Women of War (13 page)

Tierney and Isien landed beside her, taking the opportunity to breathe for a moment, safe behind the giant's bulk.

Scraping at her face, Brae peeled one eye open. “Champions,” she growled, spitting a mouthful of dark blood at the sand, “are overrated.”

“Tell Cullen,” Isien gasped.

“I would ... Balo, stop licking me ...” she said, pushing her hound's face away, “but it looks like he's missed the battle after all.”

“The battle's ... not over.”

“When it is,” Tierney growled wearily, “and when I get my hands on him ...”

“If ...”

“When,” he repeated firmly. “I'm gonna bite him from here to Ynys-Witrin and back. Magic beans. He's not worth a handful of magic beans.”

“Was he worth a pair of magic weapons?” Brae asked softly.

Tierney sighed. “I'll let you know when the battle
is
over. But I know one thing, I wish we'd kept them ourselves,” he added as a goblin face and an arm brandishing a long, bronze sword suddenly loomed over the giant's body. “Diord Fionn!” he shouted as he flung himself toward the creature, the hounds in tow.

“Right, diord whatever,” Isien muttered as she dragged herself up to join him. Brae scraped the last of the blood from her eyes with a disgusted grimace before following her.

 

The fighting continued without abatement all through the next day. Dolar Durba in his coracle got closer and closer to land as his giants began to throw the Fianna back again despite the otherworldly weapons wielded by their leaders. As a dozen giants finally broke through their lines, the Sea King's son gave a great shout of triumph and leaped ashore, but before he could close with the first of his enemies, there came the sudden and eerie call of hunting horns rising up over the battle like the wail of a thousand banshees. Everyone on the beach froze. Otherworldly baying filled the air and, as the hounds of the Fianna took up the call, the capstone from an ancient, half-buried portal grave nearby suddenly exploded into the sky. It sailed a dozen feet to come crashing down before Dolar Durba as a hundred great white hounds with red-tipped ears and blazing eyes poured from the entrance. A legion of Tuatha De Dannan led by Gwyn ap Nudd himself followed. They threw themselves against the Fomair, every slash of teeth and bronze and silver weapons striking true and, with a great cheer, the Fianna rallied behind them.

Brae gave a shout of joy as she recognized the young hound running beside the alpha male. It leaped for Dolar Durba and he aimed a blow at its head, but before it could strike true or wide, a great, white she-hound flung herself upon him, snarling and howling. He toppled over into the surf in surprise. The dog savaged him, striking with lightning speed at his face and hands and throat. Soon the water churned with greenish black blood. He finally managed to throw her off and dove for deeper water, swimming desperately for his coracle. Bristling with fury, the she-hound then turned on the nearest giant with the younger hound at her side.

The fight went out of the Fomair soon after that. With their leader wounded and running for his life, the remaining giants fled into the surf after him. Those that couldn't follow were brought to bay by the Cwn Annwn, who drove them into the waiting blades of their masters. The battalions of Fianna turned to pursue those who'd made their way inland and, by the time the sun touched the waves to the west, the battle was over.

On the beach, Fionn mac Cumhail returned the sword and spear to the Lord of Annwn with much ceremony while his commanders clasped hands with the Tuatha De Danann; the hounds of the Fianna mingled happily with the Cwn Annwn after the alpha male and Fothran had made a bristling circle of each other, and the remaining children of Diardin flung themselves onto their brother—pointedly ignoring a furious scolding from Cunnaun. The white she-hound trotted over to the lord's side, and suddenly their mother stood before them. An attendant handed her cloak to Gwyn ap Nudd and he draped it over her shoulders before fixing her children with a reproving stare.

“You should have told me you were Diardin's,” he said sternly. “I would never have taken one of her children for my own had I known of it. But,” he said with a softer expression, “if she allows it, you may run with my Cwn Annwn any time you wish, especially you, little male,” he said fondly. “For you are a fine hunter.”

Cullen made to answer, but at a swift look from his mother, closed his mouth again, and just smiled as the lord glanced out at the setting sun before offering Diardin his arm.

“It grows late, My Lady,” he said formally. “Shall we take our leave or will you tarry here a while?”

“I'm ready to return home,” she replied. Accepting his arm, she fixed her children with a firm stare. “Look after Cullen,” she said to the two eldest. “
Properly.
I don't want to have to deal with this sort of nonsense again. And you,” she turned a dark gaze on her youngest son, “are too old to have your mother running to your rescue every five minutes. It's time you grew up a little.” She kissed him to take the sting from her words. “Come and visit in the autumn.”

The two then swept away, the Tuatha and the Cwn Annwn flowing after them. Cullen watched them go with a wistful expression until Brae bumped him with her shoulder.

“So, where's your rock, pup?” she asked.

He gave her a sheepish grin. “With my pack.”

“Good thing they didn't need to count it then, isn't it?” Fishing through her belt pouch, she handed him the worn piece of limestone. “Try to pick a smaller one next time, will you? It nearly broke my wrist.”

He nodded.

Beside them, Tierney watched the last of the Tuatha De Dannan file through the portal grave, before turning to Cullen. “So how'd Mam get you back, whelp?” he asked.

The younger brother glared at him and he raised his hands with a grin. “Hey, I didn't say why, I said how.”

“She just told him to,” Cullen answered haughtily.

“That was all?”

“Mm-hm.”

“So, how did she get him to commit his army?”

“Again, she just told him to.”

“But why would he obey her?”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Well, yeah, but ...” Tierney rubbed his ear. “Yeah,” he allowed.

