Shadows Burned In (7 page)

“Moralir, split our forces and circle around the slope to
the west. I will meet them here and charge down the hill to slow them down. You
will, after our battle has begun, hit their right flank from the west.” It was
a plan she had discussed earlier with her captain. If they were lucky, they
could use the enemy’s greater numbers against them. If they could box them in
against the
Y
the rivers made
where they joined, Elsbyth’s forces could limit the front upon which the enemy
could fight. And while each row of Companions might face row after row of Orcs
and Goblins, most of the enemy would be bottled up behind those few that could
reach the Companions on the front line. This was, at least, the hope of the
plan.

“Yes, my Queen.”

Moralir rode off, and as Elsbyth looked down the long, slow
slope of “the Hill of Hope” as she’d come to call it, she saw half her force
turn and begin to gallop to the west.

“Horse Companions of Rheanna!” she called out. “For the
glory of our fathers! And the hopes of your children! To me!”

A great cheer erupted from below, and 5,000 Horse Companions
galloped up the hill to stand beside her. The lead Orcs topped the hill
immediately to their front across the wide valley. When the Orcs saw their lone
target joined by so many more, they drew to a jerking halt, daunted by the
prospect of facing cavalry in an open field. They began bellowing at each
another, cursing one another for cowards, and finally decided to wait until
more of their force arrived before attacking. Elsbyth smiled as Moralir’s
prediction came true before her eyes, for this would give the good captain and
his 5,000 riders time to circle around to the west under the cover of the
hillside.

The number of the enemy swelled, their howls increasingly
murderous. The Companions had to console their horses, which snorted in fear at
the stink and clamor of a foul enemy so near. With their scouts waiting for
them on the next hill, the great bulk of the Orcs and Goblins topped the
hillcrest two slopes away, a writhing mass of creatures. Glinting from the
sharpened edges of their axes, hammers, and maces, the afternoon sun provided
the only brightness in their ranks. Covered in black armor, the Orcs and
Goblins seemed to eat the sunlight, a mass of huge, black maggots covering the green
grass of Rheanna. As their scouts had done moments before, they caught sight of
the enemy, but such were the numbers of the Orcs in this lead column that they
were undaunted by the Companions on the hill in front of them. The war bosses,
their whips cracking on the backs of their Goblin warriors, redoubled their
efforts to drive forward and crush the thin line of horse before them.

A blanket of blackness covered the Plain of Rheanna as far
as the eye could see, and when the main force of Orcs finally topped the hill
immediately in front of her, Elsbyth raised Ulaemeth’s sword high again. Time
itself seemed to draw out the sweet agonies of the battle to come as the enemy’s
main force began to move down their hill. Long moments of short breaths passed
before the creatures reached the valley floor directly below the Companions.

“For Rheanna!” screamed Elsbyth. Sweeping Ulaemeth’s blade
around her head, she led her riders down the hill. At first they trotted
forward, long-practiced discipline ensuring their line cohered as one. Then the
bloodlust kicked in and the Companions thundered down the hill. The great tide
of Orcs and Goblins began to slow their advance, a low moan of hesitation
coming from the front ranks. Never before in this war had their enemy charged
so outnumbered and so boldly. They seemed content to defend old keeps, as
Ulaemeth had done at Caer Adwaer.

But now the Companions brought the battle to them, and the
front-line Orcs hesitated, turning back upon their fellows, as if the moon had
shifted orbit and forced the ocean’s tide to flow back into an insistent sea.
The great block that had moved as one now swarmed in confusion and two
different directions. Line sergeants cracked their whips and screamed “Shield
wall!” at their subordinates, but most ignored the order. Here the enemy’s
numbers worked against them, and they stumbled over one another.

