The Crystal Warriors (20 page)

Instantly Mark found another target and fired as he dove past the startled enemy.

The strike was nearly perfect. The others got off their shots, each striking a foe, and several enemies simply disintegrated in midair. Mark slammed out a third bolt, winging an enemy who was rolling into an evasive. The injured sorcerer tumbled end over end, disappearing into low lying clouds.

Following Mark's lead, his battle group continued to dive, weaving and turning to throw off the feeble return fire.

Mark pulled up into an Immelmann turn, ready to pounce on anything that was following. But the enemy formation had been broken by the onslaught. Their surprise thwarted, the surviving sorcerers fled back towards the southwest.

"They're in retreat," Storm shouted. "In after them!"

"Straight into their own air defenses?" Mark protested. "We don't know what they've got on the ground over there, and our surprise has been blown. Let's tighten up and keep our eyes open."

He looked towards Allic's formation, several hundred yards below, still fighting demons. He was tempted to order a dive into the battle, but felt it best to keep formation in case the Torms had more surprises waiting.

Anyhow, Allic was more than holding his own against the demons.

Thunderclaps echoed and rolled against the sides of the pass, counterpointing the shouts of the thousands below, who paused in their own game of slaughter to watch the carnage above.

The first formation of demons, shattered by the concentrated blasts of Allic and his companions, broke to either flank, their phosphorescent wings shimmering green. The second group swooped downward. While holding formation above the main fight, Mark's team fired into the advancing line. With an almost fatalistic determination the demons pushed their attack home, breaking through the line of fire. Within seconds they seemed to swarm over Allic.

A white-hot fire exploded in the middle of the fight, lighting the countryside bright as noonday.

"What the hell was that!" Mark threw an arm across his eyes.

Even above the roar of the explosion he could hear Storm's cry. For long, frightening seconds he flew blind.

Blinking, he looked down. Everything was reversed, like a photographic negative. The flare was still burning with blinding intensity, but through his squint he could see that the flaming object was dropping, tumbling away from the fight. Mark looked at Storm, and saw the terror in her eyes.

"What was it?" he screamed.

"Probably a red crystal hitting the defensive screen of someone powerful," she cried.

Allic! The flame was right where Allic had been. Christ, he wanted to go down, but not now. He had to hold position up here. If it was Allic, if Allic was dead, there was nothing they could do to help him now. He tried not to think of it.

Mark watched as the flare, once a living body, fell away.

"There he is." Storm's voice nearly broke with relief.

Mark followed to where she pointed and could see Allic still flying, his companions pulling in closer, a protective wall.

Mark, still blinking, scanned the sky above and to either side, wondering what the enemy might throw at them next.

But Madia's forces only pulled back to the protection of their own lines.

Storm, Mark, and the rest of his crew swung into air-support formation above Allic and followed him in as they made a low approach towards the embattled line holding the edge of the pass.

Half a dozen bolts of fire snapped out from the Torms as they came in across the field, but the shots, tossed out at extreme range, were wide. The enemy fire slackened and at last stopped as ground forces followed the lead of their superiors in the air, and grudgingly pulled back for a respite before the next battle.

Still scanning the sky above them, Mark weaved back and forth, waiting for Allic to land.

"He's on the ground," Storm called. "Let's get in."

This was the vulnerable time, Mark realized, as they went down. If anyone lurked in the cloud cover, they would hit now.

But all was quiet as they alighted near the center of the camp.

Exhaustion washed over Mark. The adrenaline rush of combat was past, and he trembled. All around him was chaos, shouting men, the cries of the wounded; and over it all the stench of fire, fear, and death.

Allic was off to one side, being led towards the tattered remains of a tent, and leaning on one of his sorcerers for support.

Together Storm and Mark pushed through the mob towards Allic, who smiled wanly at them.

"Sheena's dead," Allic said weakly. "I sensed the red crystal in his hand even as he tried to hit my shielding. There must have been a powerful warding spell on him―I should have noticed him much, much sooner." He paused.

