Warworld: The Lidless Eye (28 page)

Groundmaster Bohren checked his chronometer and reviewed the night’s accomplishment: an hour yet to trueday, and the landing zone was as bare of people and equipment as if it had never been occupied. He turned and followed the first group of load animals and personnel, winding their way up into the pass toward the Citadel. Toward…
home
.

Diettinger found himself looking again at the face of Second Rank, sleeping on the cot next to him. Even more than most Saurons, he was a realist; a moment’s consideration would have told him that it would have come to this, but he had simply not taken the time. Or perhaps he had been determined to avoid the truth of the matter.

As it happened, he seemed the only one in the crew surprised at this turn of events. When, after the long and fruitless argument with Second Rank over her decision, he had finally admitted the wisdom of it, he had
called Breedmaster Caius.

“Second Rank is to be removed from the roster of Cyborg mating personnel, Breedmaster. You may list her as officially mated to me hereafter.”

“I have already taken that liberty, First Rank,” Caius had matter-of-factly informed him. Diettinger had raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed? And would you care to share your justification for such an act with me?”

Caius was utterly blasé. “Your Genetic Preference Rating is A-3, Fertility Rating two, well within the parameters you established for breedworthy personnel. Second Rank’s qualifications and genetic code complement your own very well. Far better than they do those of any Cyborg in the pool.” Caius paused a moment. “I had merely prepared the matchup as a hypothetical one. Purely as a guideline.”

“Of course,” Diettinger said dryly. “You would agree, then, that the mating of myself and Second Rank, and any issue resulting therefrom, would help in establishing a stabilizing influence for our presence here on Haven?”

Caius nodded. “It would have the added virtue of offsetting the considerable influence the Cyborgs have among the troops as well, First Rank.”

Diettinger nodded, smiling thinly. “Yes, something like that was pointed out to me by Second Rank herself. Thank you, Breedmaster. Diettinger out.”

And now he watched as Second Rank—
Althene
, he reminded himself;
her name is Althene
—turned in her sleep, moving towards his warmth. With an awkwardness he sensed he was rapidly losing, Diettinger gathered her into his arms, pulled her close and closed his eyes.

Better late
, he thought,
than never.

He woke at the bridge summons signal to find himself alone in the bed. The sounds of a woman in his bath were unfamiliar, yet utterly unmistakable. Diettinger keyed the intercom.

“Diettinger.”

“Groundside secured, sir. Citadel signals ready to receive the
Dol Guldur
whenever we are ready to send her.”

Diettinger scowled. As always when he had slept too long, he awoke irritable.

“Communications, we are about to end the life of what is probably the last ship of the Sauron Home Fleet; pass the word to all ranks that henceforth she will be given the courtesy of being referred to by her true name.”

“Acknowledged, First Rank.” Communications’ tone reflected his humility. “Engineering reports the
Fomoria
ready for drop.”

“Very good. Muster all remaining shipboard personnel in the shuttle bay in a standard hour.”

“Acknowledged, First Rank.

Diettinger cut the bridge link for what he suddenly realized was the last time. He looked at the communications console in reflection for a moment, then turned to see Althene standing in the doorway to the bath. Silhouetted in the dimness of the cabin by the bright light behind her, she presented a romantic image as old as humankind.

Diettinger thought of the jokes cattle made about Sauron matings; none bore repeating. Cattle would never appreciate that the Saurons were just as emotional as any other race of men; more so, since they were trained not to deny the basic nature of the human species. Non-Saurons saw Diettinger and his people as sexless automata. The prejudice had likely not spared any captured Sauron females in the ruined home system from rape at the hands of Imperial soldiers.

“Althene,” Diettinger said her name aloud.

He could only sit and look at her for the moment.
This is the price of three decades and more of solitary living
, he thought. The speaking of emotions was a skill that required practice and he was sorely lacking that.

“Yes, Galen,” she said quietly, her tone one of affirmation. Cattle would have said it sounded like “Acknowledged, First Rank,” but Diettinger knew the difference.

