Asimov's Science Fiction: April/May 2013 (25 page)

There was nothing subtle about the attack when it finally started. All the Drovils crouching on the ground on the northern edge of the city screamed war cries and advanced toward the itiji line on three limbs, swords and hammers clutched in their free hands. The Warriors in the trees blew a few darts at them but most of the Warriors were too busy struggling with the hordes assaulting on their own level.

The itiji on the ground rose from their positions with their jaws open and their claws flexed. They were rested and aroused, with eons of history spurring their responses. The awkward figures lurching toward them might be armed, but they were no match for an itiji on the ground. On the ground, they were prey animals.

Our claws rip their flesh.... Our teeth crush their throats.

Harold knelt by the map with his eyes closed, trying to listen to Golva and the voices of the itiji at the same time, waiting for the news that had to come....

The three human sleds race from the trees. Two Eights of Drovils crowd each sled.

Golva's voice rose. His tail slammed against the floor. "The sleds are rising! They aren't stopping to fight. They're hopping over our lines."

Harold blinked to clear his eyes. He turned away from the look Joanne was giving him.

"They're moving fast," Golva said. "Into the city. Into the Second Octo."

"Two Eights on each sled?" Joanne said. "They must be lying on top of each other."

"They've stopped," Golva said. "In Zone Two. The Drovils are climbing into the trees."

Harold glanced at the map. The itiji had divided the city into eight sectors, subdivided into eight zones, for communications purposes. Zone Two of the Second Octo lay halfway between the coordination center and the river.

"They're inside the city. Six Eights. We have to crush them now. Before they bring more in. Before they can build up a force that can hit our defensive line from the rear." "Take what you think you need," the Second Harmonizer said.

Two itiji warbands trotted ahead of him. Two Eights of Warriors formed a loose network that advanced through the trees above them, ready to drop on anyone who launched an attack. Two more warbands hurried along a parallel route. Imeten women stared at them from the windows of huts and houses. Imeten children crouched on branches and rooftops.

Golva padded beside him in silence. Harold had picked him to coordinate the attack and he had reacted to the news with a pair of explosive syllables Harold had never heard before. He had fallen into a state of total concentration from the moment they had started moving.

Jila-Jen followed them on all fours. "We're veering to the left of their position. Are you trying to outflank them?"

"Golva is steering us so we'll be a little off the direct line we could have followed. We won't be exactly where they expect us."

"We won't get there as fast."

"He's taken that into account. I trust his judgment."

"You're willing to die if he's wrong?"

"I think he'll make the best decisions anybody could. I've watched how he thinks."

"He's never fought a battle. He's only done it in games."

"He's been shot at. He's been wounded. He knows what happens when you lose."

"He didn't guess they'd use the sleds this way. None of them did."

"I wouldn't assume they didn't. The Harmonizers would have done exactly the same thing if they had. Keep a reserve. Be prepared to counterattack when they commit themselves."

Golva threw back his head. His voice rang through the trees, transmitting instructions in the stripped down Imeten the itiji used when they were coordinating mixed war parties.

The itiji attached to the Imeten Eights had relayed his first sight of the enemy positions. They had all become pieces Golva manipulated on the three-dimensional game board in his head.

The infiltrators met them with a shower of darts from the buildings they had taken over. The Imeten Eights spread out, horizontally and vertically, in response to Golva's orders, and yanked their dartblowers off their backs. The itiji crouched in position and sheltered their heads under their armored blankets.

Dartblowers—choose targets, blow. Harold—shoot into windows.

Harold had slid his bow off his shoulder and dropped to one knee. He drew back the string with the smooth, steady pull he had been using since he was seven years old. The tip of the arrow rested on the top of a blurry, heavily shaded opening about seventy meters on his left, ten meters above his eye level.

The arrow sailed toward the window and he slipped another arrow out of his quiver and nocked it without stopping to watch the flight of the first. The itiji didn't have a word for "suppressive fire" in any of their languages but they had grasped the concept as soon as he had explained it to them when they had been planning their assault on Imeten.

