The Given Sacrifice (20 page)

Silence fell for about three minutes while Cole searched his memory for the obscure
ancient reference to distract himself from the way the time stretched out. Then Wellman
sighed again and looked at Sergeant Halford.

“Jack?” he said, startling everyone by using the man’s first name.

That seemed to be some sort of signal; Halford’s face lost its military stiffness
for a moment.

“Kid’s right,” he said. “Time to get it over with.”

“You’ve got a point,” Wellman said, turning back to Cole. “There’s only one way this
war is going to end, anyway; let’s get it done before the country gets ripped up any
worse than it has. Where is this place?”

Cole exchanged another look with Alyssa, and she nodded slightly. They weren’t supposed
to tell anyone, but it was the only way to pull this off.

He gave the directions. Wellman grinned, this time a mirthless carnivore expression.

“Just in case you hadn’t noticed, corporal, there’s a Cutter observation post on the
roof of that building.”

Cole gulped; he hadn’t.

Wellman went on: “But hey, sneaking around is supposed to be what Special Forces do,
right? Let’s go do it.”

•   •   •

Mary got within six paces of Ingolf before he realized she was there. He didn’t start,
which must have disappointed her, but she silently touched his forearm and moved her
fingers in front of his eyes:

Come.

He followed, slowly—there just wasn’t any other way to move quietly in woods at night,
especially unfamiliar woods. He
did
start when something the size of a medium dog scurried away noisily through the underbrush
with a crackling and rustling; probably a raccoon.
It
didn’t have to do anything but run like hell, a desire which he viewed with profound
sympathy. Up from the edge of the river the trees were smaller and scrubby, grown
up since the Change except for a few that had been planted in the old days for shade
and ornament. The only thing left of buildings was a few snags of wall. . . .

And the Dúnedain leaders were grouped around one of those, unmistakable from the sketches
at the briefing. Ingolf came up and went down on one knee; the others were too, or
making like snakes on their bellies—this was only a hundred yards from the wall, although
when you looked back you saw that there was artfully arranged dead ground most of
the way to the river. Cole Salander was there, and Alyssa Larsson, neither of whom
he’d expected to see alive again, deep down. And a man he didn’t recognize, in Boise’s
Special Forces summer camouflage uniform. That
wasn’t
part of the plan; the two were supposed to guide the assault force in by themselves.

As he came close he heard Alleyne Loring say something in Sindarin, his mellifluous
aristo-English accent obvious even through the alien syllables. The only other one
like it Ingolf had ever heard was Alleyne’s elderly father, and it had made some old
books he’d read make more sense. Alyssa answered abruptly and in English:

“Yes, of course they’re trustworthy, Uncle Alleyne—that’s why they sent both of us,
to show that we’re not under threat. Now, are we going to do this?”

“You’re not, we are, Pilot Officer,” Loring said. “Salander, you’re with . . . Mary,
Ritva, Ingolf, Ian. John, feed a link in after them.”

“Lead it in, more like,” the big man said imperturbably in his soft burring accent
that rendered
more like
as
murr loik
.

Loring nodded. “Confirm that all’s well on the other end and relay the code.”

Alyssa didn’t complain, though even in the darkness he thought he could see she’d
like to.

In the soup again,
Ingolf thought.
Christ, the things I do. . . .

The hidden door was cleverly concealed; an aluminum slab had random pieces of rock
and brick fixed to it, and enough soil to grow honest-to-goodness plants, all cunningly
arranged to overlap the opening. A counterweighted lever system opened it from within.

Mary flashed Ingolf a thumbs-up as she followed her sister in; all he could see was
an indistinct flash of one blue eye behind her mask. She made the same gesture to
Alyssa, who was a cousin—daughter of her mother’s brother—and got the purse-lipped
glare and elevated middle finger of resentment as she passed. Alyssa mouthed something
silently; no way of telling what, but something along the lines of
you big blond horse
wouldn’t have surprised him.

Fred Thurston had described the tunnel concisely, and Ingolf’s hands and feet found
the metal rungs set into the concrete wall without trouble.

