Prison of Night

Chapter Nine

Castle Belamosk changed. The gentle air of unhurried indolence vanished to be replaced by a fevered sense of urgency with women kept busy sewing uniforms of strong fabric reenforced with leather, with artisans making heavy boots, edged weapons, belts, canteens. Others furbished old weapons; sporting rifles and pistols used in formal duels, even crossbows made to designs supplied by Dumarest.

He shrugged when Lavinia pointed out the primitive nature of the weapons.

"A bolt can kill as surely as a bullet if well-aimed. It would be nice to equip the men with lasers but we haven't got them."

"But crossbows?"

"Are easy to make and simple to use. The bolts they use can be recovered and used again and again. The weapon itself will get them used to the weight of arms." Patiently he ended, "Leave it to me, Lavinia. I know what I'm doing."

Arming and teaching men to be soldiers, to march and drill and to kill when given the order. But, as the days passed, she realized that to train men wasn't as simple as she had thought.

"It's a matter of cultural conditioning," explained Roland when she spoke of it one day after watching a group of young boys try and fail to perform a simple maneuver. "Our retainers have never had to think for themselves in their entire lives. They know what to do and how it should be done and have never had the need to think of alternative methods. Now they are being asked to change their social pattern into something strange and a little frightening. To perform acts without apparent purpose. To obey without apparent need. March, turn, halt, drop, aim, fire-words new to their vocabulary. But don't worry, my dear, Earl knows what he is doing."

Bran Welos wasn't so sure.

At first it had been a game and he had been eager to thrust himself forward for, as his dead father had advised during delusia, the one who was among the first would be the one to gain rapid advancement. And Gelda had been pleased and given him the reward of her body that same night after curfew when the castle had been sealed against the dark. Even at dawn when he has assembled with the others it hadn't seemed too hard. The initial marching had become tiresome and the drills were stupid but there were watching faces to smile at and familiar things to see.

Then Kars Gartok had struck him and knocked him down and swore at him as he lay with blood running from his nose.

"Pay attention you fool! Left is left not right! March, don't slouch, and take that silly grin off your face. You're a man, not a clown. Head up, shoulders squared, stomach in, chest out, back straight, eyes ahead-now on your feet and march! March! March!"

March until his legs grew weak with fatigue, his feet sore with blisters, his eyes burning with glare and dust. March and obey until he had become a machine without sense or feeling. Then the long, long journey out into the arid lands without water or food and with the crossbow he had been given a dragging weight at his shoulder.

"Keep in step there!" Dumarest was in charge of the party. "Left! Left! Left, right, left! Don't drag your feet! Left! Left!"

Welos spat and muttered something. Dumarest heard it but paid no attention. Anger was a good stimulus and if a man trained to be deferential all his life could have found the courage to vent his displeasure then it was a sign the training was having some effect.

A man stumbled, fell, lay in the dust. He turned to face the sky, his cracked lips parting.

"Water I must have water!"

"On your feet!"

"A drink! I must-"

"Get up!" Stooping Dumarest lifted the man by brute force. "You aren't thirsty," he snapped. "You haven't been out long enough for that. Now suck a pebble or something and stop thinking about water. Just concentrate on putting one foot before the other. March!" His tone became ugly. "March, damn you, or I'll cut your throat!"

One glance at the harsh set of the features and the man hurried to catch up with the rest, thirst and weariness forgotten. As he moved forward Dumarest looked at the sky. The suns were past the zenith, edging close but, he hoped, not too close for delusia. He had enough problems without having the group of men complain to their dead relatives and friends and, perhaps, being given destructive advice.

He halted the column at the summit of a knoll and checked for landmarks and guides.

"Listen." He looked at the ring of attentive faces. "Pay attention. You're all hungry and thirsty and tired and you'd like a chance to rest and take things easy. Right?"

He waited for the murmur of agreement to fade.

"If you were ordinary men you could do that but you are soldiers. Soon you'll have to fight and your lives will depend on your ability to learn. What I want you to realize is that you can go on far longer than you think is possible. You can last without food and water and rest and move faster than you know. We're going to prove it. You!" His finger scanned. "How much further can you walk?"

"A few miles, sir. Maybe three."

"You?"

"Five at least." The man scowled at the murmurs of protest. "I'm not soft like the rest of you. I worked on the land."

And so was relatively tough as those who tended the herd were the toughest of them all, but those men couldn't be spared.