Giving him a smug look, Cullen turned to stare at the coracle almost out of sight on the distant waves. “So, it looks like it did come down to a set of champions whacking away at each other after all,” he said in an accusatory tone. “Mam and the King of the Sea's son. Some advantage to miss an entire battle for.”

Beside them, Cunnaun snorted loudly. “It came down to a mother hound defending her whelp,” he said, glancing down at Cullen. “Whelp.”

“What kind of advantage is that?”

“The oldest advantage there is.” He turned away. “Now for Ahu's sake, put some clothes on; we have burials to see to,” he said over his shoulder. “And hero or not, you're doing your share.”

“I'd still have rather won with my own sword,” Cullen growled, glaring resentfully at the man's back.

“And you will,” Brae answered. “One day. That's the advantage of winning. You get to win again.” Throwing one arm over his shoulder, she drew him back to the beach. Tierney and Isien followed, their hounds in tow, while behind them the sound of fleeing giants faded into the distance.

WE STILL HAVE ONE HELL of a lot of colonists to get off this rock before we can leave.” Captain Rose frowned out at Sho'quo Company's three surviving Second Lieutenants and the senior NCOs. “And every ship going up is going to need an escort to keep it from being blown to hell by the Others, so we're on Captain Allon's timetable. Given the amount of action up there ...” He paused to allow the distant crack of a vacuum jockey dipping into atmosphere to carry the point. “We may be down here for a while. Bottom line, we have to hold Simunthitir because we have to hold the port.”

“The Others have secured the mines,” Second Lieutenant di' Pin Arver muttered, her pale orange hair flipping back and forth in agitation. “You'd think they'd be happy to be rid of us.”

“
I'd
think so. Unfortunately, they don't seem to.” The captain thumbed the display on his slate, and a three dimensional map of Simunthitir rose up out of the holo-pad on the table. “Good news is, we're up against a mountain, so as long as our air support keeps kicking the ass of their air support, they can only come at us from one side. Bad news is, we have absolutely no maneuvering room and we're significantly outnumbered even if they only attack with half of what they've got on the ground.”

In Staff Sergeant Torin Kerr's not inconsiderable experience, even the best officers liked to state the obvious. For example:
significantly outnumbered.
Sho'quo Company had been sent off to this mining colony theoretically to make a statement of force to the Other's scouts. They'd since participated in a rout and now were about to make one of those heroic last stands that played so well on the evening news. No one had apparently told the enemy that they were merely doing reconnaissance and they had, as a result, sent two full battalions—or the Other's equivalent—to take the mines.

“Lieutenant Arver, make sure your remaining STAs ...”

And what fun, they'd already lost two of their six surface to air missiles.

“... are positioned to cover the airspace immediately over the launch platform. See if you can move one of them up here.”

A red light flared on the targeting grid overlaying the map.

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant keyed the position into her slate.

“Set your mortars up on level four. I want them high enough to have some range but not so high that any return fire they draw may damage the port. You're going to have to take out their artillery or we are, to put it bluntly, well and truly screwed. Staff Sergeant Doctorow ...”

“Sir.”

Doctorow's platoon had lost its Second Lieutenant in the first exchange.

“I want all accesses to the launch platform in our hands ASAP. We don't need a repeat of Beniger.”

With the Others beating down the door, the civilians of Beniger had rushed the ships. The first had taken off so overloaded, it had crashed back, and blown the launch pad and half the port. Granted, any enemy in the immediate area had also been fried, but Torin figured the dead of Beniger considered that cold comfort.

“Lieutenant Garly, I want one of your squads on stretcher duty. Get our wounded up into port reception and ready to be loaded once all the civilians are clear. Take position on the second level but mark a second squad in case things get bad.”

“Sir.”

“Lieutenant Franks ...”

Torin felt the big man beside her practically quiver in anticipation.

“You'll hold the first level.”

“Sir!”

Just on the periphery of her vision, Torin saw Staff Sergeant Amanda Aman's mouth twitch and Torin barely resisted the urge to smack her. Franks, Torin's personal responsibility, while no longer a rookie, still had few shiny expectations that flared up at inconvenient moments. He no longer bought into the romance of war—his first time out had taken care of that—but he continued to buy into the romance of the warrior. Every now and then, she could see the desire to do great things rise in his eyes.

Torin didn't so much want Lieutenant Franks to live on after he died as to live on for a good long time, so she smacked that desire down every time she saw it and worried about what would happen should it make an appearance when she wasn't around. The enemy smacked down with considerably more force. And their music sucked.

The captain swept a level stare around the gathered Marines. “Remember that our primary objective is to get the civilians out and then haul ass off this rock. We hold the port long enough to achieve this.”

“Captain.”
First Sergeant Chigma's voice came in on the company channel.
“We've got a reading on the unfriendlies.”

“On my way.” He swept a final gaze over the Marines in the room and nodded. “You've got your orders, people.”

Emerging from the briefing room—previously known as the Simunthitir Council Chamber—the noise of terrified civilians hit Torin like a physical blow. While no one out of diapers was actually screaming, everyone seemed to feel the need to express their fear. Loudly. As if maybe Captain Allon would send down more frequent escorts from the orbiting carrier if he could only hear how desperate things had gotten.

Captain Rose stared around at the milling crowds. “Why are these people not at the port, First?”

“Port Authorities are taking their time processing, sir.”

“Processing?”

“Rakva.”

Although many of the Confederation's Elder Races made bureaucracy a fine art, the Rakva reveled in it. Torin, who after twelve years in the Corps wasn't surprised by much, had once watched a line of the avians patiently filling out forms in triplicate in order to use a species-specific sanitary facility. Apparently the feathers and rudimentary beaks weren't sufficient proof of species identification.