Such was the squirming mass engaged by the Horse Companions
of Rheanna, led by the Warrior-Queen Elsbyth, Widow of Ulaemeth the Fallen. The
riders hit them with the full shock of thundering horse upon disordered foot
soldiers. Charging downhill multiplied the impact. Though the Orcs turned away
from cursing one another’s clumsiness and swung their weapons lustily, the
blades of the Companions found their marks much more often. On the hill behind
the battle, the Goblin archers had begun to assemble to fire their volleys at
the Companions, but the jammed chaos below had finally made its way back to the
hillcrest, where the archers had taken position. No sooner had they hastily
drawn into line and begun to nock their arrows than the forces behind, still
unaware of the battle, and those ahead—half turning back in fear, and the other
half cursing those who turned back—beset their own archers from two sides. Goblins
squealed as they were trampled underfoot by their heavier Orc brethren. Those
arrows that were loosed flew in all directions, including straight up, and most
found marks not in the Horse Companions, but in their own kind.

But now the enemy below, spurred on by the whips of the war
bosses, had begun to assemble into something more than a rabble and fought back
with determination against the Companions. Having spent the shock of their
attack, Elsbyth’s troopers found themselves in the heart of every rider’s
fear—surrounded on all sides, and with the enemy aiming its blows at their
horses, soon to be grounded and overwhelmed by hungry blades.

Now the screams of the horses drowned out the confusion of
the enemy as the Orcs turned their axes to the task of grounding the riders. Companions
raised their mounts from colts, breeding them not simply as warhorses but as
beloved members of the family, always feeding and stabling their horses before
caring for themselves. The riders fought to keep their mounts safe, shielding
them as best they could. But with the fighting so close, many Companions began
to fall. Holes in their line opened up, opportunities the enemy was quick to
exploit.

Elsbyth’s eyes filled with tears as she realized the price
they were paying for a victory she was still sure was theirs. In ones and twos,
she saw her Companions—once stirrup to stirrup, a wall of horses mounted by
Rheanna’s finest warriors—begin to disintegrate under the sheer weight of the
Dark Army’s numbers. She swung Ulaemeth’s sword against that surging wave as
the Orcs’ initial confusion was beaten into murderous rage by the whips of
their war bosses.

(how could you have believed it possible to triumph)

“No!”

Elsbyth swung her sword, cleaving the head of an Orc in two.

(give up now, the odds are too great, you’ll only lose in
the end anyway)

“No!”

Caomos screamed as an iron axe bit into his shoulder, and
Elsbyth felt him shudder beneath her.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be . . .”

(this is how it is, just give up now)

“No!” With Ulaemeth’s sword, Elsbyth, the Warrior-Queen of
Rheanna, struck down the Orc that had sliced Caomos with its axe, and its black
blood spurted to the ground as another stepped up from the horde to take its
place.

But in the face of the flood, as the Dark Army plugged the
gap in its line with another of Mallus’s minions, the doubt left Elsbyth’s mind
and she refocused on her faith in the day’s victory. Though she and her Horse
Companions were being forced backward, up the hill, they fought on to keep the
Orcs from completely surrounding them. Defending their horses first, they
forced great cost upon the enemy that strove to hew them down. Though in truth
she knew not how their dwindling numbers could defeat the resurging tide of the
enemy, Elsbyth’s faith that it could be done seemed to inspire her Companions,
who fought on beside her with renewed vigor.

The great warhorn of Rheanna sounded and, almost as one,
Companion and enemy alike turned their eyes toward the west. Two great foes
stood intermingled, weapons raised to destroy one another, motionless for a
single moment. And in the next, the hooves of 5,000 Horse Companions of Rheanna
thundered from the west, riding stirrup to stirrup across the broad width of
the valley, threatening the open flank of the stinking horde pressing itself
against the riders on the hill.

A wail of yellow fear erupted from the Orcs, spreading
eastward across the whole of the Dark Army as its soldiers realized they were
boxed in by riders to the front and right flank. Still dealing with the
confusion of meeting open battle before expected, the Orcs on the hill to the
rear and the forces behind them began to panic. Almost as one body they turned
away from the battle and began pushing their fellows back, screaming about the
tens of thousands of Rheannan Companions falling upon them.

A grateful cheer went up from Elsbyth and her riders, and
they found renewed strength in the enemy’s rout. Even Caomos, though bleeding
heavily, snorted his enthusiasm. The Orcs, their certainty in numbers draining
from them, ran in mad flight from the pursuing horse lords.