"On your feet!" Dumarest waited then, pointing, said. "Over there lies food and water and huts with beds in which to sleep. Normally it would take a man seven hours of hard walking to cover the distance. It will be dark in six. So, on the double, move!"

The lamp was a glass container filled with oil, an adjustable wick, a chimney of tinted crystal. Kars Gartok lit it, adjusted the flame and set it on the table. Bowls of food stood on the board together with flagons of brackish water and thin wine.

"Three," he said. "You pushed them hard, Earl."

Dumarest leaned back in his chair, lines of fatigue tracing their paths over his face. "Dead?"

"No. Just exhausted, but if we hadn't sent out for them they'd be where they had fallen." He looked at the shuttered windows. "Out on the desert in the dark. They were crying when we found them, sick with fear of the Sungari." Pausing he added, "Would they have died?"

"Yes."

"Of fear or-"

"Not of fear." The wine was tart, refreshing to the heart and Dumarest took some, holding it in his mouth before swallowing. "How are you making out?"

"How would you expect? They handle a gun as if it were a brick? A few have learned how to load, cock and fire and, of those few, some even manage to hit the target. Those who were trained by Gydapen are better."

And were being used to instruct others but even they were short of the standard Dumarest hoped to achieve.

"You can't do it, Earl." Gartok helped himself to wine. "With the best will in the world you can't do it. It's been tried before. On Marat some farmers were being oppressed and formed themselves into a defensive unit. They got hold of weapons and elected a leader. They marched and drilled and learned how to use a gun and hit a target almost every time. They thought they were ready and made their defiance. Need I tell you what happened?"

"They failed?"

"It was a shambles." Gartok gulped at his wine. "They scattered when they should have held their ground, advanced when they should have retreated, fought when they should have waited and waited when they should have gone into action. No skill. No application. Nothing but raw courage and it wasn't enough."

"And?"

"These men you've found don't even have courage. They simply obey because they're used to taking orders. Roland thought that was all we needed. He didn't understand as we do that a good soldier obeys, true, but he uses his own intelligence when carrying out orders to achieve the maximum benefit from any situation. To listen to the Lord Acrae you'd think all a commander had to do was to swamp guns with targets. Amateurs!" He echoed his disgust. "Damned amateurs!"

"Like Tomir?" Dumarest rose as the mercenary stared at him. "Is he an amateur?"

Gartok frowned. "What do you mean, Earl? He's the son of a foremost dealer on Dyard."

"But not a trained and experienced mercenary. Not a seasoned commander. He's coming with armed men but what else? Flyers? Heavy equipment? Mobile detachments? Long-range artillery? Field-lasers? How much is Embris willing to spend? The boy will want a cheap victory in order to prove himself, right?"

"I guess so."

"Don't guess!" Dumarest was sharp. "You're a professional and I want a professional opinion. In Tomir's place what would you do?"

For a moment the mercenary remained silent then he said, slowly, "Heavy forces or light-which way will the cat jump? A wise man would use every man and weapon he's got and saturate the area. He'd crush all thought of opposition before it could even get started. But that would be expensive and so many men could create a problem later. Embris isn't noted for his extravagance and he has no way of knowing you intend to oppose him. I'd say Tomir will arrive with a small force and have reinforcements at hand waiting his call."

A calculated assessment and probably correct.

"And?"

"We could get him when he lands, Earl. Snipers set to open fire when he appears. A few shots and it will be over."

"You're not thinking, Kars. Kill him like that and his father will want revenge-and he wouldn't spare any expense to get it."

"True." Gartok helped himself to more wine, leaning forward so that the light of the lamp shone strongly on the seams and scars of his face giving him the momentary appearance of a gargoyle. "What then?"

"We wait for him to attack."

"That's crazy! Why give him the advantage?"

"We have no choice." From a cabinet Dumarest took a folded paper and opened it. The photographs he'd taken had been trimmed, matched, details enhanced and the whole copied to give an aerial view of the area around Belamosk together with that of other holdings. "He's coming to claim Gydapen's land. To attack him before he gets it will be to alienate the Council and to invite retaliation. We'll be giving him an excuse to commence a war. We can't hold both Belamosk and Prabang so Prabang has to go."

"You surrender it?"

"I have to. Now Belamosk will have the only armed force on Zakym aside from Tomir's men. He'll have to attack us first before he can hope to expand. If he doesn't and reaches for other holdings then the Council will appeal to us for help. Either way we shall have right on our side."

