Empire Of Man 3 - March to the Stars (39 page)

“Of course, if we can't take the pass after we get there . . .” Roger pointed out.

“Oh, thank you so very much for reminding me of that, Your Highness.”

* * *

“Good gods,” Honal said. “That's not a curtain wall—that's a bloody fortress.”

He and Rastar were perched on a ridgeline with a good view of the pass. The opening was narrow, not much more than a wide canyon with nearly vertical sides. A stone wall and gatehouse had been thrown across it, and a series of structures were under construction or complete along the nearer side of the wall. On the southeast side of the pass, a wooden palisade and keep were being converted to stone, and on the western side a bastion was being laid out. The keep had been tied into the curtain wall, and it was apparent that in the long run the Krath intended to fill the pass with fortifications.

“I'm not going to underestimate the humans,” Rastar said. “Maybe they can do this. Send a messenger. We're not going to take this place with cavalry.”

“We might as well get dug in and get some fires going,” Honal commented, looking at the angle of the sun. “It's going to be a long day.”

* * *

Roger reined in his civan and slid to the ground, handing the reins to one of the waiting Vashin. He started to turn away, but he caught Dogzard's warning growl just in time, and backhanded the civan as it tried—again—to take a chunk out of his arm.

“It's not time for dinner yet, you beast,” he said. “And you'd better be glad, or I'd shoot you and have you spitted.”

“They just have to know who the boss is, Your Highness,” Honal said with a gesture of humor.

“That's usually not a problem,” Roger said. “Where's your position? I take it you're not standing out in the open so they can all watch you checking out their little fort.”

“Up on the ridge,” Rastar said, gesturing over his shoulder. “We're pretty sure we've been spotted, but we're not making our presence, or numbers, known.”

“Have they sent out a patrol?” Roger asked as he started to climb the hill.

“Two of them,” Honal said with a grunt of laughter.

“And?”

“We captured both groups,” Rastar said. “We're holding them in a side valley. It looks like the garrison is composed almost entirely of lowland peasants, too. They certainly aren't mountain boys, anyway! They didn't even see our ambush until we'd sprung it, and they gave up almost immediately. The second patrol had ten in it, and we took it with only two Vashin.”

Roger chuckled as he topped out on the ridgeline and increased the magnification on his helmet visor.

“What's so funny?” Rastar asked.

“What you just said is the punchline to a very old human joke. It's in a lot of cultures, but the punchline is always the same: 'It's a trap! There were two of them!' ”

“I'd like to hear it sometime,” Honal said. “You humans have good jokes.”

“Yes, it's surprising how many points of congruence there are between humans and Mardukans,” Roger said. “More than between us and the Phaenurs, that's for sure! Those people are weird. Of course, humor is one of the qualities that has the hardest time translating across species lines. That's what I meant about points of congruence.”

“We laugh at the same stuff? That's a big thing?” Honal asked.

“Bigger than you can probably guess, yet,” Roger assured him as he peered out across the valley. Then he zoomed his helmet back and removed it so he could run his fingers through his hair.

“Not a problem,” he announced.

“Really?” Honal grunted a laugh. “If you think this isn't a problem, maybe we have fewer 'points of congruence' than you thought!”

“No, I'm serious,” Roger assured him with a grin.

“Oh, I don't doubt we can take it,” Honal said. “But we're going to lose a lot of people doing it.”

“No,” Roger said. “Or, rather, we probably would lose them if the garrison knew we were coming. Or where we're coming from.”

He regarded the fortress for a few more moments, then shook his head.

“Send a messenger back. Ask Captain Pahner to expedite getting a team from Julian's squad up the road. I've got a little project for them.”

* * *

Roger wiped his hands as Julian rode into the encampment. The sun was barely down, but the Vashin had already broken up into squads across the ridgeline, lighting fires against the mountain cold and settling in for the night. The cold-blooded Mardukans found it nearly impossible to move when the temperature dropped below what humans considered sweltering. The humans, on the other hand, including the small guard detachment with Roger, thought the nighttime temperatures were balmy.

