Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (38 page)

“It says that that the well belongs to the dawn people,” Saddo replied, “and that those who use it without permission will be cursed.”

The legionnaire watched in amazement as even more sand was removed, the edges of the lid were revealed, and Guppa used a Jithi-forged blade to pry one side of the rock up out of its roughly circular bed. Then, with Saddo's help,
the officer managed to lift the cover up and out of the ground. It was heavy, had clearly been brought to the location from somewhere else, and threw sand into the air when they let it fall.

“I will need a rope plus one of those lamps that you wear on your head,” Guppa announced from behind them. Santana turned to discover that the warrior was perched on the edge of the newly created hole with his legs dangling inside.

“How deep is it? Santana inquired, shrugging the pack off his shoulders.

Guppa didn't know how deep the hole was. But he was determined to lead rather than follow. “I don't know how you measure things,” the warrior said, as Saddo positioned a recently acquired sword hilt up across the middle of his back. “But there could be snakes down there, so don't let anyone enter until I give the all clear.”

“Here's some rope,” Dietrich said, dropping a coil at Guppa's side. “The other end is tied to a zurna. Give a holler, and he'll pull you out.”

Santana rummaged through his pack until he came across the Legion-issue headband with lights attached to either side and gave it to Guppa. The warrior put the device on his head, fumbled with the switches, and gave a grunt of satisfaction when twin beams appeared. Then, having thrown the rope down into the hole, he went in after it.

Santana peered down into the hole, saw the lights play across ancient brick walls, and knew that he was looking at the remains of a town or a city
rather than simply a well. Had the area been different back then? Before the desert took over? And the eternal migrations began? There was no way to be sure, but it certainly appeared so.

“Bravo Three Seven to Bravo Six,” Fareye said over the squad freq. “Company is on the way. Over.”

The civilians had gathered around the hold, and Santana pushed his way through them and out into the open. The
officer saw that Fareye was standing on top of a Zurna peering toward the south. He raised his electrobinoculars, saw what looked like a dot, and touched the zoom control. The image grew larger as a rider topped a rise and went down the leading slope. That was when a
second
rider appeared, and a
third,
and so on until a total of sixty-three bandits had followed their leader down into a dip from which they would soon emerge.

“What have we got?” Dietrich inquired, having materialized at the officer's side. “Sixty-three of the bastards,” Santana answered grimly. “And they're coming fast.”

“Even if we may have water, there isn't any cover,” the sergeant observed. “Not so much as a good-sized rock.”

“Yeah,” Santana agreed soberly, “and we don't stand a chance out in the open. Send someone to assist Guppa whether he likes it or not. Tell Miss Qwan to organize the civilians. Lower the children into the hole the moment she's ready. The zurnas will make a pretty good barricade.”

Dietrich looked at the nearest zurna and back again. The animals were obnoxious, but he had come to respect them. He hated to kill them, but the order made sense. “Sir, yes sir.”

The next few minutes were filled with frantic activity as the zurnas were stripped of their loads, children were lowered into the ground, and some of the legionnaires prepared what Fareye described as a “surprise” for the oncoming bandits.

Finally, when all of the civilians were safely below, the zurnas were pushed, pulled, and prodded into a circle. The animals squalled, snorted, and tried to balk as Saddo covered their eyes with blindfolds, and whispered words of comfort into their ears. Then, when everything was ready, the Paguum shot the first zurna in the temple. The huge two-thousand-pound body went down hard, hit with a loud
thump,
and caused the other animals to stir uneasily. Then they went down as well, one after another, until the black hole was like a bull's-eye at the very center of a target.

Saddo shot his own zurna last, and there was no mistaking
the look of sorrow on the warrior's face. The two of them had literally grown up together, and while far from equals, were bonded in a way that only a Paguum could understand.

Santana felt sorry for both the animals and their owners, but knew there was no other way to defend the underground sanctuary. The officer made his way over to the point where the squad's com tech was busy scooping a firing position out of the sand, knelt next to the long-range set at her side, and removed the handset. “Bravo Six to Nomad Six . . . Over.”

There was a burst of static followed by a male voice. “This is Alpha Two Four . . . Hold on . . . Nomad Six will be with you in a moment. Over.”

As Santana waited he watched Dietrich and another legionnaire wire the dead zurnas end to end to prevent the outcasts from swooping in, hooking on to one of the corpses, and towing it away. A tactic which, if successful, would open a hole in the defensive barricade.

