Satan's Gambit (The Barrier War Book 3) (25 page)

“I want a
demonstration,” Garnet said.

“When?”

“Got anything
important to do right now?”

Marc snorted.
“Apparently not.”

“In the middle
of the night?” Flasch protested.

“It’s not even
your platoon,” Michael retorted.

“Oh,” Flasch
said with a relieved smile, “by all means then. Take all the time you need.”

“You’re up
tomorrow night,” Garnet said with a straight face, “and however long it takes
Yellow and Orange to get it down, I want Violet and Green working just as long
tomorrow.”

Flasch glanced
in alarm at Marc. “Make it snappy, would you?”

Kala watched the
interchange with a perplexed expression. None of the books she had read
indicated that such a freestyle, laid-back manner of leadership would have any
notable success, which didn’t seem to add up against what she had just
witnessed and the towering reputation Brican had related to her. Had the
denarae been inflating their prestige and accomplishments to impress her? She
didn’t think so.

She resolved to
watch and see how it played out.

The two denarae
units in question formed up and disappeared into the night. Their dark armor
and dark skin blended with the inky blackness, and she barely heard a sound as
they suddenly vanished. She followed unasked and unnoticed behind the officer
corps, and only Brican gave her any sign that he’d noticed her presence. He
motioned for her to follow, as if she hadn’t already been in the process of
doing so.

“Ah, yes, but
now you have an official offer from an officer to accompany us,”
Brican
kythed in response to her unvoiced comment.
“So if Garnet asks, I won’t have
to lie to cover for you.”

When they caught
up with the two platoons, they had already assumed battle formations consistent
with diagrams and exposition in the books Kala had read. Or nearly so. The
archers with Marc were in an odd configuration, too close together and
clustered. She was about to comment on this, but instead kept her tongue in
check and watched to see the results.

At some unseen
signal, the front platoon led by Michael started forward at a trot, weapons
drawn and held like they were actually approaching an enemy. The only
opposition Kala saw was a line of trees marking the edge of a forest, but they
might as well have been facing a wall of slavering demons for the intensity
they displayed. The archers in the rear platoon nocked their arrows and held
them ready, but did not draw back on their bowstrings.

Again, some
silent command was passed – and finally Kala realized it was all being done
through denarae kything – and the arrows were readied and aimed carefully. Then
suddenly they released, and fifty arrows sped toward the backs of the denarae
marching forward. They were only a scant thirty or forty yards ahead – already
starting to vanish once more into the darkness – and it took only a second for
the arrows to cross that distance. A heartbeat after the arrows were released,
however, the forward platoon of denarae abruptly crouched to the ground, and at
first Kala was horrified to think that they had all been struck down from
behind in a tragic accident. But they were only on the ground for an instant,
then they were immediately back on their feet and already moving forward. The
arrows had all passed by overhead, and not a single man had been hit. It was a
perfectly coordinated and synchronized tactic, and Kala could only admire the
audacity and split-second timing it must take.

“You should see
some of the bruises we acquired trying to get this right,” Garnet said, turning
to Kala as though he’d expected her to be there all along. “Fortunately, most
of our paladins have some knowledge and skill at healing, so there were no
serious injuries.”

“Who thought of
this tactic? It’s brilliant,” Kala said.

“And impossible
for any other unit to do,” Garnet said with a touch of pride in his voice,
“even though it only works at close range, since anything longer would require
the archers to fire over their heads anyway. It was an idea Gerard and I tossed
about before I assumed command of the company. We didn’t have the time or
resources to test it out until recently, though. By the time we reach the
Binding, we should be able to test out new applications, and I can start having
some fun with it.”

Kala smiled with
him.

“Have you ever
used
Hanzri’s
[17]
collapsing defense?” Kala asked.

“Saved our lives
during the Barrier War,” Garnet replied.

“If you leave
one or two units within the semi-circle, perhaps they could lay down a rotating
line of fire,” Kala said, picturing the maneuver in her mind, “so the inner
group fires past one platoon at a time, let’s say, then shifts to fire over the
next platoon.”

Garnet frowned a
moment in thought, then grinned at her. His teeth gleamed in the dim light of
the night.

“It’s got
potential,” Garnet said. “We’ll have to try that with randomized alternation of
platoons. A smart opponent might notice a sequential pattern and exploit it.”

Kala grinned
back at him and found her cheeks warming. She was glad the night hid the flush
on her face.

“We have a
guest,” Brican murmured aloud, coming to her rescue and pointedly looking past
Garnet’s shoulder. They turned and Kala saw an athletic older man wearing dark
clothing walking toward them.

“Danner’s
father, Hoil,”
Brican told her.

Hoil nodded
politely to the men from Shadow Company, but his attention was focused intently
on his son. Danner looked at his father with cautious curiosity as he walked
forward to meet him.

“I thought I’d
find you here,” Hoil said. “That squad leader of yours, Caret, said you’d
returned.”

“We were just
testing out some new tactics,” Danner said. “What’s up, dad?”

“I think you’d
better go have a talk with Alicia,” Hoil said, “and right now.”

“What’s wrong?”
Danner asked in concern.

“With her?
Nothing out of the ordinary really, and my grandson’s doing fine, too,” Hoil
said, “she just really needs to see you now.”

“Well what is it
ab…” Danner abruptly stopped and stared at his father in shock. “Grandson?” he
whispered.

“Alicia’s
pregnant, boy,” Hoil said. “Congratulations, son. You’re going to be a father.”

Wisdom cannot be given. It must be earned.

- Elven Proverb

- 1 -

Within seconds,
the whole Shadow Company camp had been informed of Danner’s unexpected news,
and as he disappeared in search of his gravid girlfriend, denarae slapped him
on the back and congratulated him heartily. Brican watched his friend go and
smiled, but he also felt his heart sink.

