The Crystal Warriors (19 page)

"Let's assume the worst," Allic said.

"It could be quite bad, my lord," Valdez said softly. "Assuming the worst, the position has already been overrun. They could already be through Wolf Pass and coming into the realm. I've already taken the liberty, my lord, of recalling our armies stationed on the eastern and western frontiers. But neither army can get back here for nearly a tenday."

"I'm afraid to say, my lord, that if the southern group is finished, Macha could very well sweep right up to the city, burning and looting the entire province. We could lose everything there, thousands of lives, along with the entire wealth of the region. Macha knows that he doesn't have enough sorcerers to beat our defenses from above, but he certainly could make it hell out in the countryside."

"Damn them to the fires!" Allic roared. "Why this knife in the back? I've lived to our agreements."

"It could be an alliance between the Torms and Sarnak," Storm suggested. "Macha alone we can handle, but the two of them together... You know the figures―we've looked at them often enough. If Macha goes over to Sarnak, they'll have superior numbers in the air."

"Macha? Never. I've always thought him a bit too coldblooded, but he's nobody's fool."

"But you must face the question of Sarnak in all of this, and plan for that possibility," Storm replied.

Allic looked at Valdez who nodded.

"We've always known that we don't have the people to match the combined strength of Patrice and Sarnak, while also keeping a watch on Macha as well. We thought our diplomacy could keep him out of a fight or even swing him in on our side. Damn it all, I can't imagine what pushed him into this; he hates Sarnak nearly as much as we do. We now have to assume Patrice is in this too, and waiting like a vulture to help pick over the corpse." He grimaced.

"We do have the tactical advantage of the offworlders," Allic replied.

"Wait a minute," Mark interrupted. "There's something here I still don't get. What about Jartan? He's your father."

"True. And he'd trigger a full conflagration in the process," Storm replied. "If he comes in, Minar, who is Macha's father, will come in. Or if Jartan should move against Sarnak―and we all know that he wishes he could―that would bring Tor into the fight."

"So what? This Tor isn't a god," Mark said.

"But he is the only surviving child of Horat," Valdez told him. "Tor came from the marriage of a god to a demigod, and his power is nearly as great. Jartan must not move against any other god's descendant, not even Horat's. It is a delicate balance that has managed to keep a semblance of the peace."

"The balance," Storm continued, "has managed to keep for thirty centuries. So my father will stand out of this one as long as the other gods do. Besides, we're not children. It's up to us to fight this out."

"Damn it," Mark replied, "this isn't some game. Real people are dying out there. If the gods have all this power, at least they could stop it."

"You still haven't grasped it," Ikawa said softly. "In the end it
is
nothing more than a game, an illusion. That is why we Japanese can die in battle without fear, for what we believed back on Earth has been proved to us here. All that counts is honor, Bushido, which we carry with us into the next world."

"Easy for you," Mark said. "Remember I'm still an American at heart."

"I know," Ikawa replied, looking straight into Mark's eyes.

"Enough of this," Valdez growled. "There's a battle to be fought."

"The answer is obvious," Allic said evenly. "We leave before the middle of the night."

"What do you plan to commit?" Valdez asked.

"Everything here, every sorcerer, except for you and the oldest men of the reserve. Ander will be coming back in from patrol and when he does I want him to handle air cover over the city while you prepare the town for the worst. I plan to put the rest of my sorcerers there." Allic pointed to the position at the edge of escarpment.

"But my lord, the forces there might already be annihilated. Logic demands that we keep our main complement of sorcerers here in reserve until the rest of our ground armies move up. Then we can drive Macha back. The southern army at this point can only slow them down, not defeat them."

Ikawa felt his anger rising but kept it in check. This man had sent nearly all of his people out there, and it seemed as if he had simply written them off as a delaying force. The coldblooded logic of it was correct: to put out enough to slow the enemy down while your dispersed forces were pulled back in. But this was not an exercise, and his men, nearly all that were left from his old world, were out there.

As if Allic was reading Ikawa's mind, he said, "Valdez, go tell the men out there that logic has written them off."

"Never reinforce defeat, my lord."

"You did by sending up the contingent of offworlders."

Valdez was silent.

For the first time Ikawa felt a vague sense of disquiet about this man. Could it be that he wanted the outsiders pared down a little bit? Was there a fear that the new group was growing too powerful? Or was there another reason?

"All right, I'm taking half the wall crystals and I'll leave twenty sorcerers of the reserve to hold the city."