“Cold enough for you, Julian?” Roger asked, as the Marine climbed off the civan. With the sunset, the temperatures had dropped to what could be considered a pleasantly warm fall day in Imperial City.

“Just great, Sir,” the sergeant said sourly. “Except for the saddle sores, that is. I can't believe you made us ride these things!”

“I suspect it's just going to get cooler,” Roger said, looking to the north. “And as for the saddle sores, I'm afraid I didn't have much choice. We're going to be on a tight timetable, and as the temperature drops, it's going to get even harder to move for the Mardukans.”

“On that, I've got a message for you,” the squad leader said uncomfortably. “Captain Pahner dropped half the carts and doubled up the turom on the rest. So they're moving better.”

“Good! Will they be here in time?”

“Probably, but they had some problems. They ran into something like a 'mountain atul.' Some of the turom panicked, and one of the carts ran back over . . . Despreaux.”

“What?!”

“She's fine! Just a broken arm,” Julian said, raising a hand as Roger shot to his feet and turned towards the picketed civan. “And the captain asked me to point out that you've got a job here.”

“Yes, but—” Roger began in a semi-frantic tone.

“And Despreaux said for me to tell you that if you come rushing back to see 'your poor hurt girlfriend' you'll have a broken arm, too.”

“Yes, but—”

“And you called me all the way up this frigging road on one of those ass-busting civan,” Julian finished. “So you can damned well tell me why, Sir.”

Roger thought about that for several moments, then drew a deep breath and turned back around.

“Ah, hell,” he sighed.

“Let's just get on with the job, Sir.” Julian patted him on the shoulder. “Life's a bitch, and then you die. Right?”

“Right.” Roger sighed again, then gestured into the darkness. “All right, then. I've got a job for you. And, I have to admit, not one that could wait while I went back to check on Nimashet. Take a look at the target.”

They walked to the crest of the ridge, and Julian jacked up his helmet's light-gathering and zoom.

“Big pocker,” he remarked, gazing at the wall. “Any idea on the garrison?”

“About two hundred,” Roger said calmly.

“Be a bitch to take by frontal assault, even against swords and arquebuses,” Julian observed. He looked up both flanking ridges, and grimaced. “Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?”

“You and Gronningen are our high-country experts,” Roger said, with a smile in his voice.

“Sure,” the sergeant grumped. He didn't mention that that position had previously been occupied by Dokkum. The native of the planet Nepal had been an expert at everything involving “elevation.” Unfortunately, “had been” was the operative term. He'd died just before Ran Tai.

“This isn't going to be a short movement,” the NCO went on after a moment. The carpeting Mardukan jungle had given way to a more open, deciduous forest, but even that stopped well short of the tops of the ridges. There was a faint track, a trail left by the local equivalent of goats, along the ridgeline, but getting to it would be difficult. The ridge was at least five hundred meters above their present position, and those meters were damned near vertical.

“We'll get the Vashin moving by just before dawn, one way or the other,” Roger said. “I need you in position by then.”

The Mardukan night was eighteen hours long, which would give the squad at least fifteen hours to effect the move. Julian thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded.

“Can do, Boss.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “I need to get less competent, or something.”

Roger chuckled and clapped him on the back.

“Just imagine the stories you'll be able to tell in the NCO club. You'll never have to buy a beer again.”

Julian looked back up at the trackless mountain and nodded.

“Now there's a motivator. Free beer. Free beer. I'll just keep repeating that.”

Macek spat over the edge of the ridge and shook his head.

“You look into the abyss, and the abyss looks back,” he muttered.

“Less philosophy, more climb,” Gronningen growled back from where he'd paused on a wide spot at the base of the second peak.

The squad was strung out along a knife-edged ridge, the top of the saddle between two mountains. The “flat” surface was no more than a meter wide, with sheer drops on both sides. And the assault team would have to cross a nearly vertical shoulder of the second peak to get into position above the citadel.

“There was a shelf,” Julian said, puffing slightly. The ridge was nearly five thousand meters above Mardukan sea level, which meant that even with the slightly thicker atmosphere, oxygen was in short supply. More than that, Julian had let Gronningen set the pace, knowing the indomitable Asgardian would push them to the limits . . . and he had. “About another hundred meters up and to the northwest,” the NCO added with another pant.