"Right?" Gartok was cynical. "That, my friend, belongs to the side with the biggest battalions."

"And the largest rewards to those with the smallest." Dumarest cleared the table with a sweep of his arm and spread out the map. "Assuming Tomir will attack from the direction of Prabang he will raft his men in to this area. Agreed?"

Gartok studied the terrain. "Flat ground and a wide field of view. Close enough to avoid excessive fatigue yet far enough to be safely out of range. A natural choice, Earl. So?"

"If he does then the column must move along this defile and through this pass. We can set up defensive points here and here." Dumarest's finger tapped at spots, on the map. "But if their commander is wise he will be expecting an ambush and divert his attack to pass along here. It's the next best route."

"If he follows the book, Earl, yes. It's the classic pattern."

"So we set our men here and here and catch the column in a crossfire. They'll be cut to pieces before they know what's hit them."

"Maybe." Gartok was doubtful. "I've seen these map-strategies fail before. It's a mistake to rely on them. If Tomir follows the book your plan could work but what makes you think he will?"

"Pride." Dumarest straightened from where he leaned over the map. "He is young and eager to prove himself. He's an amateur but he won't let that stop him. He'll want all the credit and all the glory but, above all, he'll want a quick victory. That's a combination guaranteed to breed mistakes. He'll forget something or overlook something and, when he does, we'll have him."

"So we move to Belamosk?"

"Yes."

"And wait?"

"And wait." Dumarest folded the map. "And get ready to welcome Tomir."

He came in a dozen rafts adorned with bright pennants each vehicle filled with armed and armored men. Dumarest watched them from his place on the summit of a hill, seeing the helmets, the body-armor, the glint of weapons. A show of force designed to intimidate and a little exaggeration to enhance the display. The rafts were not filled to capacity-half the number would have served to move the men, but against the bowl of the sky they looked menacing; shapes of destruction coming to deal death.

A courtesy visit, so Tomir had claimed, but Dumarest knew better. Now, lowering his binoculars, he called to the mounted man standing at the foot of the slope.

"Ride to the summit of knoll 8 and raise the blue standard."

A pre-arranged signal which would keep half his forces hidden, expose a third of the remainder as a diversion and warn Gartok not to hesitate when the rafts came close enough to ensure direct hits.

Turning he studied the castle. The walls were deserted and the great doors closed. Rafts could drop into the courtyard but, if they did, a storm of fire would bathe the area. Tilting his head he looked at the sky. The suns were wide apart and long hours remained of the day. As yet Tomir had planned well.

"Earl?" Gartok was below astride a sweating animal. "I've spotted movement to the east. Ground troops, I think, keeping under cover. The rafts could be a diversion to get us to expose our positions."

A possibility Dumarest had considered. "How far distant are they?"

"A mile or two."

The rafts were closer but moving slowly and keeping high. An aerial reconnaissance? Any good commander would have ordered one but, if the men remained under cover, it would do him little good. The area around the castle was broken stone and arid soil and could hide a small army.

"We could go out and meet them," suggested Gartok. "Exchange shots and keep low. It would make them reveal their intention."

"No." Dumarest made his decision. "That's what they want. If they can draw us out they'll learn our numbers and state of our men. As it is they have to guess. Well keep them guessing. Hold your positions and stay out of sight. Let them come to us. Guerrilla war-you know what to do."

"Hit and run." The mercenary was sour. "Stab in the back. Kill stragglers and those who aren't looking. A hell of a way to fight a war."

"We aren't fighting a war," said Dumarest. "We're trying to stay alive. Now get moving."

Dumarest descended from the summit of the hill as Gartok rode away. Men out riding were to be expected on land used for the breeding of mounts and any watching would see nothing of potential danger. Looking up he saw the rafts had drifted lower. A good sign; if they had been suspicions the vehicles would have been lifted high or landed fast. But the movement could be a diversion to hold the attention from the men Gartok had spotted. And, if he'd seen them, there could be others he had missed.

A classic strategy straight from the book. Divert, decoy, distract-then destroy.

How to break the pattern?

Dumarest looked around, saw a slope of rock facing the direction from which the rafts had come, jagged stone which edged the crest, boulders resting precariously to either side.

Hefting his rifle he moved into the cover.

It was a sporting weapon, the stock decorated in an ornate design, the universal sight showing a ruby dot to mark the impact point of the bullet. The magazine held a score of them each capable of blasting a hole through a brick wall at a thousand yards. The rifle could place all twenty in a half-inch circle at twice that distance.