"That leaves Landra all but naked," Valdez warned.

"The first contingent from the western army will be in the city in eight days. We'll keep Macha's people in front of us, and fight our way back through the pass. With the additional sorcerers, we might even push Macha back."

"But what about Sarnak or Patrice?" Valdez argued.

"Look, damn it. I know who the enemy to my front is: Macha." Allic's voice rose so that all could feel his anger.

"I go to the enemy. I'll not hide back here waiting for a possible threat to materialize while there is a threat for all to see to my south. I want Macha's head for this; Landra will have to take care of itself. Prepare to leave at once. This discussion has ended."

Without waiting for a response he turned and stalked out of the room.

Valdez shot a quick glance at Mark and Ikawa, as if expecting a challenge.

Mark was tempted to say something, but in his heart he knew that Valdez had only followed the correct logic. It might mean the lives of his men―but command could not be swayed by the question of lives. He nodded towards Valdez, signaling that there was no challenge. The battle chieftain turned and left the room.

"Not to hurt your masculine pride," Storm said, approaching Mark, "but will you be able to keep up? I mean, I can take you two in tow if need be."

"As a matter of fact, it would hurt my masculine pride," Mark said, trying to smile.

Storm turned away and looked at the map.

"I hope he knows what he's doing," she said softly. "Allic tends to charge ahead the moment he sees what he thinks is his foe. Someday it'll be his undoing."

Mark would remember that comment in the days to come.

"C
hrist almighty, here they come!" Walker shouted.

Goldberg looked over his shoulder. He wanted to rise for a better vantage point, but the Torms had air superiority now and anything that moved even a foot off the ground this close to the battle line was hit by concentrated blasts. After they had lost several sorcerers, word had come down from Pina that men could only go airborne to protect the ground troops if they were attacked from above.

He could hear the chanting growing ever louder, "Torm, Torm, Torm," as the crescent-shaped battle line started its advance, the two flanks encompassing a front nearly half a mile across, gradually closing in as they tunneled into the pass.

The solid wall of humanity advanced at an inexorable pace, never faltering.

"Hold steady," Goldberg ordered. They were deployed atop a low rise in the middle of the pass. Anything that advanced would have to come over them first. He looked to his left where the thin line of Japanese were deployed in open battle formation, their Nambu machine gun concealed in a hurriedly dug bunker, while to his right were the rest of the Americans with two Thompson submachine guns anchoring the flank.

Goldberg looked back over his shoulder to the low ridgeline in the middle of the pass, a hundred yards away. The last of the stragglers had pulled back, and from the flurry of activity he could see the flash of axes as trees were felled for protective barricades, while men dug, sometimes with their bare hands, to throw up a fortified position, started earlier in the day by the desperately needed reinforcements.

"Buy time," Pina had said to the offworlders. "Just a turning of the glass, that's all. We need to keep them back while strengthening the line."

Buy time, goddamn them. They'd been buying time now for three days. A bloody trail of buying time that stretched back across thirty leagues of running.

Thirty leagues and five thousand dead. For Goldberg it was like something out of a history book, or perhaps some British movie like
The Four Feathers,
where the regiment formed a square and the native armies would swarm in, an ocean of men as endless as the sea.

But this morning the Torms had come up against something new: the power of a Japanese machine gun. The retreat had finally been slowed when the weapons, which Pina had held in reserve, were released in a desperate bid to buy time for the fortification work. This was the final step back: if they were pushed out of the pass the Torms would be able to pour onto the high plateau and overrun the province.

"Five hundred yards," Saito shouted.

The ground beneath them shook to the marching cadence of the enemy host.

Goldberg looked back over his shoulder.

"Pina, goddamn it, you better give me some fire support and keep those flying bastards off our necks."

A single shot sounded.

Goldberg looked up the line. It was Smithie. Goldberg wished he had waited a bit longer, but the man was an expert with a rifle, and besides, it was impossible to miss, so tightly packed was the advancing army.

An officer in the enemy's front line crumpled. There was a momentary pause at the shock of this new weapon, and then all hell broke loose. Forty thousand voices rose in one long scream of anger, and the Torm host broke into a trotting charge. Behind the enemy line a score of sorcerers rose, firing at the thin defensive line.

One of the sorcerers weaved forward, daring Allic's men to meet him. Walker stood up from his slit trench, aimed his Thompson, and squeezed the trigger. The sorcerer's shielding slowed several rounds, but one got through and the impact sent him staggering. He barely made it back to the protection of his lines.

