"A mile or two."
The rafts were closer but moving slowly and keeping high. An aerial reconnaissance? Any good commander would have ordered one but, if the men remained under cover, it would do him little good. The area around the castle was broken stone and arid soil and could hide a small army.
"We could go out and meet them," suggested Gartok. "Exchange shots and keep low. It would make them reveal their intention."
"No." Dumarest made his decision. "That's what they want. If they can draw us out they'll learn our numbers and state of our men. As it is they have to guess. Well keep them guessing. Hold your positions and stay out of sight. Let them come to us. Guerrilla war-you know what to do."
"Hit and run." The mercenary was sour. "Stab in the back. Kill stragglers and those who aren't looking. A hell of a way to fight a war."
"We aren't fighting a war," said Dumarest. "We're trying to stay alive. Now get moving."
Dumarest descended from the summit of the hill as Gartok rode away. Men out riding were to be expected on land used for the breeding of mounts and any watching would see nothing of potential danger. Looking up he saw the rafts had drifted lower. A good sign; if they had been suspicions the vehicles would have been lifted high or landed fast. But the movement could be a diversion to hold the attention from the men Gartok had spotted. And, if he'd seen them, there could be others he had missed.
A classic strategy straight from the book. Divert, decoy, distract-then destroy.
How to break the pattern?
Dumarest looked around, saw a slope of rock facing the direction from which the rafts had come, jagged stone which edged the crest, boulders resting precariously to either side.
Hefting his rifle he moved into the cover.
It was a sporting weapon, the stock decorated in an ornate design, the universal sight showing a ruby dot to mark the impact point of the bullet. The magazine held a score of them each capable of blasting a hole through a brick wall at a thousand yards. The rifle could place all twenty in a half-inch circle at twice that distance.
Dumarest aimed at the leading raft.
It was slightly tilted, the men gathered to one side and leaning over the edge, one pointing at something he had seen below. The hand was replaced by the barrel of a gun, a beam of ruby light guiding the laser blast which followed. From somewhere to one side a man screamed.
Dumarest fired.
The man who held the laser reared, turning, dropping the weapon as he clutched at his upper arm. The visor of his helmet was raised, his face visible, crumpling as a second bullet smashed into the forehead between the eyes.
As he fell Dumarest fired again and again, sending a stream of bullets against the raft. The body-armor the men wore was protection against slow-moving missiles and the reflected beams of lasers but not against the high-velocity ammunition he was using. A direct hit would penetrate and kill.
The raft spun, tilted, turned and sent men falling like tattered leaves to the broken ground beneath.
As Dumarest reloaded, return fire sent chips of stone humming like broken razors through the air.
"Fire!" He heard Gartok's roar. "From cover, at the rafts, aim steady and squeeze slow. Get those bastards! Get them!"
Weeks of training now put to the test. If the men broke and tried to run from the return fire they would be mowed down. If they fired wildly all they would do would be to waste ammunition. If they froze they were useless.
"Steady!" Again the mercenary's voice rose above the sound of firing. "Steady, damn you! Aim before you fire! Aim!"
A raft jerked upwards and a man shrieked as he fell, blood showering from his riddled legs. Another, leaning far over the side, slumped as Dumarest sent a bullet into his throat, the laser he was about to use spinning to shatter on a rock. Shifting aim Dumarest fired at the rafts further back, aiming at the engines and hoping to bring them down. One suddenly dropped, leveled, fell again with smoke rising from inside. The others climbed high into the sky.
"Cease fire!" Gartok yelled. "Stay under cover. Check your loads. Any wounded?"
He turned, grinning as Dumarest joined him. Standing in the open he appeared to be alone then Dumarest saw the men lying beneath slabs of stone, huddled in cracks, curled beneath boulders. The air held the stench of burned explosives.
"They held, Earl!" The mercenary gestured around. "They held and they returned the fire!"
"How many hurt?"
"Three dead." Gartok shrugged at Dumarest's expression. "Well, it happens. Twelve with minor injuries, cuts and singes. Four seriously wounded-one the man who started it all."
He lay in a crumpled heap to one side, a young man with wide eyes and hair through which some girl had loved to run her fingers. The laser had caught his arm and stomach, severing the limb and leaving a charred stump, slicing into the abdomen to leave a wound which oozed blood and twisted intestines.
A man already dead but who stubbornly refused to let go.
"He ran," whispered Gartok. "God knows why. He suddenly upped and ran and that bastard in the raft let him have it. Not even a clean kill either. I'm glad you got him, Earl."
Revenge, but what did it matter to the dying man? Dumarest saw his eyes, their movement, the tip of the tongue which touched the lips.
"Get some water."
"For him? With that gut-wound?"
"He's dying, what difference does it make?" Dumarest knelt with the canteen in his hand. Gently he moistened the parched lips, feeling the febrile heat of the cheek, the burning fever which consumed the young man. "Sip a little," he urged. "Easy now. Easy."
"Did we win?"
"We won." A lie, but what did it matter? Frowning Dumarest added, "I know you. Bran Welco, isn't it?"
"Bran Welos, sir. I'm glad you remember me. I was on that march when you almost ran us into the ground. I didn't think I'd make it, but I did." The stump of the charred arm lifted a little as if he wanted to put out his hand. "Why did that man burn me?"
"You ran. Why?"
"I saw my grandfather. He smiled and beckoned to me."
Delusia? Dumarest glanced at the sky and saw the suns still well separated. Imagination? Shadows in the rocks could adopt odd shapes to a worried mind. The old man must have meant something special to the youth or his need had been great.
"He wanted to talk," whispered Welos. "I knew it. I could see him but I couldn't hear him. I thought if I could get closer I'd make out what he was saying. He-" Pain contorted the features. "He-God, it hurts! It hurts!"
"Kill him," whispered Gartok. "Pass him out easy."
Rough mercy and the only thing to do. Dumarest reached out and rested his hand on the flaccid throat, his fingers finding the carotids, pressing them, cutting off the blood supply to the brain, bringing blessed unconsciousness and death.
Rising he said, "Let's get on with the war."
Chapter Ten
The song was one Lavinia had never heard before. It rose and fell with a wailing ululation which held all misery and pain and despair. A sound which grated on the nerves so that she screamed and clutched at her ears and then, as it faded, realized that it wasn't a song at all but the throbbing harmonics of the curfew which, sounding, promised for a while at least there would be peace.
Tiredly she rose from her bath. Always, lately, she seemed to need washing and always she was tired. A symbolic guilt, she wondered? A ritual cleansing? Or was it the subconscious desire to lave away the hurt and pain and to restore life as she remembered it?
A weakness-things were not and could never be the same. But some things would survive; the castle, the land, the dead who had never deserted her.