Dumarest aimed at the leading raft.

It was slightly tilted, the men gathered to one side and leaning over the edge, one pointing at something he had seen below. The hand was replaced by the barrel of a gun, a beam of ruby light guiding the laser blast which followed. From somewhere to one side a man screamed.

Dumarest fired.

The man who held the laser reared, turning, dropping the weapon as he clutched at his upper arm. The visor of his helmet was raised, his face visible, crumpling as a second bullet smashed into the forehead between the eyes.

As he fell Dumarest fired again and again, sending a stream of bullets against the raft. The body-armor the men wore was protection against slow-moving missiles and the reflected beams of lasers but not against the high-velocity ammunition he was using. A direct hit would penetrate and kill.

The raft spun, tilted, turned and sent men falling like tattered leaves to the broken ground beneath.

As Dumarest reloaded, return fire sent chips of stone humming like broken razors through the air.

"Fire!" He heard Gartok's roar. "From cover, at the rafts, aim steady and squeeze slow. Get those bastards! Get them!"

Weeks of training now put to the test. If the men broke and tried to run from the return fire they would be mowed down. If they fired wildly all they would do would be to waste ammunition. If they froze they were useless.

"Steady!" Again the mercenary's voice rose above the sound of firing. "Steady, damn you! Aim before you fire! Aim!"

A raft jerked upwards and a man shrieked as he fell, blood showering from his riddled legs. Another, leaning far over the side, slumped as Dumarest sent a bullet into his throat, the laser he was about to use spinning to shatter on a rock. Shifting aim Dumarest fired at the rafts further back, aiming at the engines and hoping to bring them down. One suddenly dropped, leveled, fell again with smoke rising from inside. The others climbed high into the sky.

"Cease fire!" Gartok yelled. "Stay under cover. Check your loads. Any wounded?"

He turned, grinning as Dumarest joined him. Standing in the open he appeared to be alone then Dumarest saw the men lying beneath slabs of stone, huddled in cracks, curled beneath boulders. The air held the stench of burned explosives.

"They held, Earl!" The mercenary gestured around. "They held and they returned the fire!"

"How many hurt?"

"Three dead." Gartok shrugged at Dumarest's expression. "Well, it happens. Twelve with minor injuries, cuts and singes. Four seriously wounded-one the man who started it all."

He lay in a crumpled heap to one side, a young man with wide eyes and hair through which some girl had loved to run her fingers. The laser had caught his arm and stomach, severing the limb and leaving a charred stump, slicing into the abdomen to leave a wound which oozed blood and twisted intestines.

A man already dead but who stubbornly refused to let go.

"He ran," whispered Gartok. "God knows why. He suddenly upped and ran and that bastard in the raft let him have it. Not even a clean kill either. I'm glad you got him, Earl."

Revenge, but what did it matter to the dying man? Dumarest saw his eyes, their movement, the tip of the tongue which touched the lips.

"Get some water."

"For him? With that gut-wound?"

"He's dying, what difference does it make?" Dumarest knelt with the canteen in his hand. Gently he moistened the parched lips, feeling the febrile heat of the cheek, the burning fever which consumed the young man. "Sip a little," he urged. "Easy now. Easy."

"Did we win?"

"We won." A lie, but what did it matter? Frowning Dumarest added, "I know you. Bran Welco, isn't it?"

"Bran Welos, sir. I'm glad you remember me. I was on that march when you almost ran us into the ground. I didn't think I'd make it, but I did." The stump of the charred arm lifted a little as if he wanted to put out his hand. "Why did that man burn me?"

"You ran. Why?"

"I saw my grandfather. He smiled and beckoned to me."

Delusia? Dumarest glanced at the sky and saw the suns still well separated. Imagination? Shadows in the rocks could adopt odd shapes to a worried mind. The old man must have meant something special to the youth or his need had been great.

"He wanted to talk," whispered Welos. "I knew it. I could see him but I couldn't hear him. I thought if I could get closer I'd make out what he was saying. He-" Pain contorted the features. "He-God, it hurts! It hurts!"

"Kill him," whispered Gartok. "Pass him out easy."

Rough mercy and the only thing to do. Dumarest reached out and rested his hand on the flaccid throat, his fingers finding the carotids, pressing them, cutting off the blood supply to the brain, bringing blessed unconsciousness and death.

Rising he said, "Let's get on with the war."