Dark Foundations (77 page)

As he watched the brilliance of the midmorning light fade away, Merral felt certain that it was not just light, but hope, that faded. They had lost. How could they have ever hoped to win? An iron despair settled over his mind. It was barely midmorning and the sky was cloudless, yet the light was so drained that it might have been late in the evening.

Suddenly, a phrase Jorgio had said earlier came to mind:
Remember, Mr. Merral, you won't be alone.
“Lord,” he prayed, “unless you defend us, all is lost.”

Vero's voice spoke in his ear. “W-we have big trouble. Morale is slipping. There are soldiers on the front who want to run away. Zak is threatening to kill anyone who deserts. What are—?”

“Look!” said Lloyd, gesturing behind them.

High in the eastern sky a small, sparkling point of light moved.
A star!
But Merral's opinion changed as the speed of the object registered.

“Vero, this may sound silly, but have we launched a missile?”

“We have no missiles,” Vero replied. “But I see what you are seeing.” There was awe in his voice.

The gleaming star raced overhead and struck the hole in the sky.

The disk of emptiness buckled and deflated like a punctured balloon. It became a dark smear of cloud that writhed as if trying to wrap itself around the star. The star seemed to escape being encircled, moved back, and suddenly looped round the disk as it tried to reestablish itself.

There were sounds now: an immense crackling noise that played around the rocks and great reverberating claps that shook the ground. The star struck the cloud again and this time, gleams of dazzling light played around the disk.

A battle.
A tingling sensation ran over him.
An awesome, titanic battle between the powers.

The disk warped again as if it were being punched and suddenly turned into a streak of dark cloud. The star became a gleaming coil of light that wrapped itself around the gloomy cloud as if the two elements were in some atmospheric wrestling match.

In an instant, it was over. The darker strand slipped free and, trailing a gray line of vapor, fled northward. The shining point of light pursued it and in a second both were lost from sight over the mountains.

The sunlight returned, and with it hope.

“Do you think that was what I think it was?” There was relief and wonder in Vero's voice.

“That the envoy reminded the baziliarch that he doesn't have freedom to do what he wants?”

“Yes. But I feel the baziliarch was not destroyed. I guess he'll be back, but not today.”

Merral looked to the road where the Krallen forces still advanced. “Just as well. We still have an ugly situation.”

Colonel Lanier, Merral, and Lloyd moved down the track toward the upper level of the defenses.

Down in the gorge the heat was even worse. Merral felt sweat trickling down under his armor.

As they approached the first line of soldiers, Merral saw that they were placing sunshades over the long-barreled, tripod-mounted sniper rifles.

A petite woman with short blonde hair and an armored jacket that seemed too long for her came to meet them and saluted. “Captain Karita Hatiran,” she said, smiling at Merral. “Welcome, Commander. The Central Regiment sniper team is ready for action.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Merral replied, seeing the pairs of women in their shallow depressions adjusting weapons, aligning mats, and peering through sights.
Just like the drills,
only this time, it's real
.

“If we had more time, I'd like to look around. Any problems?”

“Not really, sir. There's no wind, which eases targeting. It's a bit hot; we're trying to keep the barrels cool.” She paused and stared into the hazy distance. “Just a lot of unknowns,” she said, giving him a glance that exposed deep apprehension.

“The unknowns trouble me too, Captain. But they're going to be a lot less unknown soon. Very soon.”

Merral glanced at the sword she wore, which also looked too big for her.

Evidently catching his gaze, she fingered the hilt. “I really hope we don't need this,” she said.

Merral nodded.
If the Krallen get this far through our lines, we are in trouble.

“Any specific instructions, sir?”

“Captain, only what has no doubt always been issued to snipers: make every shot count and keep a lookout for prize targets. But these flying beasts—slitherwings—I'd like to see them hit.” He paused. “And I hate to say it, but there are men with them who probably coordinate the fighting. They will probably be in these armored contraptions. If you get one in your sights, don't hesitate.”

A look of disquiet crossed Karita's face. “Okay. I guess it has to be done. I'll pass the order along.”

“Good.” It was time to move on. “Talk to you later, Captain.”

They saluted.

As he followed the colonel down the path, Merral wondered darkly whether he would indeed talk to the captain later.
How trite our words seem at such moments
:
“See you later
.
” “Take care.” What
should
I say?

A dozen meters below Karita's snipers, they came to the second line of the defenses, a wide strung-out line of men with mortars and XQ rifles.

Alerted that the front of the Dominion advance was now only two kilometers away, Merral and the colonel found a vantage point on a rocky spur from which they could see the entire gorge mouth and out onto the marsh. They stood gratefully in the shade of a lone Montezuma pine.

As the colonel called up units, confirming their location and readiness, Merral drank water and surveyed the scene. They were just twenty meters or so above the floor of the gorge. Just below lay the ditch and ramparts of the first line of defenses. The activity there was intense as soldiers adjusted armor, laid out spare ammunition, and checked weapons, including the axes and sledgehammers to finish off damaged Krallen.

Merral gazed at the south side of the gorge, wondering how preparations were going there. Overcoming a certain reluctance, he called Zak.

“Colonel Larraine here.”

“Zak—
Colonel
—everything in place there?”

“The south side is ready, Commander. We're just looking forward to carving up these Krallen.” Hearing the confident enthusiasm in his voice, Merral felt a pang of guilt over his own uncertainties and fears.

“What's morale like?”

“No problem. The soldiers here will hold firm. I think they are more afraid of me than the enemy.”