“This is Nomad Six,” Kobbi said. “Go.”

Santana delivered a brief, emotionless sitrep, but Kobbi could imagine the hole, the corpses arrayed around it, and the battle to come. The odds didn't sound good, but Santana already knew that, and there was no reason to state the obvious. And, making a bad situation even worse, was the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to help. Kobbi struggled to keep his voice level and matter-of-fact. “I wish I could send a fly-form, but we're sitting in the middle of a hellacious sandstorm, and there's no telling how long it will be until we can launch. Hang in there Bravo Six . . . we'
ll get to you as soon as we can.”

Though heartened by the fact that Kobbi and his column had been able to reach Fire Base Alpha, the news that they couldn't provide him with any air support left what felt like a rock riding low in Santana's gut. “Roger that, Nomad Six. Let us know when the storm clears . . . and set some extra
places for dinner. It's been a long time since we had any home cooking.”

The voice sounded a lot like Top Santana's, and it was just the sort of thing that the grizzled noncom might have said. “Will do,” Kobbi replied gruffly. “Over and out.” There was a click as Fire Base Alpha went off the air, leaving Santana and his charges on their own.

The legionnaire replaced the handset and stood. Fareye was just inside the fleshy barricade, staring through a pair of glasses. It was getting warm, and the Naa's fur was matted with sweat. “How close are they?”

“Twenty minutes out, sir. Twenty-five at most.”

“Good,” the officer replied. “That means I have time to bleed my tanks, have breakfast, and check to see if this situation is covered in the manual.”

Those who were close enough to hear laughed and felt a little bit better. After all, if the loot wasn't worried, then why should they be?

The sun inched higher in the sky, the bandits drew closer, and the seconds ticked away.

Few men are brave by nature, but good order and experience make many so. Good order and discipline in any army are more to be depended upon than courage alone.

—Niccolo Machiavelli

Art Of War

Standard year 1520

Having been bombed by the Ramanthians, then looted by the Jithi, the town of Savas Prime was little more than a collection of burned-out buildings that sat baking in the sun. There were exceptions, however, like the beautiful arbor that Lin Qwan had established behind her house. In spite of the damage done to the structure itself, the garden remained relatively untouched, which was why Force Commander Ignatho Dontha had chosen it as the venue for a very important meeting. Against all odds the Confederacy forces originally trapped in Savas Prime had been able to link up with the leg
ionnaires in the desert. And, based on the information provided by the renegade Kuga-Ka, there was little doubt that they would march on Hagala Nor in an attempt to capture the hypercom.

Although the Ramanthian felt confident that his armor could defeat the Confederacy forces—he saw no reason to
tackle them alone if others could be induced to help. Which was why Srebo Riff had been flown in, taken on a tour of the ravaged city, and hosted to lunch. Dontha needed some cannon fodder, and the northern tribe fit the bill. “So,” Dontha began at what he judged to be the right moment, “you've seen the city. Capable though they may be, you'll notice that the Legion troops were unable to protect Savas Prime.”

“That's true,” Riff allowed cautiously, “insofar as it goes. However, it should be pointed out that your people attacked the city from the air, and had it been otherwise, things might have gone differently. In fact, it's my understanding that the Confederacy soldiers not only escaped into the jungle, but recently joined forces with their companions in the desert.”

Primitive though his people might be, Riff was no fool, a fact that Dontha had a tendency to forget. “Yes,” the Ramanthian admitted smoothly, “and that'
s why it's so important to destroy them
now.
Or would you like to wait until they control the entire planet?”

It was a powerful argument, because unbeknownst to Dontha, Riff wanted to eliminate
all
aliens, including the Ramanthians. If he could play one group off against another, then so much the better. There were problems, however, not the least of which were the horrible death-spitting machines of the sort that he had faced near the wreck and the thing that Unit Commander Kuga-Ka rode as if it were a zurna. “No,” the Paguum said as he sipped from a glass of incredibly cold tea. “Nor do I want to lose thousands of warriors battling off-world machines. Have you ever faced them? No? Well, I have
. Subcommander Pamee was at my side. He's dead, and by some miracle I'm alive.”

“That was unfortunate,” Dontha acknowledged. “But, if you will agree to fight alongside us, we will neutralize the machines.”

“Truly?” Riff inquired. “You could do that?”

“Yes, we could,” Dontha answered truthfully, knowing
full well he had no intention of actually doing so. “Not only that, but we know where the enemy will go next, and that means we can lay a trap for them.”