“Go,” he said softly, as Ian landed beside him.

His voice fell into the void with the flatness of still enclosed air. The near-absolute
dark grew worse still as the five went forward, each guiding themselves with a hand
on the wall. The scent of damp concrete and old stagnant water was strong in the chilly
air, and occasionally his boots made a
tack
sound in a shallow film of it as they slanted downward towards the bottom of the
tunnel’s curve. It was probably some sort of pre-Change engineering work mostly, and
he could almost feel the monstrous weight of the city wall above. Perhaps it went
by an old building’s foundations that were taking the weight. He certainly hoped so.

There must be drainage, but it was far from perfect, and the film of water turned
to a shallow puddle when they reached the bottom. He could feel it when the floor
started to climb again, you always could, especially when you were in full gear—even
a slope invisible to the eye was all too obvious to the legs. Everyone drew a weapon,
mostly daggers; Ingolf thought of his bowie and decided on the tomahawk he kept tucked
through a loop at the back of his belt. If it came to it, he wanted something handy
in close quarters, and the light axe had stood him in good stead before.

Knife-fights
in the dark,
in a
cave.
Wouldn’t that be a treat, not knowing who you were hitting. Christ, the things I do. . . .

The tunnel was fairly broad, enough for three men to move abreast and high enough
that he could only just touch the top with the poll of his belt-axe when he put an
arm up. In the darkness it was impossible to tell whether it was pre-Change, or something
the elder Thurston had installed to have up his sleeve. Apparently the workmen hadn’t
talked, his elder son hadn’t told anyone before he died, and the secret remained safe
with the younger. That would end tonight, one way or another.

From what Fred said, his dad arranged this when his grip on Boise was still shaky
and kept it close because it might turn out handy. It’s doable for the numbers we
have planned, but it’s still going to be tight,
he thought, as they came to a halt as much by instinct as anything else.

Cole Salander tapped out a sequence somewhere in the blackness ahead, softly, knuckle
on solid-sounding metal. There was a breath of warmer air and . . . not exactly light,
but not-quite-total darkness. Then a small glimpse of genuine light above them, a
beam from a bull’s-eye lantern, the dull gleam of roughened piping set in the wall
for climbing, and a voice:

“Up here, and quick. There are Cutters on the roof three stories up, so keep it quiet.”

Oh, joy,
Ingolf thought.
We’ve got enemy ass right over our heads ready to dump on us. This night just gets
better and better. Christ, the things I do. . . .

Mary and Ritva went up first, climbing with the light silent grace of cats. Ian Kovalevsky
followed, and then Ingolf, noting in passing that the trapdoor was a solid block of
concrete with a square of worn old-style synthetic glued to its top. That would overlap
onto the surface beyond, concealing any line, and the trap itself was beveled in all
around the edge, fitting into a similar circuit in the floor. A counterweighted lever
mechanism raised it; the thing was four feet on a side, and far too heavy to lift
by hand. A splendid little asset, now being expended for its one and only use, fulfilling
the purpose for which it had been made.

They were in a walk-in closet as they came out; that gave onto a smallish room that
had probably been an office once, though probably not now since it had neither gaslights
nor an exterior window. Beyond the frosted-glass cubicle was a sense of shadowy gloom
around them, and concrete pillars; what had been something called a
parking garage
before the Change, and warehouse space since, the old openings in the walls bricked
up to keep out weather. He’d seen the same done elsewhere, since the ramps between
the floors were perfect for moving loads around.

“I’m Captain Wellman, Special Forces. This is it?” a man a bit older than Ingolf said,
as the two women checked the situation outside and then turned to whisper a code word
down the way they’d come; he had Captain’s bars, the same sort as a lot of the National
Guard insignia in the Midwest, likewise derived from the old American army.

“Ingolf Vogeler, Captain Wellman,” Ingolf said softly, sketching a salute after he
sheathed his weapon.

