Shining Steel

Chapter Thirteen

“Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest."-Joshua 1:9

The Heaveners had, in a way, been very obliging in settling in the high hills; John and his men had no trouble finding places to hide amid the rocks and valleys surrounding the Citadel. Had the city stood on an open plain, or gently rolling countryside like that around New Nazareth, they would have had to find concealment within the walls, and confined themselves to sabotage and assassination instead of raiding.

John's company was a good-sized one. Eighty-five of the Chosen had volunteered, including three officers, and every one brought a rifle and five rounds; John guessed that that must have virtually emptied the Anointed's arsenal. As soon as he and the Chosen had their home camp set up and a basic organization established, John headed for the nearest town, intent on more recruiting; he did not like being one of only two non-Chosen in his own army.

He quickly discovered that the handful of survivors of his own destroyed True Worder army were still scattered about the Citadel and a few of the surrounding towns; the Heaveners had simply turned them loose when they were sufficiently recovered, just as they had with John himself. He had assumed previously that, as commander, he was given special treatment, but such was not the case. Of these men, fourteen were successfully recruited; the other survivors either refused to join or were never found. John considered this a disappointingly small response; he had hoped for greater loyalty from his own men.

As word of their presence spread, though, a handful of other recruits turned up. Eight volunteers drifted in from True Worder lands, three of them soldiers in Habakkuk's army who felt guilty about turning back before the massacre, the other five civilians who had disagreed with the decision to surrender and join the protectorate, army or no army. Four other men and two women also wandered in from various places.

John was surprised that Miriam never came looking for him, to wait for a chance to watch him die, but there was no sign of her.

With over a hundred men John felt ready to begin his campaign. He had hoped for more, perhaps enough to split into several bands, but he would take what he had and use it as best he could.

The Anointed had provided tents, but John had refused to set up such ideal targets, and had used the oilcloth to roof over a washed-out gully instead, scattering dirt and various red plants across the top for camouflage. The result was a cool, dim interior, long and narrow, with steep sides and a rough, slanting, uneven floor. John made his headquarters at the upper end; below that was the kitchen area, and the remainder was divided up between sleeping areas wherever the ground was relatively flat and dry, and open commons wherever it was not. One walled-off corner of the lower end served as a latrine, the other as a stable.

It was rather pleasant throughout most of September, but late in the afternoon of the final day of the month, the twenty-third, as John sat cross-legged on a rock planning the last few details of the opening raid on the Corporate Headquarters building, scheduled for that night, the fall rains arrived, drumming heavily on the fabric roof and dripping down through the seams.

Men who had been outside for one reason or another came rushing in, hands on their heads; of the dozen who had been gathering fungus for the kitchen supplies only one kept hold of his load, the rest dropping the pasty red lumps wherever they were, so as to run better. The clouds had been building for days, but had not been expected to break quite yet.

The trickle of water down the center of the gully widened perceptibly as John watched. He sighed and put down his pen and parchment. The rain would be good cover for the raid, but he was sure the men wouldn't see it that way. They would only notice that they were cold and wet.

“All right,” he called over the general hubbub, “those men going on tonight's raid, let's get moving; this weather is going to slow us down. If we want to get there and get back before dawn we'd better get started."

“But Captain,” someone called, “we can't go in the rain!"

“Why not?” John demanded.

“Won't it ruin the guns?"

“Not if you're careful. Come on, then.” He clapped his own helmet on his head, slid the waxed-wool rust-protector over it, then picked up his bundled supplies; his new sword, bought a week before in the protectorate village of Christ's Corner, was already on his belt, and his heavy leather jacket on his back. He had no rifle; he had never liked them.

Reluctantly, the others he had selected gathered about him: eight of the Chosen, two of his loyal True Worder soldiers, and a blacksmith from Truechurch who had resented the Heaveners’ trade in plastic. All ten soldiers carried rifles, with two rounds in each; the smith carried an assortment of explosives and a good sword, but like John himself, no firearms.

A few months earlier John would have considered twenty bullets an incredible extravagance for a single raid, but since the Heaveners had turned up with their apparently infinite supply of powder-if it was actually gunpowder they used, and not something else, as John had heard suggested-bullets were suddenly more plentiful, and had the advantage of being useful at long range. Guerillas could not afford to get in close enough to a fortress to use blades.

Besides, the Chosen were supplying the ammunition; it cost John nothing, and the Chosen officers had assured him more would be forthcoming if he needed it.

He had no grandiose ambitions for this initial raid; it was simply to get the men doing something, rather than sitting around letting the weather deteriorate. A raid would stir things up, would encourage the men, and might even attract more recruits. John had a dozen of his most reliable and intelligent men scattered about the local markets and taverns, looking for likely candidates as well as trying to pick up useful information about Heavener activities or organization.