Warriors—two darts fast, assault high. Harold—three arrows, two buildings, third right, quarter high. Itiji—assault forward.

The itiji leaped to their feet and raced along the walkway with their voices raised. Harold swung his bow right and up. A dart rattled on the walkway two steps in front of him. His bow outranged the strongest dartblowers the tree people could recruit for their armies but a Drovil with big lungs had apparently decided to give it a try.

Golva's head turned from side to side. His big ears tracked the reports the itiji sang as they closed with the Drovils. Harold snatched at the scattered bits a human brain could pick from the cacophony.

My claws rake a Drovil's face.... Algo droops beneath a hammer blow.... Drovils fall on our backs.... My eye! A dart!

Jila-Jen's hand gripped his shoulder. "What's happening? Are we winning?"

"I can't tell. Don't pester Golva. He's got enough on his mind."

"I wasn't planning to. I'm not a fool."

"We're killing them. They're killing us. I think we're killing them faster."

Harold. Assault. Up third, left half. Priest of Iron Masters' house. Give help.

Harold picked up his shield and slipped his bow over his shoulder. "I'm behind you," Jila-Jen screamed. "I'm guarding your back."

The home of the Priest of the Iron Masters was a big, complex structure that sprawled across the highest branches that could support its weight. It looked down on all the buildings in its immediate area—and no one had dared build anything directly above it.

Harold paused on the last platform below the house. Ten steps in front of him a wide ladder connected the platform to the carnage rampaging through the rooms and terraces that formed a dwelling worthy of its owner's status.

He went up the ladder with his shield poised above his head. The room just to the right of the ladder seemed to be filled with screaming voices. He paused in the doorway, sword in hand, and found he was staring at a big room cluttered with iron statues and tree people furniture. Imetens and Drovils were hopping around on the furniture and swinging on the crossbeams that supported the roof.

The Imeten Warriors had adorned their leather and iron armor with images of the Goddess painted with a drab yellow pigment they squeezed from a flowering vine. The Drovils fancied wilder adornments that included flowered helmets and smears of soot on their faces. Harold slashed at the first soot marked face he saw as he stepped through the door. The Drovil screamed in pain and he rammed his sword into a gaping mouth. A Drovil launched himself from a table, war hammer poised, and he took the impact of the flying body on his shield and backed into the wall.

He was fighting for survival from the moment the Drovils realized he was there. Drovils turned on him like a flock of carnivorous birds who had suddenly discovered a vulnerable prey animal.

He wedged himself into a corner formed by the wall of the house and a double headed idol. Jila-Jen crouched beside him and concentrated on the Drovils attacking on the floor. Later it would be a blur—a haze of events that would run through his sleep until Joanne responded to his mutterings and wrapped herself around him. Now it was a series of hard, intense incidents and panicky responses. Hack. Stab. Slash. Block arm-numbing blows with your shield. Rasp terrified groans as you twist away from blows that slipped past your defenses.

Then it was over. Bodies lay around him. Glazed eyes stared at the death spreading from their wounds.

The Imeten Warriors had come to his aid. The Drovils had turned on him and the Warriors had seized the opportunity and counterattacked.

He sagged against the wall. Voices were still shrieking in the rooms above him.

"We have to keep moving," Jila-Jen said. "We have to clear the building."

Harold pushed himself erect. He gestured at a ladder with his shield arm.

"Up there. Let's go."

Four Warriors leaped ahead of him and scrambled up the ladder. The rest crowded around him as he advanced across the room. The itiji who had accompanied the Warriors was standing outside the door, relaying a description of the situation.

Eight Drovil dead lie in the room. They came at Harold like hunters mad with hunger. Harold's sword drips blood.

The itiji couldn't see his sword but it was a nice detail. It was even true.

The itiji's voice changed.
The sleds! The sleds have returned! Drovils climb into the trees beneath the Iron Priest's house.

Harold ran outside. Shrieks rose from the branches below. Warriors peered over the edge of the platform.