Carrying an axe to your first conversation was tactless. He could see that the Boisean
officer recognized the name, if not his face. It was a little disconcerting how often
that was happening these days. He’d been well known at home in Readstown, of course,
but he’d been the Sheriff’s son there. And anyway, Readstown was a very small puddle
to be a bullfrog in, and over the wandering years since then he’d gotten used to being
just another stranger to everyone except the people he was working with. In Montival
he was one of the people who’d been on the Quest, Ingolf the Wanderer according to
some bards he’d like to strangle. A certain degree of fame had its drawbacks, and
he made a mental note to figure the likelihood of being known into his calculations.

“Pardon me if we’re not being entirely trusting,” he said. “Last-minute changes of
plan in a major operation give me hives.”

That got a smile, a slight unwilling twitch of the lips, and a nod as from one professional
to another.

More of the Dúnedain came up through the opening in the floor, and then the unmistakable
troll shape of John Hordle. He gave a gesture, holding up two fingers. Ingolf winced
slightly. That meant both-of-you-know-who were on the way across the river along with
the assault echelon, and that was so dangerous he didn’t even say the names to himself.

It’s amazing how much more protective I’ve gotten about Rudi than I was when it was
just the nine of us out in the wildlands. Maybe there’s something to the way he complains
that being king is a lot less fun than
becoming
king.

They were committed now. Wellman nodded at Hordle too, evidently recognizing him on
sight. That wasn’t very surprising, particularly considering how distinctive the man
was; the Dúnedain were Montival’s equivalent of Wellman’s outfit, after all. He seemed
to know his job, which would include finding out all he could about his probable opposition.

A hard-looking dark man had a map spread out on the floor. Ingolf pegged him instantly
for a long-service NCO. They knelt beside it, and Cole’s former superior did too.
This hadn’t been part of the original plan, but you used what came to hand. A quick
glance saw four other men keeping watch through narrow slits in bricked-up arches,
with pairs of Ranger archers joining them and others spreading out through the space.
The bull’s-eye clicked on, opened just enough to show the details.

The map was of Boise, about the same as the ones Ingolf had been studying. The quality
was very high, fine-line engraving on excellent paper waterproofed with wax. Ingolf
heartily approved, remembering times when it had all gone down the three-holer because
someone got lost or didn’t know where something was . . . or worse still, where
they
were, or worst of all was convinced they were somewhere they really weren’t.

“We’re here,” Wellman said, tapping the corner of South Capitol and West Myrtle. “Which
I assume you knew before you came through.”

South Capitol ran southwest from—logically enough—the old State Capitol building,
ending in the main gate complex; Myrtle ran northwest to southeast, crossing it in
a good sensible grid. The building he touched was a rectangular mass a block long
and half a block wide. It never hurt to spend a little more effort getting a good
grasp on the area you had to operate.

The Boisean pointed upward. “Three stories up. At that level, it’s a flat roof for
half the area, and then this section goes up another six.”

He put a sketch down by the map. The higher section was L-shaped, with the bottom
of the L facing Myrtle.

“The part we’re in now was rental storage until trade went to hell. The upper section
is government offices except for the last two floors, which are long-term records
storage.”

Everyone nodded; the higher parts of still-occupied ancient buildings tended to be
used for purposes which didn’t require climbing that many stairs multiple times a
day. Dumping old tax records to be slowly nibbled into oblivion by mice was a typical
one. There were ways to use the old elevator shafts, but they were all expensive,
usually treated as luxuries for rulers and the very wealthy or employed for military
necessities.

Wellman went on: “All deserted at this time of night, even the janitors have gone
home.”

Well, that’s nice to know.
There had been no way to check on little details like that from the outside, and
the devil was in the details.
Maybe Wellman getting involved was a
good
thing.

“The problem is that there’s a Cutter detachment on the flat roof right above us,
keeping an eye on things; they’ve got a perimeter like that around all the approach
roads to the gates on the inside, I presume exactly to guard against an attempt from
within the city to rush one and open it. They’ve got a signal fire ready to go, and
cowhorn trumpets. They report by blowing a signal every hour. It’s not as bad as a
night heliograph, but it’s workable. Nine men, three placed
so
and three mobile and three resting. They’re relieved at sunset, midnight and dawn.”