“I think I see it,” Gronningen agreed. He dialed up the zoom on his helmet and studied the terrain feature. “Narrow,” he opined, then removed his helmet and wiped at the sweat on his forehead. The night had gotten downright cool, and there was a strong wind blowing up from the valley, but the pace had everyone sweating as if they were still in Marduk's jungles. “Really narrow.”

“Best His Nibs could spot before sundown,” Julian replied, checking his toot for the time. “Four more hours until we need to be on the walls.”

“We can make that easily,” Gronningen said, replacing his helmet and picking up his pack. “If we keep going, that is.”

“Lead on, Mule,” Julian said. “Onward and upward.”

* * *

Julian leaned out from the narrow ledge and sent a laser sweep across the top of the fortress far below.

“Two thousand meters.”

“Right at The Book's outside drop limit,” Macek said with a dubious headshake. “Long way to fall.”

“It is that,” Julian agreed unhappily.

The ledge was, indeed, narrow—a thin shelf of slightly harder granite intruded into the surrounding matrix. Some latter-day earth movement had shifted and folded the mountain, thrusting the horizontal dike outwards, exposing it to erosion. Over time, the remnants had become a half-meter wide section of granite, suspended over a two thousand-meter drop.

“It's the only choice we have, though,” the squad leader added. “I want everyone to spread out. It looks like we're right over the inner battlements. Watch your distribution, and for God's sake, don't get entangled—this damned spider-wire'll slit you in half if you give it a chance.”

“Yeah, but it works,” Gronningen said as he surreptitiously attached a clip to the sergeant's descent harness. The combination of his voice and the night wind concealed the tiny sound it made as it clicked home . . . and then he pushed Julian off the cliff.

There wasn't a thing Julian could do—the blow to his back was too unexpected. He was thrown well out from the cliff, and found himself almost automatically shifting into a delta-track, a sky-diving position for maneuvering. His brain ran frantically through a list of ways to survive the drop, but nothing came to mind, nor could he understand why one of his best friends had just succeeded in killing him.

* * *

Macek spun in place, his bead rifle level, but Gronningen held up one hand with a screaming spider reel in it. It was obvious that the other end of the wire was attached to Julian.

“What the pock are you doing, Gron?” the corporal snarled. “You've got about two seconds to explain!”

“Just this,” Gronningen said, with a rare smile. He attached the reel to the wall with a mag-clamp and laid on the tension. “I mean, now we know it works, right?”

* * *

Julian gazed down at the battlements, a hundred meters below him. He'd been observing them fairly carefully for the last several minutes, since the spider-line had slowed him to a halt. There wasn't much else he could do; the line had him suspended almost head-down.

He heard a faint rattle of rock, and then Gronningen appeared next to him, fully inverted.

“Gronningen, what are you dicking around at?” Julian asked with deadly menace.

“ 'I love you, too, man,' ” the Asgardian quoted. “You remember in Voitan, I said 'You gonna pay'?”

“Oh, you son-of-a—”

“Ah-ah!” The Asgardian grinned. “I pull this clamp, and it's really gonna smart when you hit the top of that thing.”

“Oh, you son-of-a . . .” Julian stopped and sighed. “Okay. You got me. Jesus, did you get me. I promise, no more jokes. Just . . . don't do something like that again, okay?”

“You should have seen Geno,” Gronningen said with another grin, as he handed a fresh spider-spool across to the squad leader. “I think he nearly burst a blood vessel.”

“Well, I'm proof positive that you don't die of fright on the way down,” Julian said. “Jesus. This isn't a truce, though. I'm gonna get you. Just you wait.”

“I tingle with anticipation,” the Asgardian told him with a chuckle. “You got a good grip on that reel?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Good,” Gronningen said, and flicked off the clamp that was holding the sergeant suspended.

Julian tried not to scream as he dropped into empty air again.

* * *

Macek looked around the top of the battlements with an expression of disbelief. Except for the eternal sighing of the wind, there wasn't a sound to be heard, and there was no one in sight.

“Okay, I'll bite,” he whispered. “Where's the guards?”