The Dark Army disintegrated. If ever foot soldiers could
outrace horses, it seemed today would be the day for it. As she rallied her
Companions to pursue the fleeing enemy, Elsbyth knew this was the precise
moment they could crush Mallus’s forces against the rivers to the south.

“
Victory
!” Elsbyth shouted in elation, knowing in the
space of a single second the Land of Rheanna was saved and that Mallus himself,
the Dark King, the Enemy of the Ages, would be pushed from this world forever.
She pulled Caomos up short and looked beyond the Hill of Hope, now stained
wine-red with blood, and watched as her Companions drove the evil from the
field.

Elsbyth smiled her pride as she consoled Caomos for his
wound. With this battle she had turned the tide, made the difference, and now
it was a mere matter of mopping up to ensure a safe and peaceful future for all
in the land. Her heart would have leapt from her chest had she given it leave
to do so, and at last the young girl in the Lycra suit knew the value of faith
in her cause as Elsbyth, the Warrior-Queen of Rheanna.

Chapter 7

Still smiling, Elizabeth said, “Program, save” and stepped
out of the tank. Removing the headset, she took a long, deep breath of
satisfaction. She had written the story herself. Sometimes she played different
characters, occasionally even on the Dark King’s side, but most often as
Elsbyth.

“Let’s go back!”
said her 3V self.
“Let’s go back
and finish ’em.”

Stripping off the interactive suit, she scrunched her nose
up. She’d definitely sweated during the battle, no doubt about that. “No,
that’s enough for one night,” she said, tired but delighted.
Well
,
she
thought,
at least the bodysuit is machine washable
.

That made her think of her mom, which brought up the prickly
question from the back of her mind, forgotten in the Land of Rheanna. There was
absolute silence in the other room.
They must’ve finished for the evening
,
she thought sarcastically to herself.
I wonder how long they went on for
this time
.

She looked at the clock.

Oh my God
. . .

It was three o’clock in the morning. Her parents had been so
wrapped up in their battle, they’d left her entirely to her own. She’d played
for over eight hours, and that meant she’d be dead tired tomorrow.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit
.

Elizabeth quickly toweled off, shut down the 3V tank, and
climbed under the covers.
I’ve got to get to sleep, I’ve got to get to sleep
. . .

She thought that mantra to herself for a full hour before
finally drifting off.

“Monitor calling.”

The feminine voice repeated its hail in an affectionate,
may-I-be-of-service tone. There was nothing quite as perverse as that measured,
not-quite-cheerful sound when you hadn’t had enough rest.

“Attention, Elizabeth.”

The prerecorded, helpful voice became a tad more insistent,
as if saying,
No, really, for your own good
. . .
“Monitor
calling.”

Elizabeth had been dreaming of her fictional husband,
Ulaemeth, and how he’d wrapped his arms around her, kissed her, and told her
how proud he was of her for defeating Mallus. He whirled her around in their
joy and told her how she’d given meaning to his death through her victory. And
then he stopped suddenly, looking around, as if hearing demons pricking at his
ears with their pitchforks.

“What is it, dearest?” she’d asked. “What’s the matter?”

Ulaemeth looked her straight in the eye, his face falling,
and suddenly he was her father, looking sternly at her. “There’s an ale house
in southern Rheanna that needs a barmaid,” he said. “And that’s where you’ll
end up. Queen of the Ale. That’s what’ll happen if you don’t answer.”

“Answer?”

(monitor calling)

“You think because you won the battle against the Dark King
you
deserve
to wear that crown?” her father asked. Ulaemeth’s armor had
been replaced by his dress shirt and slacks, a loose tie dangling from around
his neck, his shirt sleeves rolled up. “If you don’t answer, you’ll amount to
nada, zilcho. You’ll be a huge disappointment to your mother and me.”

“But—”

“
Wake up
!” he screamed, and she shot straight up in
bed. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. She was panting, almost crying.

“Elizabeth Jackson. If you do not answer the monitor now,
you will be counted as absent from today’s lessons.” The voice sounded downright
prosecutorial now. But in a helpful way.