The men he had chosen for the raid were his second-best dozen; he looked them over as he spoke a brief invocation, carefully kept non-denominational out of respect for the doctrinal differences between True Worder, Chosen, and Truechurcher. They seemed sound enough, reassuring him of his earlier selection. He did not care to increase the risk of failure by using men who might panic and freeze or flee, and he was confident these men would not. Although they grumbled, when he announced, “In the Name of the Lord, amen!", they echoed him promptly and followed him readily enough as he led the way out into the driving rain and up the hillside toward the Citadel.

Visibility was poor; the sun was still above the horizon when John broke out the rolls of string he had brought to link the men together and prevent them from getting lost in the dark. As long as each was tied to his string, the twelve of them would stay together; if any of them got lost, they all would. He had originally chosen string because a lantern would have been too easy for the Heaveners to spot, but he blessed his choice now because he doubted a lantern would have been enough in the downpour.

They struggled on, some of them complaining loudly, the others persevering in silence that could be either determination or simply resignation, and an hour or so after sunset they spotted the lights of the Citadel ahead of them.

They were approaching from the rear, with the intention of doing what damage they could to the fortress without involving any native Godsworlders. This side was not guarded, so far as anyone knew; the cliff below the fortress was presumably thought to be guardian enough. That was a major reason John had chosen it, instead of the “airport", for the first attack.

The cliff, however, was not really that bad at all; he had investigated it himself a few days earlier. It was steep, true, far too steep for horses or vehicles, but by no means sheer, with plenty of handholds and ledges, not a very difficult climb for a healthy man.

Of course, John had not climbed it in the dark, in pouring rain. His companions balked at first when they reached its base.

“Come on!” he said. “It's easy!” He snatched a rifle from its owner. “I'll show you myself!” He began marching up the slope, using one hand to steady himself, the rifle clutched in the other.

When he was twenty feet up he heard the scrape of boots on stone and knew that his men were following him. He kept moving, and only when he was almost halfway up the hundred and fifty foot climb did he glance back to be sure they were all there.

They were. “Safe-in-God's-Hands, come get your rifle,” he called.

The Chosen soldier scurried up to where John was waiting and accepted the return of his weapon. The rest of the climb was made in silence.

The slope levelled off as they climbed, and they soon found themselves standing on a gently-rising hilltop below the fortress wall.

The fortress loomed above them, its windows glowing golden through the gloom; the lowest were a few feet above John's head.

“All right, Safe,” he said. “Let's see what you can do with that gun of yours.” He gestured at the windows.

Silas Safe-in-God's-Hands lifted his rifle, selected his target-they had hoped to find a Heavener to snipe at, but he saw no sign of anyone in the windows-took careful aim, and fired.

Instead of the sound of breaking glass, however, his shot was followed by the whine of a ricochet. Embarrassed, he lowered his weapon. “I must've missed, sir,” he called. “But I don't see how. Must've been the rain."

John had been watching the window, and thought he had seen it shiver as if something had hit it. “You were close, anyway. Here, move right up next to one and try again."

The range had already been short, but Silas obediently took a few steps forward and aimed at one of the lowest tier. He was so close that he was thrusting the rifle up more than forward. It was absolutely not possible for him to miss at this distance; he squeezed the trigger.

Again, the bullet whimpered away as a ricochet, and the window remained intact. John stared up at it for a moment, then stepped up as close as he could and studied it intently.

There was a narrow scratch on the glass, dead center. He motioned for the men to move in.

“Here,” he said, “someone lift me up and let me take a look at this."

Two men crossed arms to form a seat, and John was lifted up until his eyes were level with the bottom of the window. The scratch was definitely there. Peering in, he could see that the room was full of machinery quietly whirring about its business; he saw no sign of any human inhabitants.

He reached up and tapped the pane with one finger, then closed his fist and rapped on it with his knuckles.

“Darn!” he said. “It's not glass!"

“What is it, then?” someone called.

“I don't know-but whatever it is, it's bulletproof. Let me down."

He was lowered to the ground, where he stood staring resentfully up at the warm glow of the window.

“What do we do now?” someone whispered.

“Well,” John said, “maybe we can't shoot out the windows the way we planned, or pick anyone off, but we've still got ourselves enough explosives to blow a hole in their wall, I'd say.” He looked around for the Truechurcher blacksmith.

The smith's name was Thomas Across-the-Jordan. “Jordan,” John called, “let's see what you can do with that stuff."

“All right, Captain, but I'm not too sure about the fuses in this rain."

“Do your best."

The smith set to work. While he unpacked his knapsack, John announced, “If any of you have any ideas or suggestions, I'd be glad to hear them; I was figuring half of us would be inside by now, not still out here in the rain."