“It’s time to go.”

She nodded, went to the desk where she had left her kit bag. Diettinger watched her every move. How had he lasted this long, he wondered? Relations among crewmembers on Sauron ships were inevitable and, if the genetic potential was promising, encouraged. Yet in the years she had served with him, not once had he considered his former Second Rank in anything more than a professional light. Perhaps there had not been time. Or perhaps he had known that the first step toward intimacy with this particular woman would be a very, very steep one. And the last.

Now
, he thought,
there would indeed be time.
Time for himself, and for Althene. There still was much to do before the subjugation of the moon below them was complete and more beyond that before the Sauron race was safe and could begin to rebuild. But that would be resolved by his heirs.

No matter. He had done the hardest part, he knew. He had given his people a chance, if a slim one. Time now to keep some small part of his life separate from his duty as a Sauron and a Soldier. And Althene would be that part.

“Ready?” he asked.

Althene nodded.

Smiling, he slid the door open and held it for her as she passed through.

John Hamilton had maybe two standard hours of sleep before he was awakened by the Master-at-Arms.

“Sir, the raiders are starting to stir. It’s time to prepare breakfast.”

John sat up and tried to shake the sleep out of his head. “You’re right, Master Cromwell. When do you think they’ll attack?”

“They won’t have the light to navigate the ridge until first light. But as soon as the sun rises we’ll see them.”

“Have the men awakened and the cook fires lit,” he ordered.

“Already done, sir.”

“Good.” He was smart enough to realize that he was blessed to have Imperial Marine veterans to back his play. John had never been in the service, but everyone else in the family and their retainers had. So he’d picked up a lot of information via osmosis. He understood that the only reason he was in command was that his Grandfather was too old to campaign. As the Hamilton heir and last male of the line, it was his duty; he was also smart enough to realize that his role as commander of the army was to inspire the troops, then get out of the way and let the noncoms do their jobs.

Wheelock’s Raiders waited until almost an hour after sunrise before they raised a great howl and began their charge. The first nomad to come over the ridge was completely unlike anything John Hamilton had expected. The man was wearing a brown flight jacket and blue jeans; he could have been one of the Hamiltons’ neighbors, except for the snarl on his face and the hate that glowed in his eyes. He crumpled in a hail of bullets.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” shouted the Master-at-Arms.

John looked down at his rifle, it was still at rest. He took it up and aimed.

Six raiders topped the ridge at once and a concentrated volley pitched them from their mounts. The next group to come over was ten times that number and not so easily stopped.

“MACHINE GUNS, FIRE!” John cried. The machine guns fired with an earsplitting din and the ridgetop was suddenly emptied of the enemy. A few moments later the ridge was swarming with their replacements and the line of fire was so crowded the machine guns were doing double duty. Some of the nomads hid behind fallen horses or used their dead allies as shields.

John shot one bearded muskylope rider right out of his saddle, and was aiming at a second when he toppled from his mule. Then the ridge top was covered with so many raiders that he didn’t even bother aiming. Their coats and half-armors were every color of the rainbow and only a few were shooting bullets; the vast majority were armed with archaic but potent recurve bows shooting arrows.

Hundreds of raiders died in volley after volley of concentrated fire, but Hamiltons’ liegemen were taking casualties as well. Steven Hammond dropped over with a red kiss in the middle of his forehead and Robert Frisse’s body just slumped over in final repose. Within what seemed seconds—but judging from the carpet of bodies on the ridge front, must have been minutes—the raiders were up to the stone wall that the Hamiltons were using as a barricade.

A logical part of his mind reasoned that the moment they breached the stone walls the melee would occur, then the raiders’ numbers would give them an incalculable advantage. John turned to the snarling Master-At-Arms, who was using his empty rifle as a club. He shouted, “Call the Iron Men!”

A large caliber bullet pinged off his helmet and he felt dizzy for a moment. He shook it off, grabbed hold of the Marshal’s arm and repeated his command.

