Under Strange Suns (32 page)

Still, this assignment was preferable to flogging or castration.

Captain Akhistal had divided his company in three, assigning each portion to a different pass through the Wild Wall. Ghemel was assigned to lead the westernmost platoon. His instructions were broad, though clear enough. Primarily reconnaissance. Secondarily, the platoons were tasked with communicating with spies. Ghemel did not care for that. Not due to any distaste for espionage, but due to the specificity entailed. Reconnaissance allowed a certain leeway, independence of action, and a more casual pace. After the brutal ascent through the pass he had been looking forward to some leisurely scouting. Find a comfortable bivouac and send out patrols with instructions to report back to him at intervals. Dealing with spies required memorization of rendezvous points and recognition codes. None of which he wished to bother with and all of which he hoped to soon forget as superfluous. But the Watchful God saw fit to place a young joon by the name of Frejhig in his path. And so Ghemel found himself listening to some nonsense about two-armed giants and the heretics on this side of the Wild Wall preparing defenses.

Ghemel had sent two runners back up through the pass–poor bastards–with orders to join the main column and report the spy’s intelligence to the Pontifex-General. And then he had followed the spy out into the featureless, uncivilized plains to set an ambush for these fantastical creatures.

No, Ghemel didn’t like any of this. But it seemed necessary. “Duty,” he remembered his father once remarking, “is what we call necessity when we wish to convert it to virtue.” That was his father, pithy as any of the Keepers of the Dictates, but easier to bribe.

“Bribery is a term of opprobrium applied by parties external to a business transaction. Make no mistake, that’s what is occurring: a business transaction, payment for services rendered. Sometimes it is difficult to quantify the service, to properly color it on an invoice or account for it on a ledger. But that makes it no less real, the exchange no less valuable. Let others call it what they will. Under the eye of the Watchful God it makes no difference.”

Of course that day his father had been paying rather than receiving the bribe. He had been crossing the palm of a prosperous farmer, paying him to forget some of his son’s activities. Ghemel figured the farmer received a windfall, given that he had meant to kill the dirt scratcher if he’d had the temerity to complain. Yes, Ghemel had taken what the Watchful God had placed in his path–the farmer’s daughter, who shouldn’t have been outdoors to begin with. Yes, he had thrashed the girl’s brother–perhaps to death, he’d never been curious enough to find out. But anyone attempting to prevent him from enjoying his due was circumventing the will of the Watchful God, and if Ghemel put a boot to a meddling throat it was only fitting.

Ghemel would always do what was necessary to maintain his rightful position. And now, here in this empty, savage place, that meant doing, however reluctantly, his duty.

Duty, as he’d heard the Pontifex General observe during his speech to the gathered troops of the Northern Protectorate’s militia, was a hard master.

Squatting silent in a gully was certainly hard. Also uncomfortable and dull. His feet broke through a dried crust of soil overlaying the ooze–remnant from some recent downpour–covering his feet in muck. He had begun devising elaborate schemes of vengeance to exact against the lying little spy when he caught the sound of voices. Strange voices. He peeked through the irritating grasses fringing the gully. The spy was right. Demons!

The men about him caught a glimpse of the same thing and began to mutter astonished pleas for the Watchful God’s protection. Ghemel hissed the platoon to silence. Once again the Watchful God had placed bounty in his path. It was clear he was intended to slay these demons, to earn glory for his deed. And glory would pay his passage out of this unjust punishment.

He instructed his archers to prepare. The gully did not provide ideal conditions for marksmanship. The crossbowmen, leaning against the lip of the gully, could see little through the interminable curtain of grasses. But they should be able to at least glimpse the targets, and estimate speed and direction. Or, if Ghemel held the signal to loose until the targets passed, he could silently reposition them up on the level plain, where only the grasses would limit target acquisition.

The thrum of a crossbow cord ended his tactical planning. Imbeciles! The lot of them possessed no more brains than did women. One of them had loosed too soon, without orders.

Well, too late now.

“Loose,” Ghemel ordered. “Give them a volley.”

