points, good options for an ambush. Should we create a surprise attack of our own? Ride on and fight it out? I made my decisions and gave my orders.

             
We immediately broke for a little copse of trees near the crest of a small hill.

             
“Cut down what you can. Stack it, layer it for protection thick enough so that horses cannot ride through.”

             
I would leave most of my force here while a small group would come with me to slow the reds and give our team time to prepare. The crack of axes hitting the trees sounded as I led a handful of our best mounted warriors away. We stripped off much of our equipment, taking enough only for a mounted, running fight. Each of us led a second mount carrying nothing but  extra arrows and a lance. All silently saluted us with their swords as we trotted away.

An hour later we tied up our spare mounts in a little gully a few klicks from the stream — all saddled and ready to go. We turned downhill and headed for water.

             
The valley dropped out below us in gentle curves softened with tree and bush and grass. Everything was green, and the air was rich with the smell of growing and flowering things. I — all of us, really — had such little chance to actually live, to enjoy life and enjoy a place. We hardly knew what it might be like to do such a thing, and I felt nostalgic without reason, the pain of the loss of something I had never known.

             
The harsh whisper of one of our group brought me back. Time to focus. I dragged my eyes from the land.

             
We could hear them now: a mounted column of three hundreds does not pass quietly. Quickly we slipped close to the line they would pass, walking our horses to reduce our profile. We eased through a treed area and settled in near a huge rocky outcropping of the hillside as the column passed.

             
For some reason — and I hoped it was not because we had missed them — we did not see any red scouts. Either they were ranging well ahead of the column, or the reds were so confident in what they must have known were overwhelming numbers they had not bothered to send any.

             
We ducked lower and held our horses close to minimize any noise they might make. The column seemed to pass for hours, although it was just minutes.  The front of the march was not our target: we would attack from the rear.

             
Finally, the enemy cavalry had passed. Again, the reds had thrown caution to the winds and set no rearguard, just the end of the column. We mounted and picked our way down. When we hit their trail, we formed up in two groups and gently, slowly, began to overtake. The longer they suspected nothing, the better our odds.

             
Luck was with us, as the trail narrowed and curved. I saw the last red disappear around a corner and marked him for death as we increased the pace.

             
Our horses were in full gallop as burst around the bend and loosed arrows, two or three for each man, aimed not at the end of the column but as far down it as we could. Then we were upon them and time once again slowed as I drew my sword and with a wide, long stroke separated the rear-most soldier’s head from his shoulders.

             
We split, our columns raking the reds from both sides as we continued up the path. The next man was just starting to wonder if something was not quite right when I impaled him on the point of my sword and removed all doubt, then continued up the line slashing and hacking, inflicting maximum damage in minimum time.

             
The reds were in shock and unable to disengage from their tight columns to give much in return, but that would change. With a whistle I signaled the return and we reined in our horses savagely, turned, and spurred back to the rear, mopping up any and all reds as we went and bursting back around the turn in the trail only a few minutes after having come out. We angled off the trail up to our spare mounts at full speed through the trees and up the hill, using up all the energy the horses had to give. Pursuit was sure to come.

             
As we jumped off our horses, I took quick stock. All but one had survived the raid, and all were in good spirits: unwounded and victorious in this early skirmish.

             
“Quickly!” I urged. “We only have a few minutes.”

             
Dropping the reins of the horses we had just ridden, we transferred any weapons we wanted and jumped into the already-saddled spare horses. Then with a few hits and yells, we stampeded the unmounted horses further up the hill and circled around the rocky outcropping.

             
I allowed a devilish grin to crease my lips. There was no way the reds could ignore this ambush — they would need to follow us to ensure that the entire blue army was not now in their rear. But the last thing they would suspect would be an ambush immediately after an ambush.

             
We heard them just seconds later. A strong party of reds was coming up the hill ... maybe fifty or sixty. Smart, I thought: not your entire force, but definitely strong enough to take the fifteen or so that you saw raiding. Also strong enough to not quickly be destroyed if in fact our main body of force was here.

             
They came fast, hot on our pursuit, having likely heard the noisy gallop of our original mounts as they stampeded further up the hill. In surprise lies victory, I thought, and signaled all my companions to be ready as the sounds of the pursuit neared. Moments later, lances in our hands and helmets lowered, we charged at full speed around the rock and caught the red force in the open just beyond the copse of trees where we had hidden our spare mounts. Seconds after appearing we hit them full force from the side, burying our lances in their bodies and immediately switching to longswords, hacking, slashing, trampling.