"I thought it would hit me, and I tried to drain off my defense shield. Then Sheena pushed me aside and threw herself on the demon. She's gone, gone to save me."

Allic looked straight at Mark, and for a second he thought Allic was wondering if he would have made the same sacrifice for his lord. He hoped he wouldn't be asked.

"D
id you get him?"

The demon was still bent over, gasping for breath. Macha waited patiently.

"My brother did as you commanded," the demon gasped. "One of Allic's guards blocked him."

Macha gave a characteristic shrug and turned away.

"The pledge to my family to release the bond of punishment on our sire, will you still honor it?" the demon asked.

There was a grumble of anger from Macha's aides. The word of their lord had been questioned.

"Your brother failed," a lieutenant barked. "Your sire will burn forever in living torment as far as I'm concerned."

Without a word Macha walked away from the group and looked towards the encampment, strengthened now by Allic's presence.

Macha knew enough of battle to know that a plan, any plan, was fine when drawn up on parchment, or discussed around a table―but it was far different when placed in action.

These offworlders had been the most difficult part to judge so far. First, with their weapons that shot bolts of metal. He had hoped that the retreat would become a rout when Pina's forces hit the top of the defile. But the offworlders had slowed his advance long enough to allow them to dig in.

The fools―they should have fortified this pass long ago. That alone had given him cause for a moment of doubt. Valdez was nobody's fool―a man who plans an attack must also plan for defense―and he could not understand why Valdez had not seen to fortifying in preparation for war.

Macha shook his head. Allic was far too easy to read, and he had almost regretted the plan, knowing he was playing on Allic's famous impetuousness and foolhardy bravery. A commander, Macha thought, should lead with his mind, not with his heart. It had been a good plan, but plans unfortunately didn't guarantee success.

Macha shrugged. They'd wait for dawn.

He looked back at the demon, who glowered at him defiantly.

"Your family pledge is fulfilled. Your brother passed into the shadows with his attempt. I shall give the order to have your sire released from the mines."

The demon's look of hatred turned instantly to shocked surprise. Bowing low, it withdrew into the night.

Macha looked at the formation drawn up in the shadows behind his command tent, and to the unit commander who had come with reinforcements less than a turning ago.

"Zambara, your unit is ready?"

"They are eager to feed," Zambara answered.

"Good." Macha turned and looked back up the slope. "Pass the word to the handlers: With first light your regiment will advance."

He had been thwarted by things unplanned for―the skills of the offworlders. Now they would feel his wrath... and it would destroy them.

* * * *

"Do you wish you had gone with your friends?" Kochanski turned from the window. How quickly he had adjusted to all of this, he suddenly realized. He was facing a god, a pulsing tower of light, but be barely gave it a thought anymore, as he bowed in acknowledgment. In the Old Testament men usually groveled, whined, or at least took off their sandals and crawled around on all fours. Instead he found himself looking towards the side table where he knew Jartan's usual offering would appear.

Sure enough, a chilled pitcher of Schaefer's materialized on the counter with two glasses. For more than a week now, that had been the signal that Jartan wanted to talk. He realized, as well, just how much this being liked him. He was an anomaly, a fascinating diversion. But Kochanski knew that Jartan had also come to treasure the conversation that was devoid of worshipfulness and wheedling.

The shimmering glow coalesced into a brilliant, luminous figure shining with an internal radiance. Jartan then strode to the table, poured a couple of beers, and downed his in a single gulp.

"Good stuff, that. I can see why you like it."

"I wish I had a clearer memory of some of the German dark beers, but it's been quite a few years."

"Why's that?"

"Remember the war back home? German beer is politically suspect these days."

"Foolish. I'd like to try it sometime. But you still haven't answered my original question about wishing you had left with your friends."

Kochanski settled into the chair by Jartan's side.

"They're my friends."

"Even the ones you call Japanese?"

"Of course. It's kind of hard to blindly hate an enemy once you get to know him. Why do you ask?"

"I have my reasons. But you think they're in trouble?"

"I've felt that from the moment they left and you ordered me to stay here. If they're going into danger, it's my duty to share that danger."