"Get back inside!" Jila-Jen screamed. "Clear the upper rooms."

A gun banged. The Warrior crouching on Harold's left slumped. Harold turned away from the Warrior's mangled face and stepped back from the edge. The other Warriors were already obeying Jila-Jen's command and scurrying toward the door.

"Clear the Drovils out of the house," Jila-Jen said. "We'll clear the highest rooms and hold them."

The itiji relayer had reported the shot and the death. He backed against the wall of the house and turned his head toward Harold

"Harold. From Golva.
Return to Golva."

Harold froze. They needed him here. He had just proved that.

"We have to hold this place," Jila-Jen said. "We can't hold it without you. He doesn't understand."

Harold shoved his sword into its sheath—blood and all. He ran toward the ladder and eased himself over the edge.

"He's the coordinator. We do what he says."

Jila-Jen dropped down the ladder three rungs at a time. He hit the platform one step behind Harold and stayed with him as they raced toward the next ladder.

"We're running away, Harold. We're leaving them to die."

"We do what Golva says. He sees things we can't."

"He can't be wrong? Can't itiji make mistakes?"

A burst of outcries from the itiji cut through the clamor.

The sleds attack the line.... The guns shoot at our backs.... Sector Five. Send help to Sector Five.

Harold paused at the top of the ladder and deliberately froze for a long breath. He worked his way down the ladder with most of his brain locking on the messages from Sector Five.

Emile wasn't quite as dense as they'd hoped. He'd used the sleds for high speed transport vehicles for two runs. Now he was using them like tanks and cavalry. He had skimmed over a line and attacked it from the rear while his infantry attacked from the front.

The itiji holding the line had split their forces. A third had turned on the sleds. Eight of the Imeten dartblowers positioned in the branches had dropped down and started shooting at the sleds. Reinforcements were rushing to the sector. They all knew they couldn't let the sleds crack a hole in their defenses.

But the sleds were fast. They could outmaneuver the itiji. They presented the dart-blowers with a high speed moving target. Every Warrior or itiji who turned on the sleds weakened the defenses somewhere else. And the Drovils were creating a solid base inside the city....

He jogged down the walkway with Jila-Jen at his heels. Golva was still sitting in the same spot, his chest visibly inflating and deflating as he transmitted orders and relayed information.

Harold dropped to one knee beside Golva. Jila-Jen grabbed the rail of the walkway and hauled himself semi-erect in front of them.

"We ran from a battle where they needed us," Jila-Jen screamed. "Where we could have won."

"Stay here, Harold," Golva said. "Get behind me. Out of dartblower range."

"There's been a breakthrough, Golva. They need me there. Shooting at the sleds."

"You're to stay here. Those are the instructions. From the Harmonizers."

"And do what?"

"I can't argue with you. I'm watching everything I can watch."

Golva's eyes closed. He threw back his head and escaped into his skull—into a world in which he had been stripped to a totally focused combination of game master and relay station.

"Leave him alone," Harold said. "He's doing the best he can."

"You're going to sit here? While everything crumbles around us?"

Harold pointed at a small house that rested on one of the branches that supported the walkway. Two children watched them from the platform in front of the door. "We'll wait there. They'll have orders for me sooner or later."

"You're the chosen of the Goddess, Harold. You should be leading. Where the Goddess is needed."

An itiji warband came down the walkway as they approached the house. Joanne and Leza were walking behind it, dressed in armor with packs on their backs. Joanne was carrying a small sword, Leza had equipped herself with a war hammer.

The leader of the warband halted his party beside the house. The eight itiji ranged behind him settled into a defensive formation, heads turning like well oiled machines as they scanned their surroundings, left, right, up, down.

"We're here to escort you to the river, Harold. We're supposed to get around the infiltrators before they cut us off from the river."

"You're running away," Jila-Jen said. "Isn't that it? The humans are running away."

"We're supposed to establish a position near the river. That's all I've been told."

"So the humans can run away. While the rest of us die."