“Login Elizabeth Jackson!” she said desperately, cursing
herself for oversleeping and knowing it would get back to her parents.

“Login complete,” came the smug-sounding reply.

A video portrait of her monitor appeared in the upper-right
corner of the screen, along with the four smaller portraits of her classmates
lined up along the bottom. They all looked put out at having to wait on her.
Monitor Skinner particularly. Debbie Maselic, class kiss-up and brain, seemed
outraged at having to miss a minute of her education. Michael Miller looked
relieved to see her at last, though he made a stern face and darted his eyes up
and to the left to indicate that Mr. Skinner was not in a great mood. The
others just looked bored to be there, but glad to see that Skinner’s Evil Eye had
settled on someone else for the moment.

“Good morning, Miss Jackson,” said Skinner. “So glad you
could join us this morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Skinner,” she said, trying to put on a
good face. “I’m sorry to be late, I just—”

“Overslept by the look of things,” he finished for her. His
eyes raked over her. As always, he could only see her from the shoulders up.
But that was enough. He noted her disheveled hair, her rumpled clothes, her
generally distracted, fatigued demeanor. “Were we up late playing 3V games
again?”

Horrified at the question, Elizabeth stammered, “Uh, well,
sir, I—”

“Mr. Skinner,” broke in Michael, “didn’t we finish up
yesterday with the South firing on Fort Sumter?”

“Michael to the rescue!”
her 3V self exulted.

“Quiet, Mr. Miller. When I require your newfound love of
history to remind me of my lesson plan, you will be the first to know.”

Michael’s face deflated. Debbie Maselic smirked. The rest of
the class continued looking bored as Elizabeth struggled with the decision to
tell an obvious lie in hopes of keeping her 3V privileges. Or, at least, to try
to keep the situation from getting any worse by telling the truth.

“We’re waiting, Miss Jackson,” breathed Skinner.

“Um, well, sir,” she struggled, “I did play 3V games last
night, but not past ten o’clock. But I had such a hard time sleeping. It was
almost three o’clock this morning before I finally fell asleep.” Well, a
half-lie was, by definition, half of the truth. Wasn’t it?

“Hmmm,” said Skinner, giving the impression he almost
believed her. “Then I must let the sysop for webgames know that his software is
failing.”

Elizabeth didn’t understand. But she thought he was having a
joke at her expense. “Sir?”

“Your game log here in front of me says you were on till
nearly three
A.M
.
Actively
, I might
add.”

Michael rolled his eyes. Debbie smirked again.

I forgot the log! Now what do I do, what do I do?

Ever since the courts had ruled webschools legally liable for
a child’s educational achievements, certified monitors had full access to all
recordable data regarding
anything
that might impact a student’s ability
to learn. Webgame logins were easy to keep track of, so they were loaded
automatically as part of the monitor’s morning checkup on his students before
lessons began.

“Did you lie to me a moment ago, Miss Jackson?”

She thought desperately of a way out of it, of some way she
could convince Skinner it had been a mistake, not a lie; an error, not a
deception. Maybe she had fallen asleep online and, while dreaming in the
I-suit, had jerked enough to fool the program into thinking she was actively
playing. Or maybe she could say someone else had taken over her game for her
and played it late while she went to sleep, and it just
looked
like
she’d still been playing all that time. But no, who could she blame for that?

“Miss Jackson?”

She didn’t have any real friends in this town, certainly
none that would sleep over.

“Blame Michael.”

The thought appealed to her at first. She glanced at the
lower left picture-in-picture on-screen. The look on his face melted her heart.
He looked as if he only needed a horse and lance to ride to her rescue.

“Say it was a sleepover.”

No
.

“Miss Jackson, you are dis
missed
from class today.”

Her brain cleared immediately. “Wh—?”

“You heard me,” said Skinner. He raised an eyebrow. “Or,
perhaps you didn’t. Lack of sleep often leads to distracted behavior.”
Skinner’s tone let her know his patience had run out. “So, I’ll repeat it for
you: You’re dismissed from
class
today.”

“But—”

“You will be required to make up the work before the end of
the term.”

Not another makeup exam. She’d gotten lucky yesterday,
though she’d studied hard, it was true.

