Chapter 82 Hat

        The industrial radblowers were effective, yes, but the road wasn't built to drain off such torrents of meltwater, and the wheels of the carts were dragging heavy in an ankle-deep stream. Porett had played with the idea of constructing some kind of mounted shovel to divert the main flow away, but there was nowhere else for it to go; except for where his forward scouts were clearing a path, the whole of this part of Elet was under a cake of snow. The flakes still fluttered, fell.
        He reached inside his coat, felt for the small bottle. Warm, good; if its contents were to freeze and crack it open, a lot of people would be very dead, very quickly. What if it took him, took everyone? His com-3 soul would wretch in desolate solitude.
        He began to gesture, readying the Trans/Disc box to bring in grain for the horses. There was a wood ahead, evergreens, a place to shelter from the pitiless weather. Convenient, but what kind of a country was this that had roads running through clumps of trees instead of around them? Didn't they have bandits? A pinch point like that was a gift to outlaws! Yet in Elet it was almost commonplace: today alone, there must have been five or six such copses straddling the highway. It was suspiciously like they were placed there deliberately. Strange, though, that the main routes bypassed towns, but not -
        His sound-set picked up people, running in, quick. He broke off mid-gesture, shouted, "Helmets on, we're under attack!" His hand slid back to his saddlebag, reaching for a flash thrower as the enemy came into view: Elets! Hundreds of them!
        His mercenaries had reacted instantly, were at their posts within moments. The Elets checked their advance, were drawing bows. Close enough for accuracy, but the point armour could take it, and helmets would deflect any shots to the head.
        There was no word of command, but the Elets released their arrows together. Porett felt himself brace, instinctive, ready for the momentary tightening that followed impact. He heard the peppered thuds as the flight hit, but found himself tumbling to the ground, a sudden tumult of pain screaming around him.
        What? He hadn't felt - hell, they've gone for the horses! He'd thrown himself clear, saved a crushed leg, but others weren't so lucky. There were arrows studding everything, but maybe half were in horseflesh. Someone was helping him to his feet; he realised that he still gripped the flash thrower in his hand, peered determinedly through the icy swirl, sought a target among the onrushing foe, furious to show an immediate response...
        Nothing met his eyes except the white and grey of the featureless, focus-teasing snowscape. The Elets were gone.
        He noticed his whole left side was soaked, looked down. The river of radblown water ran red around his boots.

* * *


        Malva would have been able to hold the mercs together better. Porett wasn't a soldier, didn't know the right things to say to them, or what they'd been trained to expect. They were scared, clearly, so reasoning wasn't going to work, and that meant he'd have to use threats.
        So, when four of them approached him, weapons drawn, demanding to be transferred to Trilith, Porett made a few quick gestures and burned the leader alive. His victim co-operated splendidly by reacting in a most spectacular fashion, although when you're wearing flameproof point armour that's been inverted then even rolling around in the snow isn't ever going to save you.
        That gave Porett the respect of the others, but how long it would last he wasn't sure. He encouraged them to believe he'd port in more horses, but just how you'd get even a mule to fit in a Trans/Disc box he didn't know. Maybe he'd try arrange something once the device was out of the open.
        Most of his men were now hauling the carts towards the clump of trees up ahead, where the group would be unobservable, safe from arrows. Guarding the flanks and directing the radblowers were the remaining men and all the women (only three: despite her disposition, Malva apparently regarded others of her gender as potential challengers). Porett had sent a small party forward to check for waiting Elets, but they'd found none. He didn't doubt that the attackers were still nearby, staying out of sight, but at least they weren't waiting in the wood. He'd have time there to think out the situation, decide what to do next. Maybe he'd merge with the com-3 and set two minds working on it.