After a moment of uneasy silence, someone suggested, “We could work our way around the walls and go in the front, couldn't we?"

“We'd have to go over the old town wall,” someone else answered.

“We could head out to the airship port,” a third voice said.

“Could we?” John asked. He turned to look at the building's corner and consider the possibilities.

“Sure! If we stay right under the walls, no one will see us coming; we can slip right in and wreck the place, maybe cut the Citadel off."

John nodded. “I wasn't planning to do that tonight,” he said, “and I'm not sure we can get past the guards without a fight, but it's as good an idea as we're going to get. Soon as Tom here blows out that wall, we'll make a run for it; the mess here should keep the Heaveners too busy to stop us.” He glanced back at Across-the-Jordan, then at the corner. “In fact, why wait? Tom, you can handle this by yourself, can't you?"

Across-the-Jordan looked up. “I reckon I can, Captain,” he said.

“Well, I'll leave two men here just in case you need them, and the rest of us will head for the airport. Silas, you've used up your bullets; you stay here and help out if you can. Simon,” he said, indicating another man, “you stay here as their lookout. Soon as that wall blows, the three of you come along after us; we shouldn't be too hard to find."

The three men selected all nodded acknowledgement, and John led the others around the corner and onward toward the airport.

They had just reached the juncture of the Corporate Headquarters and the old town wall when the explosion roared out behind them.

“Sooner than I expected,” someone remarked.

John said nothing, but he was suddenly worried. The explosion had, indeed, come sooner than expected, much sooner; he hoped nothing had gone wrong. He heard nothing after the initial blast, no sound of settling rubble; that was bad.

Then the sky lit up, greenish-gold, turning the rain into a shower of glowing sparks. John looked up.

The light was coming from an airship hovering over the headquarters building; it was roughly triangular, barbed and evil-looking, and a dozen sections around its edges were ablaze with light. John estimated it to be thirty or forty feet long.

“What's that?” one of his men hissed. John shushed him. “I think we better get out of here,” he said.

“Back the way we came?"

“No,” John said, looking appraisingly about him. “That's where the airship will be looking for us. Down the slope right here and head for home."

“What about Silas? And Simon and that Jordan?"

“Hope for the best,” John said. “I think the explosion got them; it came too soon. We can't afford to wait and see if I'm wrong.” He headed straight out away from the town wall, moving at a fast walk, half-crouched.

“Hey!” An unfamiliar voice shouted; John glanced back and saw someone standing on the wall, holding a gun.

“Run!” he called, suiting his own actions to his command.

Five of the others obeyed; one had frozen, one was running back toward the site of the explosion instead, and the last raised his rifle.

The man on the wall fired first, with the rattle of a machine gun; the man with the raised rifle fell.

A guerrilla commander could not leave wounded on the battlefield; John knew that. “Get that sentry!” he called, as he turned and ran back for the injured man.

Three men raised their rifles; two of them fired, the third went down in a spray of bullets. Another went down after squeezing off a shot; the third fired his second shot, then turned and ran for cover.

Someone had scored; the man on the wall also fell, and did not reappear. John thanked God for that small favor as he scooped up the man who had been first to fall.

He was unconscious, with red oozing from his scalp and running from his side. John dragged him down toward the cliff.

Beside him, the man who had managed to fire both bullets was on his feet again, struggling to lift another wounded man. The man who had frozen by the wall joined them; the other two men had already fled out of sight.

“Head for home!” John called. He lifted his burden up across his shoulders and broke into a stumbling run.

The other two unhurt guerrillas followed him closely, each with a wounded man. One was able to hobble along with minimal support; the other was dragged like a sack. John hung back and looked at the dragged man; he did not like what he saw. When they were out of sight of the wall, all panting heavily, John checked the man out.

As he had feared, the man was dead, had probably been dead when he first hit the ground, with half a dozen bullet holes in a line across his chest. The man John had carried was still breathing, though badly injured; the other had taken a bullet through the meaty part of the thigh, but was otherwise unhurt, and could hobble along, using his rifle for a cane as needed.

Leaving the corpse, they struggled onward, down the slope and heading for home, alone in the darkness and rain.

Somehow they made it eventually, all five of them, reaching the roofed-over gully late in the afternoon. The man John had carried remained unconscious for the entire journey, and the three uninjured men took turns carrying him.

The two who had disappeared into the night, ignoring John's order to turn and shoot, never turned up; John never saw either of them again, nor any of the four who had been at the back of the building. That made one dead, two wounded, six missing, out of a party of twelve men; John guessed that of the six, three were killed by the explosion, one captured, and two deserted.

It was a very bad beginning, but in the following month the situation only got worse.