Merral considered saying something, but held his tongue. Zak seemed beyond changing. “Very well.”

“Have a good fight, sir.”

“And you.”

Merral scrutinized the defense preparations again. Behind him the reserves were lined up, squatting under the shelter of the rocks and trees. Below, to the rear of the defense earthworks in the gorge, the ambulances lined up along the road with their doors open. All was ready.

For a race that has had no military experience for over eleven millennia,
we appear to have returned to the business of war very quickly. Have we relearned old skills or did we never lose them?

Looking out beyond the trenches and the embankments toward the marsh, Merral could see the long line of Krallen shimmering in the heat at the foot of the looming crags. Above them the slitherwings performed their leisurely aerial patrols in the dusty air.

Merral's stomach squirmed.
At Carson's Sill, I had no time to think about fighting. At Fallambet, I hadn't really understood what it involved. Now, I have neither excuse.

Merral's apprehensive scrutiny of the scene was interrupted by Vero's urgent voice in his ear. “My friend, things are coming together. Anya's picked up a reorganization in the Krallen ranks. Around two thousand seem to be separating out and moving to the front. Betafor confirms this. She says she can hear around one hundred and fifty units getting ready. Azeras reckons they will attack with a small forward party, leaving the main body of Krallen and the equipment in reserve. A probing attack, he calls it.”

“So how long have we got?”

“Azeras reckons they will charge. From where they are, they will reach you in four or five minutes. They will hit fast. Hang on.” There was a pause. “Betafor estimates they will launch the attack in two minutes.”

Six minutes before we fight.
“Okay. Thanks. Let me handle it here.”

“We'll be watching. I'll restrict communications to what's absolutely necessary.” There was a moment's silence. “Keep safe, my friend.”

“I'll try.”

“Keep safe”—what did Perena say to that? “I'll try. But I have to do what's right. And in the end, that's safe.”
Merral sighed.

He slung his rifle off his back and turned to Colonel Lanier. “It seems we have only a few minutes. I'm going to say a few words to the men.”

The colonel nodded. “Please.”

Merral thumbed his microphone switch to universal. “Soldiers of the Assembly.” He paused to let the echo of his words die away among the rocks. “This is Commander Merral D'Avanos speaking to you from your lines. We believe that within five minutes there will be an attack on us by a substantial number of Krallen. Obey your training and your orders. Don't be afraid. Stand firm. Don't waste a shot. Strike hard and cut true. These monstrosities have come a long way to meet you. Let's make sure this is where their journey ends.” He paused again and raised his sword high. “For the Lamb!”

“For the Lamb!” The thunderous response echoed and reechoed among the rocks.

And as the echoes died away and the soldiers moved with frantic haste to their positions, Merral heard Betafor's cold flat voice in his ear. “Commander, the Krallen are attacking.”

For a few moments he didn't believe her until he saw fresh dust rising across the marsh and felt the growing vibration in the ground.

As the colonel issued a new flurry of orders, Merral knelt down and slid the safety catch off his XQ rifle. He turned to Lloyd, to check his readiness.

Lloyd had an XQ gun strapped to his back, two belts of ammunition draped over his shoulders, a sword at his belt, and was checking the breech of his big double-barreled shotgun.

Merral smiled. “Sergeant, you want to be careful you don't damage your back with all that.”

Lloyd winked. “Thanks for your concern. I'm hoping to retire soon, sir.”

“Good idea.”

The colonel's shouted order cut the oppressive air. “Mortars, ready! Hold fire until you're told.”

The seconds passed.

Soon they could see the Krallen pounding toward them. In a line twelve across, they ran faster than any horse could gallop with their feet barely touching the ground. At first, Merral thought they were going for the center of the gorge, but in a maneuver of breathtaking precision, the column unzipped, with alternate rows veering right and left to create a broad fan shape.

Suddenly, barely two hundred meters away, the Krallen began howling wildly.

A sound that will haunt me to my death—an event that might be quite near.

Just below him at the bottom of the gorge, Merral glimpsed a man, his face pale under his helmet, turn to run, think better of it, and return to his position.

“Fire!” Colonel Lanier shouted.

The ground shook with a pulsing wave of heavy thuds, and bare seconds later, the Krallen lines erupted in fountains of flame, smoke, and dirt.

A great ripple of deafening percussive blasts swept over Merral and bounced off the rocks.

“Mortars, fire!” the colonel shouted.

Even as the debris from the first explosion settled on the ground, there were new showers of debris and more ear-numbing blasts. The colonel shouted another order and, for a third time, a percussive clamor seemed to shake the world to its core.

The Krallen vanished under a drifting shroud of dust and smoke. Then, impossibly, they bounded through the smoke in ones and twos that, without any apparent effort, seemed to link up into threes, fours, sixes, and then twelves. Their lines reformed and plunged onward.

Above, the slitherwings glided through the smoke, their tails flicking behind them.

“Fire at will!” the colonel yelled.

In an instant, the world seemed filled with a new and appalling clamor of sound: the bass thud and blast of the mortars, the sharp cracking reports of the sniper rifles, the high whoosh of the XQ rounds, the hiss of cutter guns, the yells of the soldiers, and the continuous manic howling of the Krallen. As the furious sounds of war boomed and rolled around the gorge, Merral was aware of the smell of burning, the chemical tang of the rocket fumes, and the acrid odor of sweat and fear.

The gray line continued its charge. Like tremendous dogs they loped along with effortless speed, their four legs running round and over the bodies of their fallen comrades, their coordination so precise that none ever seemed to run into another.