A film of bloodlust visibly cleared from Cromwell’s eyes and he turned to a young trumpeter and gave the signal. There was a loud trumpet blast and for a moment the crazed killing ground froze in front
of John’s eyes. There were more than two thousand raiders on the killing floor, filling the twenty meters from the ridge top to their barricade. At least half that many casualties littered the stones, some caught in grotesque poses on bramble bushes they had strewn around the wall to stop the raiders’ mounts.

The machine guns and Gatling guns were still taking a terrible toll, but, as he watched, the nomads overran one machine gun and fought to take another. John knew that if the Iron Men didn’t turn them back the tide of battle would turn completely, and he’d be lucky to survive with his skin intact.

Then from the Hamilton right flank arrived a sight out of a history solido: a mass of gleaming armor charging forward on massive horses, with the Hamilton banner at the fore. He felt his chest swell with pride. The enemy seemed to be caught in a quick freeze as the massive tide of armor and horseflesh slammed into the raiders’ left flank. His liegemen, suddenly heartened by the carnage, regrouped and began to fire on the massed raiders who were caught between an iron wall on the left and a hail of bullets in the center. To the right was a sheer cliff face and already scurrying raiders were careening to their deaths over the stone lip.

The raiders coming over the ridge were now stalled, both by bodies and by their own amazement at the sight of a living wall of armored steel. One or two of the Iron Men toppled from their mounts, but most were as oblivious to the hail of bullets headed their way as their mounts were to the bodies they trampled underneath their hooves. Suddenly hundreds of raiders were being pushed, thrust and carried over the ledge. Those fighters lucky or bold enough to evade the iron men were met with a renewed and invigorated volley of small arms from the Hamilton liegemen. The course of battle had turned.

When most of the raiders had been pushed over the cliff, the wall of steel pulled up, wheeled and turned to the ridgetop. In the blink of an eye, they were over the ridge and running down the incline. John, along with most of his men, except for a small reserve held there by the Master-At-Arms, ran to the crest to witness a sight straight out of the thousand-years-gone
Hundred Years’ War. The armored wave broke the nomads’ charge, going through and over the smaller horses, and turned the entire army into rout. Hundreds of bodies and mounts lay tossed in their wake. The Iron Men were now in hot pursuit, shooting nomads out of saddles with their pistols, riding them down with their lances and cutting them out of their saddles with sabers.

Then, popping out of the gully where they’d been hiding, came the Hamilton reserve straight into the front of the fleeing raiders. The main body of Wheelock’s Raiders were enveloped and destroyed almost to a man. No prisoners, no mercy. Those who tried to surrender were shot out of their saddles or cut down with swords. Those who tried to flee were run down and trampled. The wounded were dispatched with blades across the throat.

An hour later, going over the body-littered ridge, John estimated that there were between four and six thousand nomad casualties. Of the thousand or so that had turned tail, he doubted more than a few hundred would escape their pursuers. As with most battles, the vast majority of casualties occurred when the enemy broke formation and were killed by the pursuing victors.

Still, one had to give the raiders credit; they had left more than a thousand dead on the ridge crest and at least that many again had been pushed over the cliff. John felt a little light-headed all of a sudden and forced himself to get down from his horse and sit down on a small boulder. The first thing he did was reload his pistol.

The Master-At-Arms came over to report. “We got most of them, Marshal. I don’t think more than a hundred or two will escape pursuit.” Cromwell paused to catch his breath. “With the tales they’ll tell, we shouldn’t have any trouble from the nomads for a long time.”

John nodded. “How do you explain their courage? I thought the machine guns would stop them cold.”

Cromwell held up a suede pouch and pipe. “Most of them had kits like this. Their leaders had them smoke hashish before the attack. It’s a concentrated resin from the hemp plant. Under the right circumstances
and if enough is smoked, the warriors come to believe they are invincible and feel almost no pain during the battle. It’s use dates back to Old Earth and the Muslim
hashshashins
. We were damn lucky!”

John felt his vision begin to blacken. He felt dizzy, too.

“Marshal! What’s wrong—”