Since the moment Telly had returned to Schenker Float, all that was once familiar had been transformed into some grim nightmare from another world. Fire had swept the woods and rationals, the invaders had looted the storehouses, and the dead littered the ground.
A part of Telly’s brain recognized the turnings and landmarks of the path, but the recognition only served to disorient him further. How could any of this be real? How could any of it be happening? It was like some scene from Homer or Blake’s war stories transformed into real blood and fire.
He felt his heart drop into the cold sea beneath the roots of the world. There would be no recovering from some of the destruction the invaders had caused, he realized icily. Those who were dead were lost forever.
They passed through another ruined rational, where a storehouse had been torn open and its contents spilled across the yard—charcoal, sugar, dried meat, salted fish.
When they reached the edge of the village, Telly could hear the sound of men shouting commands, women screaming in horror, and dogs baying and howling, all set against the distant roar and crackle of burning wood.
Telly was drawn by the sound of the dogs.
He knew that they would be in the thick of the fight, reckless in their willingness to risk all in protection of their masters. Everything in his world had been transformed that way—from the elements of peace and oppressive harmony into the tools and setting of momentous battle.
The rationals of his village were like squares on a chessboard. The men and women and boys and girls he’d grown up with were reduced to pieces—some struggling bravely, others removed from the game. Every structure was a potential hiding place for the enemy. And every piece of wood, every bit of manufactured metal or plastic, had been transformed into a potential weapon.
He and Ivan drew closer now to the lines, becoming more cautious with every step.
Ivan looked dazed, in shock, and not just from the exertion of running across two miles of float. His arms and legs and face were striped with cuts and stained with bruises from crossing the young pontoon where they had clambered ashore from the Prospero. Telly looked down at himself and saw that he presented an equally damaged appearance.
The trees were thickest here beyond the limits of the village. The great boles of the steelwood crowded around them, and their thick canopies conspired to block out the light from above. Through the narrow gaps. Telly could see the daylight on the far side of the wood towards the workshops. He could even see figures moving here and there in the distance.
The shadows that clung to the forest floor made his nerves sing with tension. Who knew what lay here, waiting for them to make one misstep, one mistake.
The snap of a branch underfoot to his right sent waves of crackling energy up Telly’s back. He cried out—a formless, animal sound.
But the shadow that emerged from the dark was not an enemy. It was Duncan Blake.
The navigator put a finger to his lips, then motioned for Telly and Ivan to follow him. To Telly’s surprise, Blake was not alone, but was accompanied by two dozen men, all armed with long spears.
“We’ve maneuvered around behind them,” Blake said. “If we do this right, we can upset their assault and break their momentum.”
Telly nodded, but did not really understand. He only knew that Blake was the one bit of safety and security left in the madness that Schenker Float had become. He padded along with the rest of the platoon, wordlessly watching the action unfold.
They paused when they reached the edge of the wood. There, across a few dozen meters of open space, was the enemy line. There must have been a hundred or more of them—all backs and butts and armor and helmets.
They faced the workshops, pressing forward against strengthening opposition. As he watched, Telly saw a knot of men run screaming from the edge of the shops, flames clinging to their bodies. He noted absentmindedly that they were in the area of the plastic shops, where inflammable materials were in abundance.
Then a figure rushed out of the mass of invaders and began howling. It was the red-haired devil with his high-brushed helmet who Telly had seen in the canoe earlier that day. He carried a metal sword, blackened with char and blood, which he waved in great circles over his head. He paused to whack against his troops with the flat side of the iron and howl at them in words too distorted by rage and distance for Telly to understand.
“There he is,” Ivan said in a low voice. “He’s their captain.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Blake whispered. “He looks like Hektor before the walls of Troy. Well, Hektor, time to meet your Achilles.”
Blake whistled softly, then signaled to the rest of the war party. He pointed to the red-haired commander, and the men nodded in response.
Telly was ready too, but he realized that he had no weapon. He held his empty hands out to Blake. The navigator smiled and handed Telly a knife.
“Try not to think of Homer,” he said. “The Iliad is such a slaughterhouse. Remember Henry the Fifth. ‘Imitate the actions of the tiger, stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage.’ ”
He made a smile that looked unnatural on his smoke-smeared face and clapped Telly on the back.
Blake whistled again, and suddenly the party erupted from the forest, whooping and screaming and howling. They ran headlong into the rear of the enemy line, aiming straight toward the red-haired leader. Telly fell behind as they rushed on, exhausted by the afternoon’s long struggle. Ivan looked back and halted, waiting for him to catch up.
By the time he drew alongside his mate, the main party had reached their target. Their spears were long enough to hold off the enemy warriors, and their speed was enough to overcome the commander.
Warclubs swung, but failed to connect with their targets. Spears flew, jabbed, drew blood, and struck again. Men shouted in pain and fear and anger.
And in the center of it all, Telly saw Duncan Blake, his aging face gripped with a fierce rage, wrestling with Big Red, the enemy commander. Red’s sword was lost now, torn from his grip by the force of the fight. His men tried to rescue him, but the rest of the Schenker war party kept them at bay.
“Come on!” Ivan called. “Get in there!” Telly put on a final burst of speed and joined the fray.
Red’s armor had blocked Blake’s best blows, and Telly realized with a momentary panic that the men were too close together for Blake’s spear to be of any use. If only he’d kept his knife instead of giving it to Telly…
Ivan launched himself at the wrestling leaders, knocking them both to the ground. Telly flew after, drawing Blake’s knife and clutching it in his hand.
The three of them tumbled across the ground—Ivan, Blake, and Red. Suddenly Red broke free. He struck at Ivan with a clenched fist, and Ivan dropped his warclub. They struggled over the club—Big Red fighting with what looked like inhuman strength.
Blake rolled away, stunned and out of breath. Telly felt cold fear run through his veins. He was only an arm’s length away from the melee now, but uncertain of what to do.
Red swung his arm back, the war-club in his hand, preparing to strike a blow against Ivan. Telly saw a gap where the man’s armor had come loose at his side, revealing pale white flesh.
The club began its forward stroke. Telly didn’t even think. He plunged the knife into Red’s side and held it tight against the man’s ribs.
Red groaned and his arm fell, the warclub dropping to the ground. He turned abruptly, twisting the knife from Telly’s grasp. But not before it tore a deeper wound in his side, the blood flowing freely.