The Japanese Nambu opened with a staccato burst. The team worked like experts: a burst, tap the gun on the side to move it a fraction, and then another burst―all of which were hitting home.

"Hold your fire," Goldberg screamed to his men. The Japanese were combat infantry, they knew their business. But he wanted them close, real close, for his own people.

The wall moved closer.
Damn, damn they're getting
too
close!

White flame shot over his head, fired from half a dozen sorcerers at the same time. Goldberg ducked instinctively into the trench. The ground a dozen yards away exploded.

Another burst of flame, and then another. It seemed the ground would melt around him.

He felt a flicker of pressure. A flame bolt had nicked against his shielding, causing it to glow as the energy was absorbed.

Angry now, he flicked the safety off his M-1 carbine, sighted on the leaders of the charge, and yelled, "Fire!"

It was impossible to miss. He squeezed off round after round. Even when he missed his intended target, a man to either side would crumple and go down. So tightly packed was the charge that one round would cut down two, even three men before its power was spent.

The Nambu crew was really hammering it now, holding down for long sustained bursts.

Fire flashed overhead, rifles and now even pistols cracked, the world was engulfed, overwhelmed by the roar of battle, as twenty held against a rush of thousands. Finally they got support from Allic's longbowmen. Sheets of arrows rose heavenward, the shadow of a thousand bolts racing across the ground. The arrows would seem to hover for a moment and then come hurtling down, slashing into the enemy line with devastating impact.

The Torm line faltered, slowed, then stopped, and from out of the host a triple line of skirmishers advanced, their shorter bows, which did not have the range of Allic's weapons, at the ready. If the archers got close enough, Goldberg realized, they'd have to cut out the defensive shielding, since it was always possible that the Torms would hazard a red crystal or two.

The archers rushed forward fearlessly. As one fell, another rushed to take his place, while all the time the Nambu cut its bloody path.

To either flank Torm skirmishers hugged the high ground, working their way towards the flanks of Pina's main force. Goldberg was tempted to call for fire to pin them down, but thought better. Firing straight ahead, every shot counted and delayed the main advance.

For long minutes the battle was stalemated. The Torms could not advance any further, but were increasing their pressure on the flanks. Goldberg looked back over his shoulder, hoping for a signal to pull back, but no signal came. They were out there on their own.

The Nambu fell silent. Dodging enemy fire bolts, Goldberg rushed over to the Japanese position.

Saito looked up to him, his eyes full of despair.

"We've got one box left, and that's it," the Japanese sergeant cried. "I need to hold something in reserve."

Goldberg looked back to where the enemy hue had faltered.

They were starting to pull back!

A hoarse cheer went up from Pina's men, who were still feverishly digging in.

God let it end,
Goldberg silently prayed.

But it was no rout. The center of the Torm line pulled back grimly, but the pressure on the flanks was still building as unit after unit of stingers, light infantry, and archers filtered along the clifflike walls of the pass. They did not stop to engage the delaying force but pushed on, intent on cutting off the main defenses at the top of the pass.

The pullback in the center slowed and finally stopped. So close were the Torms that Goldberg could clearly hear the shouted commands as the enemy's rage grew.

"Your men," Saito asked, looking at Goldberg. "How much ammunition?"

"Jose, whatya got left?"

"Twenty rounds."

"Welsh?"

"I'm out."

Damn him. What good is an empty Thompson?

"Smithie?"

"Twenty rounds."

"Walker?"

"Thirty rounds."

"Kraut?"

"Maybe ten rounds."

Goldberg looked back to Saito.

Even before the question started to form a roaring shout came up from the Torms. It crashed against them like thunder, washing away all other sound.

"Torm, Torm, Torm! A
tu
Madia!"

"Christ, they're charging!"

Goldberg turned to look. It was an irresistible tide, a crashing wall of armed men rushing forward at the run. They were only several ranks deep, while behind them, moving at a steady trot, came the rest of the army.

They could use the rest of their ammunition and knock out the charging line, but then the rest of them, shielded by flesh and blood, would push on over.

There'd be no stopping them this time.

"Let's get the hell outa here!" Goldberg roared.

Straightening, he pointed to the rear. The men needed no prompting. Grabbing their weapons, they scrambled out of the trenches and burst for the rear. A triumphant cry came up from the Torms. The ground beneath Goldberg's feet trembled with the weight of their advance.