He rose to his feet, observing the result of the flight of quarrels. A joon knelt, a bolt driven through him. One of the two-armed monsters was dropping prone, hiding in the thick blue grass. He could not see the other demon. But clearly archery had served what purpose here it could.

“Swords,” Ghemel said. “At them you lazy, fatherless sons-of-whores.”

He stayed behind to ensure they all complied, then prodded the spy Frejhig with the tip of his sword, compelling him to follow before climbing out of the gully in his turn. With a platoon of dimwitted farm women like this, a wise leader led from the rear.

* * *

“Down!” Aidan said, throwing himself into the high blue clover on the opposite side of the travois from where the arrow had been launched.

He heard the erratic whistling of more arrows passing overhead, the brushing of a mass through vegetation as Doctor Yuschenkov belatedly dropped into the groundcover, and “Shit, that hurts.”

Aidan popped his head up for a peek, then dropped it and low crawled forward. He had caught a glimpse of the ambushers: ten, perhaps a dozen rising from their concealed position in a gully about a hundred yards to the south. He had also seen one of those long bolts driven almost entirely through the back of Yuschenkov’s left calf, looked like it had pinned him to one of the spools of cable burdening the travois.

The oncoming joon had discarded their bows and were dragging free swords as they came.

Aidan rose to one knee. He thumbed loose the holster strap restraining his pistol. The bizarre juxtaposition of adrenaline and calm that fell upon him in combat returned. He drew the pistol, and took aim, resting his forearms across the near pole of the travois.

The soldiers were still more than fifty yards distant and did not seem in any great hurry. He counted twelve. No, thirteen. Shit, was that Frejhig? Fourteen; one more bringing up the rear.

Aidan took the time to inquire, “You okay, Doc?”

“I think so. I think an arrow bit a chunk out of my calf.”

“Put pressure on the wound.” Good, Yuschenkov’s leg wasn’t trapped by the bolt. But he was wounded and directly in the path of danger. “And keep your head down.”

With that last admonishment, Aidan opened fire. He started on his left, taking his time, holding off on double-taps until they got closer.

The first soldier dropped, sprawling face first to disappear into the ubiquitous blue clover. Aidan squeezed off another round, missed. Breathe. Another round, this one tearing into a thigh, spinning the soldier around, out of action.

The oncoming joon began chattering now, slowing. Aidan dropped a third, hitting center mass–a shot he would have taken a moment to savor at the pistol range, give himself a pat on the back. The soldiers stopped, looking about in evident confusion.

Aidan exploited the lull to haul his new rapier free and plant it point first in the turf near at hand. “Get your ass on this side of the travois, Doc,” he said.

A yell from the trailing joon got the soldiers moving again, double-timing it.

Aidan heard, rather than saw Yuschenkov scrambling through the growth, crawling beneath the travois. Aidan was busy picking off targets, hoping to avoid fighting on both flanks when the soldiers reached his position.

Four down, dead or wounded. The attrition was influencing the survivors to edge to their left, to Aidan’s right. He plugged two more before they reached the barricade of the travois and swept
en masse
around his right flank. Just what he had hoped, though that meant dealing with eight sword-armed joon, all after his blood.

He surged to his feet, transferring the pistol to his left hand and snatching the rapier up with his right. He pivoted to a fencer’s stance–a human fencer’s stance–and stepped forward into a fully extended lunge. The point of his rapier plunged deeply into the center of the leading soldier’s face, stopped short by the back of his skull. Aidan’s height and reach advantage had caught the soldier unprepared, yet even so the joon had attempted a reflexive stop-thrust that grazed the inside of Aidan’s right bicep, the bloodied tip of the sword coming within an inch of Aidan’s throat.

The wound didn’t sting yet, but Aidan recovered from his lunge with some alarm. These guys were fast. He swiveled to face them head on. He gave up his advantage of presenting a silhouette, but it allowed him to bring his pistol back into action. At least he hoped so–they were almost on him, sword points glittering.