             
Our initial charge broke their formation. We had completely surprised them — more than that, we had shocked them, and they crumpled under our sudden, crushing attack. Ten were dead before they properly noticed and responded to our charge, and another ten were dead before they reformed and presented anything like a coherent response to our attack.

             
That was precisely the moment I was waiting for. We regrouped, stood just off their ragged line, and poured arrows into them, firing from the saddle. Another five or ten dropped, crying out in pain, and as we lowered our helmets and prepared to charge one last time into the fifteen or twenty remaining warriors, they wavered and began to withdraw. We crashed again into their line and, now panicked, they turned and withdrew.

             
The ten or so that could, that is.

             
We quickly disengaged — no point running them down only to face the main body of their forces — and regrouped. Another two of us were down. They feebly waved us back as we surveyed the field. Then we turned and headed back down the valley to the rest of our forces. A little over an hour of hard riding later we were back.

             
An enormous amount of labor had been done since our departure. While outwardly the same as we had left it, the little copse of trees was now fortified: tree trunks and limbs crisscrossed in seemingly random but cunningly set patterns that provided shelter for defenders and impassible blockades for attackers. In addition, we now had quick paths through the trees to transfer soldiers to any side, reinforcing whichever unit came under the fiercest attack. The men had cut makeshift spears as well, setting them up embedded in the ground, facing outward. Concealed in the branches of still-living trees, they would only be revealed in an attack.

             
All was ready, so I ordered the men to rest and drink. We’d have an hour to recover our strength, maybe two. And then we would fight an angry and still-superior force to the death.

             
More scouts returned to us an hour later. Prepare for battle, they said. We took our positions and waited.

             
Shortly we could hear the sounds of their horses. Soldiers checked their swords in their scabbards, moving them, loosening them. We put our heads down and did our best to meld with the forest. Much would depend on the first few moments of battle.

             
The reds appeared over the ridge forward of our positions. They were moving quicker than I expected a twice-ambushed force to cover ground — perhaps angry and eager for battle. We would not disappoint.

             
They came near our positions without any signs of noticing our presence. Closer. Closer, and then they were right upon us. Without warning our arrows made the air sing with violence as all our best bowmen — and women — filled the air with arrows. We had concentrated our forces on the side most likely to be attacked, and the deadly dense fire from almost a full hundred expert bows cut down the nearer warriors and horses. Red flowed on red.

             
But they were expert warriors, just like us, and did not panic.

             
Withdrawing to outside bowshot, they formed lines. As we watched and waited, I knew what was running through their minds: a charge over open territory towards a mostly-unseen foe well-equipped with bows. Then a quick dismount at the edge of forest, as the horses would not gallop into the thick trees, and finally a running charge into our lines to take us on in hand-to-hand combat … all while under a murderous barrage of arrows and spears that had already taken perhaps a third of their numbers. Not an attractive prospect.

             
Realistically, they had little choice. The only other option was to encircle our positions and probe for weak points, but now that they were reduced to perhaps two hundred and fifty effectives, that door was closed. Fifty or more had been lost in our initial raids. Another seventy-five or so might have gone down in that first barrage of arrows. Now if they tried to surround us, they would only succeed in thinning their lines, allowing us to mass at any given point and, outnumbering them, overwhelm them. And then wheel around and do the same elsewhere in their lines.

             
Their only hope as I saw it was to quickly gallop to the far side of the copse of trees — where we were not — and enter the forest while not under attack. This would preserve their forces for hand-to-hand combat, make life hard for our archers, and retain their still-large numerical advantage. My bet was that they would not see this option. But I had stationed small forces all around our positions that could collapse towards any given point of attack, and hold the line until our reinforcements could arrive.

             
My guess and hope was that anger and pain and fear would drive out reason and the reds would in frustration take the simple and obvious option … and that we would soon face their charge. I passed the word to be ready.

             
A horn sounded: we were in luck. Hot heads had prevailed. The reds charged, and we filled the air with our arrows. Filled them with arrows too. The slaughter was gruesome, and it was massive.