Now Danner would
know the same clawing fear that plagued Brican’s deepest thoughts. Brican had
two children growing inside his wife’s belly, and if they couldn’t bring an end
to the war in Heaven in time, those children would die within seconds of their
birth. Danner’s unborn child faced the same fate, as did an entire generation
of children waiting to be born across the entire world.

Brican hated
that his children’s future and that of so many others was dependent on the
outcome of a war that had started before the world had even been created. Their
lives, their very existence, relied on entities that – as far as Brican was
concerned – cared little about the mortal lives they imperiled. Angels and
demons both. Hell was waging a war that threatened the existence of life
everywhere, and Heaven had actually dispatched an assassin to murder mortals
just to protect their own interests.

Why should we
fight for either side?
Brican wondered.
If our lives weren’t on the
line, I’d say let them fight among themselves until the stars burn out and to
Hell with
all
the immortals.

When the company
finally settled down and turned in for the night, Brican sought out Caeesha and
hugged her tightly. He placed his hands on her belly and directed a kythe
toward the two tiny minds that were forming within her. Brican was convinced he
could feel their infant minds trying to talk back to him, and he sent whispered
words of love and promises of safety. Caeesha watched him with glowing eyes,
and as they lay down to sleep, Brican felt he had never loved his wife more.

- 2 -

He lay on a slab
of cold, glittering obsidian. He was completely naked, and only a series of
thick leather straps had kept him from writhing in pain during his last torture
session. First his eyes had been cut and rendered useless once again – the
demons took an intense joy in blinding him, and usually they blinded him before
their most agonizing tortures so he couldn’t see or know what was coming.
Blinding had now become a sort of psychological torture by itself, because he
knew it portended something truly painful.

Hours or days
ago, they had clawed at his eyes. Sometime later, tiny drops of fire had slowly
been showered down on his body – they burned with a slow, searing pain that
seemed to eat right through his flesh and into his bones with excruciating
agony. He screamed and he screamed, until finally he realized the torture had
long-since stopped.

Then silence.
He didn’t know if they had left him again, or if someone was waiting silently,
watching as he struggled to regain the strength to heal himself and restore his
vision once more. Then the Voice had come again.

There was no
sound until his first words came, not even the softest of footsteps. He knew
the Voice now, remembered several conversations they had had before. He still
had no other name for it though, and it only came when he was blind, so it
remained only “the Voice.”

“You’ve
mentioned a woman’s name to me, someone you love,” the Voice said without
preamble, as if they were continuing a conversation that had lapsed only
seconds before. “Tell me about this Moreen.”

“She is
beautiful,” he began.

“Compared to
what?”

He was
silent, taken aback by the sudden interruption and the question itself.

“Never mind.
Please continue,” the Voice said.

“She is very
strong-willed…”

“Compared to
whom?”

“Any woman
I’ve met.”

“And men?”
the Voice probed.

“Most, yes.”

“Including
yourself?”

“I don’t
know,” he said, trying to sort through his thoughts. The Voice was tricky and
loved to play mind games with him, always probing and delving for some hidden
information that was beyond his ability to discern. Still, talking to the Voice
was better than sitting in silence, so he played along.

“I suppose
I’d have to say we’re the same, it just manifests differently.”

“Excellent.
Continue.”

He paused.

“She’s
intelligent…”

“Intelligent or
wise?” the Voice interrupted again.

“Both.”

“Compared to
most people?”

“Yes.”

“Compared to
yourself?”

Again, he was
forced to stop and consider his answer.

“She is not
as learned, but she is just as intelligent and more wise than I in some ways,
less so in others.”

“Wonderful,”
the Voice said with genuine pleasure. “Now, describe her in as few words as
possible.”

Silence.

“She is
Moreen,” he said finally, as if that explained her in entirety. Indeed, for
anyone who knew her, that was enough.

The Voice laughed,
a silky sound that was dark and seductive.

“Excellent,
mortal,” the Voice said. “You show more promise with every passing day. I look
forward to our next conversation.”

“As do I,” he
replied, and he was surprised to discover he truly meant it.

- 3 -

The next ten
days passed without event, for which Garnet was especially thankful. He had
just called a halt for a midday rest, and even as they ceased their orderly
marching, the three separate commands broke off by unit in a sort of
unilateral, unspoken agreement of segregation. For the most part, the force
traveled in these three distinct groups, which both pleased and worried Garnet.
He was glad he didn’t have to deal with any inter-racial animosity that might
spring up from the different races of humans and demi-humans traveling together
for such an extended period of time – it was one less headache to deal with
amidst the countless others that plagued him daily.

On the other
hand, dividing the races would never heal the rifts between them, and while there
may not have been any open hostility, their constant separation was just as
worrisome. Unfortunately, there was little he could do about it. Garnet
couldn’t very well
order
the groups to mingle; that would completely
defeat the purpose and possibly result in the exact opposite effect.

He turned the
problem over in his mind.

“You look
upset.”

Garnet nearly
reached for his sword as he spun at the unexpected voice. Trames was standing a
few feet behind him, his ever-present look of calm curiosity still firmly in
place. The old man’s white goatee was damp (he’d shaved his moustache the night
before), and he showed signs of just having immersed himself in water
somewhere. Fortunately, he appeared to be mostly dry beneath his clothing.

 “Did you
fall in something?” Garnet said, not unkindly, as his pulse returned to normal.

“There’s a small
waterfall a quarter mile north of here,” Trames replied. “I prefer bathing in
running water when possible. But you’ve changed the subject.”