* * *


        It was dark, and he'd lit a fire. A simple sequence of gestures, but impressive to his magic-illiterate mercenaries. The branches of the leafy trees made wonderful tinder, even though damp from the snow; they had a sticky, sweet-smelling sap that caught ablaze the moment it was shown a spark. Great for grilling pony steaks, or whatever the hell that was in the wrap-pouches.
        Skis would be the best way of getting to Liagh Na Laerich. That would mean dismissing the Lowlanders, of course, but the Akreans should be competent. How to move the Trans/Disc transmitter, though?
        He sighed. What an expensive folly this had turned out to be! The Elets had him pretty well beaten: he couldn't really continue the expedition without his sole means of returning to civilisation. He'd been prepared at the outset for a reasonable level of risk, but not the amount entailed by abandoning his only lifeline. Maybe he could flick a porter spell to propel the box along? No, you have to be stationary when you use one of those, or you never know which direction you're moving it.
        Would it really be so bad if he didn't find out how Sage overcame magic? He could wait, learn later, after Justan had done for the Elets. She'd still torment him, though, pain him with ever-worsening side- effects she didn't even know about. Perhaps, if she did know, she'd stop? Was there some way to bargain with her? Not for a while, no; not before she'd killed him...
        What if he didn't merge, just overwrote the sphere, spoke from there but never recombined his dual experiences? Daily suicide? Ha! At least then there'd be no risk of Sage hitting him mid-merge - and the thought of that had haunted him for days.
        It's over, better admit the fact and go home. Merge with the comsphere now and -
        "Fire!" Sentries, all around, panicked. Flaming arrows, must be, despatched simultaneously. A trap!
        "Stay your ground" he bellowed. "You're safe in your point armour!" A fire-dripping branch fell before him, he heard crackling above. Damn, the foliage is alight! But it should be too wet, shouldn't it?
        More timber was crashing down, hell, this has taken hold quick! His mercenaries were running for the open, ignoring orders, desperate to avoid being cooked alive. He heard shouts, screams - the Elets were waiting for them, beating them to death with clubs, maces, morning stars.
        The Trans/Disc box! The air was thickening with fragrant smoke, hot, rasping to the throat. He struggled to his feet, felt the sting of airborne ash in his eyes. There was fire everywhere, spitting, cracking - how had it got such a hold? They must have used pitch or something. Life, where's that box?
        Breathing was difficult, hell, the flameproofing would stave off fire but he was going to suffocate! His eyes were steaming tears, his lenses aggravated, he could hardly see. Is that the T/D? Yes! He staggered, groped for the side, hot to the touch but not alight. Good, strong, Muraki oak! He clambered in, began gesturing. Above him, the sky was raging with intense yellow flame, flowing patterns of gold and orange flooding chaotically across. Breathless, keep calm, make the gestures, get out of here...

* * *


        He opened his eyes, slowly. They hurt. Slate-grey clouds were overhead, slipping silent snowflakes into drifting descent. He turned his head. About him was the charred fossil of what was once woodland. Smoke rose in wisps from glowing cinders, winding with the steam that hissed whenever a flake touched. His throat was scrapingly sore.
        He realised the Trans/Disc box was still smouldering, that it was why he wasn't covered in more than a dapple of snow. Was he burned? Or had the suit saved him? He remembered starting the gestures, but not finishing them. Must have passed out, else the spell would have blown me.
        He moved his hands: no pain. Slowly, he levered himself upright. There was still a good deal of heat around, mainly fallen branches, burning like Winter logs. He figured that the Trans/Disc cabinet had saved him, kept him away from the flames at ground level. Luck, though, that nothing alight had dropped in from above.
        The box had been on the back of a cart; most of that was gone now, just a fragile black frame with pinpricks of dying red when the wind blew. As for the transmitter itself, well it was useless. The cheap glass com-1 once fixed on the top was broken, split in two. Maybe the heat, more likely the fall that did it. He felt for his com-3, he'd had it hanging from his belt last night. It wasn't there, but his eye caught it in a corner, where it had rolled when its pouch had scorched open. Relief! His other self would have had hours to think of some way out of this, he could merge now and... What was that noise?
        He threw himself back, flat against the rear panel of the Trans/Disc transmitter, breath held, heart pumping wildly. His still- functioning sound-set had picked up the squelching of feet on slush, over to his right, along the road. He'd only glanced, but it was mortifying: Elet after Elet, a vast column, trudging eastwards, grim, purposeful, muted.


Copyright © Richard A. Bartle (richard@mud.co.uk)
21st January 1999: isif82.htm