“Mr. Skinner, okay, I was playing last night . . .”

She darted her eyes to the others for help. Debbie looked
smug, glad to be rid of the diversion from her lessons. Michael looked ready to
cry out of sympathy. The others still just looked bored.

“Your parents will be notified that you have missed the day.
Under the appropriate clause in the Parent-School Responsibility Sharing Act,
it is
they
, not I, who will shoulder responsibility for your unexcused
absence. The school will not be held accountable for your failure to learn
today, and your parents will not be reimbursed for today’s prorated tuition.”

Her whole body felt numb with the certain fear of what was
to come. “Mr. Skinner,
please
.”

The monitor sighed. “It is unfortunate, Miss Jackson,
particularly in light of your improvement yesterday. But discipline is not
something that can be shirked. Perhaps some words from your parents will ensure
your proper rest and prompt login in the future. As it is, you’ve wasted ten
minutes of the other students’ class time already today.”

Tears were streaming down her face now. “But you don’t
understand, if you call my father, he’ll—”

“That is
all
for today, Miss Jackson. Good-bye.”
Skinner reached forward and tapped a button. His image disappeared.

Elizabeth sat on the bed, staring open-mouthed at the dead
screen in front of her, listening to the prickly, fuzzy electrons dying on its
surface. The final echo of Skinner’s reprimand soaked into the walls, and her
ears tried to catch and hold on to it, anything to keep what had just happened
from being final.

But then there was only silence except for her sobbing. She
wiped her nose with the bedcovers. She could see it all now, as if her own play
were unfolding before her act by act, scene by scene. It would happen this way:
After the day’s lessons had ended, the monitor would call and her mother would
get the message. And she might make a half-hearted attempt to deal with
Elizabeth herself, but she was never very good at that sort of thing, so she
would rely on Elizabeth’s father to discipline their daughter. Then her father
would get home and her mother would look for a good time to tell him what the
monitor had said, and she would realize that there
was
no good time, and
so, to get it off her chest, she would interrupt
Web Report
, which was
the
worst
time to tell him, and then he would be all the angrier because
it only confirmed that he thought Elizabeth was a failure, and then he would
lay into her, ending his diatribe with a revocation of her 3V privileges for
God knows how long

(depends on how bad
Web Report
is)

and then she would be in hell for that time, listening to
them fight constantly with nowhere to hide from it.

Elizabeth sobbed harder at the paralyzing hopelessness of it
all.

After a few moments, she gathered herself together and
looked at the clock. Just after eight in the morning. Her father would have
gone to his office already, but her mother would still be here cleaning up
after breakfast and getting ready to go shopping online for the next couple of
hours. Elizabeth knew she couldn’t stay here today, alone in her room, awaiting
the inevitable. She began to plan how she might get past her mother on guard in
the kitchen. Just thinking of her mother that way—
on guard
—made her
wonder if Dad hadn’t posted Mom there to ensure Elizabeth attended webschool.
It made her angry to think, despite today’s evidence, that such diligence might
actually be warranted. That was
beside
the point, after all. That her
father might not trust her—that
really
made her mad!

“All right then,” she said out loud to the empty 3V screen.
“If that’s what he thinks, then that’s what he thinks. If we’re going to be
punished for last night, we might as well make it count!”

She wiped her eyes and nose one more time on her nightshirt
and took it off to prepare for the day. She put on some jeans, tennis shoes,
and a T-shirt with a 3-D imprint claiming that Elvis The King (whoever that
was) was long dead but that Mick Forrest—his apparent replacement from
Liverpool, birthplace of The Beatles (whoever they were)—should long live
hereafter. She put a change of clothes in her backpack, which she’d bought for
a family camping trip that had never happened, and put on a baseball cap, her
hair hanging loosely beneath.

Elizabeth pushed the keypad next to her bedroom door, which
slid open about two inches, swishing all too loudly as far as she was concerned.
She could hear the morning news coming through the kitchen’s 3V as her mother
placed the morning’s dishes into the washer for cleaning. She saw her mom’s
shadow dancing on the part of the kitchen floor she could see from her room.