At that moment, still partially prone beneath the travois, Yuschenkov opened up with Aidan’s backup piece. Aidan was startled by the unexpected fusillade, but the nearest joon were unable to exploit the momentary dropping of his guard because they were too busy catching bullets.

Yuschenkov put down two. The remaining five spread wide in a semi-circle, hemming the two humans against the travois.

“They’re still not grasping the concept of the pistol,” Aidan said. He opened fire a moment before Yuschenkov joined him. Two of the joon broke and sprinted north.

“Frejhig!” Aidan yelled. The leading joon, unarmored and breaking to the west, hesitated a step. Aidan drilled him through the back. “Echeckok says, ‘Dhekor funeg Ghark.’”

The remaining joon put on a burst of speed, a few errant rounds from Yuschenkov shredding the blue clover at his feet. Then he was out of range, still sprinting.

“Are you okay, Doc?” Aidan asked.

Yuschenkov remained sprawled in the grass, pistol still held in a two-handed grip. His eyes did not shift toward the sound of Aidan’s voice.

“Doctor Yuschenkov, are you badly hurt?” Aidan asked again, speaking each word distinctly.

“We shoot them and they just keep coming.” Awe and fear mingled in Yuschenkov’s voice.

“Captain Merit used to say, after a fracas like this one, that fanatics never fail their morale check.”

Yuschenkov turned his head then, swiveling it up to look at Aidan. His eyes focused and a wry, disbelieving smile twisted his lips. A single bark of a laugh burst from him.

“Hell, no, I’m not okay, soldier. I’ve got an arrow hole in my leg. Help me stop the bleeding.”

“Hang on for a minute. Put some pressure on the wound.”

Aidan swept the immediate battlefield, ascertaining that none of the fallen presented any immediate threat. Two were still quivering, blood pumping from holes punctured through their armor. Aidan kicked their swords away, leaving them to spill what blood remained into the blue clover. Then he returned to Yuschenkov’s side, dropping to his knees. He accessed his medical supplies and dealt with the gash cut deeply through the back of the physicist’s calf. It looked clean, which was good. But as it was more than a mere scratch, it would undoubtedly hinder the man’s movement.

Then he looked to his own wound. The thrust to his bicep had left a two-inch long laceration and would develop an impressive scar. But it wasn’t deep, hadn’t removed much meat. He would be able to use the arm without more than a bit of discomfort. He cleaned the cut, slapped a bandage on it and called it good.

Echeckok still slumped where he had died, yoked to the travois like a two-legged beast of burden. Aidan fished a clasp knife from a pocket, flicked it open one-handed and cut Echeckok free, supporting the body with his other hand. He let the knife drop, placed the knife arm beneath the joon’s bent knees, and then lifted, cradling the body. Turning, he gently laid Echeckok amidst the gear and machinery that weighed down the travois.

Yuschenkov hoisted himself to his feet, favoring one leg. “Good, Aidan. Let’s take the boy back to his father. Though I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help.”

“In the few days I’ve known Checkok, I’ve taken advantage of his hospitality, left him in the lurch when he needed me to help build the defenses, and got his son killed. I don’t...I don’t think I’ve been a very good guest.”

“Aidan, it isn’t –”

“I know, Doc. You don’t need to tell me it’s not my fault. I know it isn’t. I still feel like shit. Look, take a scabbard from one of the corpses, slip a sword into it, and use it as a walking stick. Then catch up with me.”

Aidan got between the traces, grabbed the poles, and lifted, ignoring the protest from his injured bicep. He started trudging east.

“Wait, you ought to rest first, get some food in you,” Yuschenkov said, his words clipped as he bent, rummaging through the bodies for an easily accessible sword scabbard.

Aidan didn’t even slow. “The Lhakovi won’t wait for me to catch my breath. And I no longer have two porters to spell me on donkey duty. We’re gonna have to gut this one out, Doc.”

Screaming emanated from near the gully where the ambush had begun. Or perhaps the screaming was continuing, and Aidan was just now hearing it.

“What about that poor bastard back there?” asked Yuschenkov, now standing, but still not moving.