It was seductive stuff, and even though Dontha was still learning to read Paguumi facial expressions, he could see the conflict in Riff 's eyes. Convinced that the moment was right, the Ramanthian went in for the kill. “You would need some modern weapons, of course, which is why we would give you a thousand Negar III assault rifles, plus a quarter million rounds of ammunition. And once we defeat the Legion, you could use your new weapons to defend yourselves from the southerners.”

That
was the tipping point for Riff, the offer that countered all of the chieftain's doubts and brought the internal debate to a close. “When would we receive the weapons?”

Dontha popped the last grub into his mouth, felt it wiggle, and bit down. “How does tomorrow strike you?”

“That would be fine,” the Paguum replied, and the deal was done.

The sun was high in the sky by the time the battle started, which meant that the zurnas had already started to rot when the first bullets slammed into them, and the
pop, pop, pop!
of rifle shots was heard. “Hold your fire,” Santan
a cautioned, as the defenders peered over the corpses arrayed in front of them. “Make every bullet count.”

There was a pause while the outcasts steeled themselves against what was to come followed by a bloodcurdling scream as the outcasts urged their mounts forward, and sand spewed out from under their plate-sized hooves as they advanced. Dietrich went to work with his grenade launcher, and the lead rider and his mount quickly disappeared in a welter of blood and fractured bone.

“A cavalryman without a horse is afoot.” That was the old saying, and knowing the outlaws would be a lot less dangerous on foot, Santana aimed for a broad, sweat-flecked chest. The rifle slammed into his shoulder, blood spurted, but the zurna kept on coming.

Desperate now, the officer shifted his aim to the animal's head and saw it jerk as the first bullet struck. The zurna went nose down in the sand, skidded forward with its rider still in place, and hit the makeshift barricade. The warrior was catapulted into the air, flew over the legionnaire's head, and landed on all fours.

Santana tried to turn but the outcast was on his feet by then with a sword held high over his head. Sunlight winked off the blade as the Paguum started to bring the weapon down. The legionnaire was still coming around when Qwis shot the warrior in the back. The bandit pitched forward and lay facedown in the sand. The officer thanked the colonist with a quick salute before turning back to the fray.

The outcasts were circling the defensive laager by then, firing their weapons at targets of opportunity, then dashing away to reload. There were five or six empty saddles and a couple of cases where warriors were riding double.

That was when Santana heard Dietrich yell,
“Now!”
and Fareye activated a handheld remote. The explosives hidden beneath the sand didn't detonate all at once, but exploded in a continuous roll of thunder, as zurnas were heaved into the air, body parts cartwheeled across the sky, and blood fell like rain. It was a stunning blow and one that broke the attack. The surviving outcasts withdrew, galloped out of range, and circled their leader.

Meanwhile, Santana took advantage of the momentary break in hostilities to assess the situation. At least a third of the outlaws had been killed or wounded but the legionnaires had suffered casualties as well. Private Farrell had taken a bullet right between the eyes, Private Hulu was
down with a chest wound, and a couple of others sported assorted bandages. Fareye interrupted the officer's thoughts by touching his shoulder and pointing to the north. “Take a look at that, sir . . . What do you make of it?”

What looked like a brown smudge obscured the horizon. It reminded the officer of smog, the kind he'd seen on heavily industrialized worlds, but when Santana raised his glasses he found himself looking into what he knew to be a sandstorm. The
same
sandstorm Kobbi had referred to. In fact, the legionnaire could already feel the insistent push of the wind and the sting of windblown sand, as the disturbance came his way.

Santana turned toward the enemy, saw the bandits wheel, and knew they were determined to carry out one more attack before the sandstorm hit. Once they managed to overwhelm the legionnaires, the outcasts would drop through the opening and slaughter the civilians. The officer activated his com set. “Okay people, a storm is coming. That means this is their last shot at us. Get those goggles on . . . and hit 'em hard.”

There was no time to say more before the Paguum attacked. It was clear that the outlaws had something different in mind this time as they came straight in, ordered their mounts to jump, and flew over the low barricade. Not all of them, because the inner circle was too small for that, but five or six.

Dietrich came to his feet firing, brass arcing away from his weapon as his bullets knocked a warrior out of the saddle, and his mount jumped the opposite barrier.

Santana shot a zurna in the head, managed to dodge the falling body, and yelled, “Watch the bastards on the outside!”