Goldberg turned and leveled his carbine to fire another burst. There was a blinding flash.

He felt as if every nerve in his body had been touched with fire. He tried to scream, but no sound would form. And then his thoughts slipped away and he fell into darkness.

"Captain, I don't know if I can keep this up."

Mark glanced at Younger, who was struggling to maintain formation. For that matter, Mark wondered how
he
was managing to hold on. After less than four hours of exhausted sleep in a corner of Allic's conference room, Storm had roused him. Allic and the others were ready to leave.

For a moment Mark had been tempted to say the hell with it and ask her for help with the flying, but pride had stopped him. He knew that she could undoubtedly sense the exhaustion, but she had wisely refrained from offering any help.

"Not much longer, Younger. You can see the glow, there on the horizon."

They were flying now by the light of the twin moons, which bathed the world in an eerie double-shadowed light. For the last half hour they'd been able to see the shimmer on the horizon. It put him in mind of the time he had gone as a liaison with a British night bomber team and had been able to see the flames of Hamburg from two hundred miles out. All hell must be breaking loose on the edge of the escarpment.

"Not much longer." It was Storm, swinging up on his side.

He smiled grimly at her.

"Perfect time for an ambush," Storm called. "Allic wants cover up above. We're it."

"You hear that?" he shouted. "Open formation, we're going up."

In a process that still amazed him, he willed the direction, arched his back, and started up, climbing at a forty-five degree angle, the Americans and several of Allic's sorcerers following Storm's lead in line abreast.

Within minutes they were several thousand feet above the main formation. The Ventilian Hills were now below them, and as they pierced a scattered bank of clouds, Wolf Pass finally came into view.

"It looks like a bloody nightmare down there," Giorgini yelled, approaching Mark.

To Mark it looked more like the gates of hell: The pass was ablaze with light, bolts of magic fire snapping across the landscape and reflecting on the clouds about them so that it seemed they were flying through a sea of flame.

As the party drew closer they could see by the moonlight and reflected glow where advanced raiding parties of Torms had already skirted the edge of the defensive fortifications and were sweeping into the open plains beyond. Here and there freshly kindled fires marked where yet another farmstead was being torched.

"Three o'clock, fifty plus bogeys," Younger shouted, pointing. "Below us, dropping out of the clouds."

Mark could see two formations of twenty-five demons, and the first was already diving toward Allic.

"Bandits, definitely bandits," Mark cried. "Coming in three o'clock high on Allic."

Storm was already warning her brother via her communications crystal. Allic's party broke formation and wheeled straight into the attack.

"Let's get into it!" Storm shouted.

"Not yet," Mark cried. "There might be a second wave from another direction. Hold formation."

Mark had snapped the orders as if still back on the
Dragon Fire.
Now, be looked to see how this demigod would react to such a perfunctory command. He relaxed when be saw the look of acknowledgment in her eyes.

Good. Mark was getting sick of arguing with these people about the power of fighting in large formations instead of breaking up into small groups or individual contests once a battle was joined. If in the minutes to come Storm would stick with him, the others might start to listen when they saw the power of a coordinated strike.

He looked over towards his crew. They were holding tight formation as he expected them to.

"Twenty plus bogeys coming in," Giorgini yelled, "nine o'clock low. They're bandits, look like sorcerers."

"That's the one for us," Mark cried.

All weariness was forgotten. He timed the moment, watching as a loosely scattered formation of sorcerers swooped down on Allic's party from behind.

They must have been waiting for this, knowing that reinforcements were bound to come in. It was a good plan: send in the first wave of demons to break up the formation and divert it, then drop the sorcerers in to pick off the lone flyers one after another from behind, while the second wave of demons is held in reserve.

"Keep it tight. Stay on my wing," Mark ordered. "Going down now!"

He pulled up, winged over, and dove. In formation, the others followed.

They would have one good pass. Mark would pull this like a standard fighter sweep: no fancy maneuvers―just come in high, drop through the formation, and slam them with everything as you shot through, hitting them with enough speed that it'd be difficult for them to follow.

The formation was right below him, and Mark picked the last sorcerer in the unit. He could almost imagine a ring sight silhouetting his target. The imagery seemed to help him concentrate, and he waited until his target filled the entire circle.

Now!

A blast of fire cracked from Mark's wrist, striking his opponent between the shoulder blades. There wasn't any doubt on this hit. The flyer crumpled, his back shattered. Trailing fire, he fell.