"Sometimes the hardest duty is not to share the danger, while those you love bear the brunt. Remember, Kochanski, I have two children going down there to fight."

"So why don't you intervene?"

"When you were a child and got into a fight, did your father come and thrash your opponent for you?"

"That's not the point. A street corner brawl between kids is one thing. This is war."

"No, it's not different. In many ways this
is
a street corner brawl. And if I were to intervene directly, then Minar must come in. You know the power of my son; that is but a shadow of my own power in war, and Minar's as well. It would be as if we brought the sun from the heavens and let it burn the land till it became nothing but cinder and glass."

"No, we must not intervene, though at times I do wonder if there is something beyond this fight, something darker."

"Can't you tell?"

"Kochanski, Kochanski, my friend. You give too much power, even to gods. Besides, the knowing can at times be blocked, cancelled by the power of others, if they set their mind to it. But sometimes what a god cannot see, a mortal can. Because your looking is unanticipated. It can also at times reach closer into the hearts of your foes."

"I can't help but feel that you want to show me something to put my mind at ease."

"Maybe not at ease, but at least to make you realize that even here, you can serve your friends."

Kochanski stood at the railing of Jartan's private balcony overlooking the sea and listened to the sounds of the surf hundreds of feet below. The gentle midnight wind swept through his hair, caressing him lightly with its touch. In the heavens, the Twins had set, and the sky was filled with the majesty of the Cloud shimmering from horizon to horizon. The Runner was at zenith, tracing its eternal race across the heavens, while forever beyond its reach floated the Maiden and the five stars of the Crown.

"I've yet to ask you," Jartan said, coming up to Kochanski's side, "are the heavens as beautiful on your own world?"

His own world, he thought. He could remember as a kid when he'd get out of Trenton for a week at scout camp up on the Delaware, he'd go alone into the fields at night, lie down, and soar into the heavens, his imagination riding the tails of meteorites and coasting the firmament of the Milky Way. Was that the Milky Way, the cluster of stars overhead that was simply called the Cloud? If so, where was Earth, the blue-green speck of home? Was his old girlfriend now looking across the endless sea, dreaming of a heaven, and thinking that he was somehow floating there above her? The wind chilled him and with a wistful sigh he looked back to Jartan.

"Not as beautiful, but just as distant," Kochanski replied.

"Come over here and sit down for a moment," Jartan said, beckoning towards an ornate, oversized chair that looked like a throne.

Kochanski settled uncomfortably onto the throne, his dangling feet barely touching the ground. He placed his hands on the armrests, grabbing hold of the griffins' heads mounted to either side. A tremor went through the chair, and it started to rise.

"What the hell?" Kochanski yelped. If he was going to fly, damn it, he'd prefer to do so like everybody else did, arms outstretched.

The absurdity of his fear caught him. The way anybody else did―yeah, just like Superman. He settled back, and through gentle experiment he realized that pressure on the griffins' heads raised and lowered the chair. But movement was slow. He concentrated his power on the chair, but still it drifted heavenward at a leisurely rate.

He looked over to Jartan, who was floating in the air by his side.

"All right, my lord, it's obviously not for flying. What's the real purpose of this thing?"

Jartan laughed. "I call it the god chair, and its purpose is to explore. Lean your head back."

Kochanski settled back.

"Close your eyes."

Again he did what Jartan requested. But he could still see!

With a start he nearly jerked out of the chair, which was now floating several hundred feet above the palace.

"Ah, startled you." Jartan laughed. "Now close your eyes and relax."

Warily Kochanski leaned back and closed his eyes. Again he opened them in a near panic, but trying not to show his anxiety, he closed them again. His gaze lifted upwards. The stars! The sky from horizon to horizon was ablaze with light, as though the night heavens had crackled into white-hot blaze.

"Just relax," Jartan said, "and turn to the southward."