A Paguum chose that moment to jump the lieutenant from behind, and the assault weapon went flying as he fell facedown in the sand. It was difficult to move with so much weight on his back but Santana managed to buck the warrior
off. Then, having rolled over onto his back, the officer used one hand to intercept the assailant's knife arm and the other to reach for his sidearm. The moment the weapon came free of its holster, Santana jammed it into the body above and pulled the trigger. There were two muffled thuds, and the Paguum jerked in response and suddenly went limp.

Desperate to see what was happening, Santana threw the body off, scrambled to his feet, and found that the wind-driven haze was all around him. The sun was little more than a dimly seen glow by then, it was impossible to see what was going on more than ten or fifteen feet away, and the officer realized that he had forgotten to wear his goggles. Zurnas circled half-seen in the flying sand, autofire stabbed the murk, and a legionnaire screamed as a lance went into her thigh.

Eyes slitted against the storm, Santana shot the Paguum who held the blood-reddened lance, saw Fareye jump up to pull a rider off the saddle, then
haul the outlaw down to the ground. Steel flashed, the bandit's head flopped, and blood sprayed the air as the Naa-forged steel did its work.

Then there was a strange almost surreal moment as a Paguum bellowed orders, and the surviving outcasts withdrew, and were immediately swallowed by the storm. “Lower the wounded into the hole!” Santana shouted over the wind. “Collect all the gear you can! We're going to need it!”

It took the better part of ten minutes to get everyone down the hole, tug the stone lid back into place, and descend into the dimly lit chambers below. The moment his feet touched solid ground Santana posted guards at the bottom of the shaft and ordered Dietrich to establish a quick-reaction force.

Then, satisfied that the single entry was secure, the officer set off on a tour of the surrounding rooms. All manner of candles, glow sticks, and cell-powered lights had been used to illuminate the maze of ancient corridors, dusty galleries, and cavelike chambers.

Now that the battle was over, a dormitory was being
established to house the children, and a first-aid station was open for business. Santana ducked under an archway and entered to find that “Doc” Obi and a civilian volunteer were hard at work doing what they could for the wounded. The officer made the rounds, spoke to each patient, and emerged to find that Qwis was outside waiting for him. She took his hand. “Come with me. There's something I want you to see.”

Santana followed the young woman through a series of passageways, past a row of bricked-up windows, and into a circular chamber. A pool of crystal-clear water occupied the very center of the space and reflected light from the candles that occupied niches all around the room.

Saddo, the Paguum who had led the off-worlders to the ancient well, crouched beside it. A bloodstained bandage had been tied around his head, but he was otherwise untouched. “You were correct,” Santana said simply. “Thank you.”

The Paguum shrugged. “It was God's will, not mine. My uncle showed me the well, and I passed the knowledge to you. Such was your destiny.”

Santana descended a flight of shallow steps, knelt next to the pool, and scooped water up into his face. It felt wonderful. The legionnaire drank some and used the rest to wash his face. “Take as much as you want, but don't let any fall back into the well,” Saddo admonished. “It is our sacred duty to keep it clean.”

Santana felt embarrassed and was quick to apologize. “Please forgive me, Saddo. That was stupid.”

“Not stupid,” the warrior corrected him. “Only those who live with wells understand what they need.”

Santana nodded, came to his feet, and allowed Qwis to lead him away. A few steps down the corridor brought them to a doorway and an alcove beyond. The officer saw his pack, what he knew to be
her
pack, and one of the water bladders that had been salvaged from
Old Faithful.
It was wet on the outside and newly fat with water.

“Do you see that corner over there?” Qwis inquired. “There's a hole in it. And if you were to hang the water bladder up there,” she said, pointing at an overhead beam, “we could take a shower.”

Santana raised an eyebrow.
“We?”

“Of course,” the young woman replied innocently. “We have to conserve water.” The legionnaire nodded soberly. “Quite right . . . Thanks for reminding me. But before I can clean up, I have to . . .”

“You don't have to do anything,” Qwis interrupted. “Sergeant Dietrich knows where you are—and expects you to relieve him in four hours.”

It was a setup, one that granted Dietrich more information about Santana's private life than the officer wanted the noncom to have, but the temptation was too strong. He grinned. “You thought of everything.”

“Yes,” Qwis agreed smugly, “I did.”

Because of the sudden need to kiss each other while removing all sorts of military paraphernalia, it took an unusually long period of time for both of them to get undressed. But, with some enthusiastic help from Santana, Qwis was eventually able to shed her underwear and step under the dribble of liquid that flowed from the water bag.