Kochanski did as he was directed. It seemed as though the world beneath him had grown pale, like a photo too long exposed. He almost wished that he could close his eyes against the light, and chuckled at the absurdity. His vision shifted to the world beneath him, where he could see a courtyard, and two young girls walking in the shadows. Curious, he watched them, wishing he were closer to see who they were.

The chair seemed to fall away beneath him, rushing him in a blinding instant so that he now hovered directly before the two. Not only could he see them, but he could see through them, sensing in one a pure flaming light, while in the other there was a darker thought, a feeling of jealousy for her companion who was talking of her lover.

Embarrassed, Kochanski started to speak, to explain his sudden intrusion into their privacy, but a deep rumbling laugh made him open his eyes.

"How?" Kochanski cried. "I didn't move an inch! Yet I was down there," and he pointed to the courtyard. But where was it? Leaning out of the chair, he looked all about him, but the courtyard, and its two lovely inhabitants, were nowhere to be seen.

"Where was I?"

"I'm not sure. I didn't have time to track you. In the chair one can travel leagues without moving an inch. You looked off towards the horizon for several seconds and then you started to voice an apology. Whomever you were trying to speak to could have been right below us, or could have been five hundred leagues away. At first the chair gives only one confusing moment after another. But with practice you can control where it takes you, to get a brief glimpse of a moment far away."

"I could see my friends, then."

"That is why I brought you here."

"Do you use this?"

"Not often," Jartan confessed. "I created it, gave it part of my own Essence. But it does not work well for me: my power overwhelms the chair's magic. But for someone like you, it can have its uses. First you must learn to control it―and no one has yet learned to do that completely. Without total mastery, the chair is only an amusing toy, since its visions can rarely be directed to a specific locus and held there."

"But you seem to have a strange gift, a rare turning of the Essence. I have heard how you can sense things from afar. You offworlders have brought abilities from your world which here combine with the Essence to give you rare and powerful talents. Jose, I am told, has it to a lesser extent. I understand that Giorgini has a similar power, but..." Jartan seemed unwilling to comment further.

Could it be? Kochanski wondered. Giorgini was radar fire control, Jose was radio, while he was the radar man. Could it be?

"Try it again," Jartan said. "This time turn your thoughts to one of your friends."

Kochanski did as he was told. Closing his eyes he settled back. The world shimmered softly about him.

Goldberg. Since late this afternoon his thoughts had turned to Goldberg, and the feeling persisted that something was wrong.

He felt the chair shifting again; the illusion of the land rushing beneath him.

"Goldberg!" he shouted, but it could not be heard.

Kochanski wanted to scream, to reach out and care for his friend who lay half buried in a blown-out bunker, surrounded by enemies. Was he dead?

Kochanski struggled for control, Goldberg was hundreds of miles away. If he was dead, nothing could be done. Kochanski was almost ready to curse Jartan for allowing him to see this. What good was seeing if there could be no helping?

For long minutes he fought to stay calm while gazing at his friend's body. Finally he pulled away.

His vision swept over the battlefield, the enemy host, Allic's beleaguered forces bracing for the threat.

The threat?
His mind dwelled on that, and even as it did, he felt himself starting to drift away. What the hell was going on?

He wanted to stay, to find Mark and Walker, and yes, even Ikawa and Saito, to reassure himself. Then he would return to Jartan.

But it rankled that he should be here, safe, while his friends waited out the night. He belonged with them, facing the enemy who at this moment threatened Allic's realm.

Again, as if somehow prompted, his mind turned away, drifting.

Where was he going?

His mind scanned around him and he felt something that disturbed and alarmed his subconscious. Abruptly, the chair whisked him away, and the ground seemed to rush up towards him. He screamed, thinking he was about to crash, and held out his hands as if to ward off the impact―but the chair just continued into the ground as though it didn't exist.

He found that he could still see, almost like he could when swimming in clear water. Riding beneath the world he headed for the disturbance.

There was a burst of light that momentarily blinded him, and he found himself gazing down a tunnel that cut deep into the heart of the world. And it was swarming with life: sorcerers, demons, and the great machines of war.

He could feel the hatred and malevolence of their minds. And in an instant Kochanski knew.