IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume VI: The Rift
Chapter 50 We Meet at Abojan Pass
Sunday, February 21, 2709,
continued Let’s see...trying to
think...see...yes, that’s it, see—survey the land from this hill...That’s it! Before the garbage ravine starts, there’s a
broad space between the hill and the manor...now full of tents. They must have added people, or maybe figured
out that we went that way before. I
chuckle nervously—that must be the punishment quarters. But no, the smell doesn’t rise so high, that’s
right...and get your mind back where it belongs! The building itself has two
halves, the south half dedicated to storage, that being the coldest
quarter...except I suddenly find myself bewildered as to which way south
lies. My own trembling angers me but I
can’t make it stop. I’m not myself
anymore, not even in little things that I used to rely upon. I have really got to get serious about cutting
back on the greenfire! Well, no helping it,
now–and no room for excuses. We all know
what we came here to do. I suddenly feel
so, so tired, but I suck it up and stick another leaf in my mouth; resolutions
will have to wait till afterwards, if we see an afterwards. It takes a moment. It takes forever. It doesn’t work so well anymore...damn it!
Not now, of all times, don’t fail me now! Oh wait...there, something. Not enough, but something, anything’ll have
to do. Okay, then. I signal my forces and we come whooping down
the hillside, howling out our war-cries like we could make them all drop dead
of heart attacks or something. But I can’t
even feel my heart pound like it used to at times like this, just my feet,
punishing me and the hillside all the way down. We rush the guard, crushing
them under a ragamuffin wave of too many flooding in at once from our unlikely
direction, and it just gets too chaotic to think from there. I stumble at the base of the hill, turn it
into a roll at the last minute like I did it on purpose (and just in time, for
shots fly over me!) and come up with
tent-pegs in hand. I hit behind me
before I strike ahead, feeling the enemy who rushed into my blindspot before I
even know that I do. Speeded reactions
take over–I let them rule my life! I
knock a head with one hand, gash a gun-arm with another, thrill-terrified to
stay a split-second ahead of their trigger-fingers. I roll again on purpose out
of another blast of fire and straight into a foxhole, all the sandbags facing
the wrong way to protect the soldiers from us.
I scuttle about on my knees to fight in that cramped space, tumble into
somebody’s lap, slam my head backwards against his teeth before propelling off
of him into some other guy, kill him, find my arms grabbed and use their pull
backwards to swing my feet up into a frontal assailant’s chin to knock him
unconscious. My captors kindly yank me
to where I can get my footing, writhe from their grasp and finish them off. Now I spin as I fight so
that nobody can ever get behind me–I have become a tornado of war! In seconds I neutralize the whole row and
leap dancing, laughing out of there, and
now I feel it, I do, my heart beating,
beating, beating! More men rush forward
to dance with me, always more. I feel
the flush in my face against the morning breeze, the heat radiating out from
me–oh glory! I don’t shout orders
anymore, I shove and smite, kick and gore, dodge and whirl and sidestep with my
heart in my throat at every near miss, trying to scrabble into hand-to-hand
range before anybody has time to raise a gun and shoot, trying again and again
to keep everyone I engage in such a whirl that their buddies don’t dare shoot
at us, either. I leave another man dead
from a blow to the throat; I don’t keep track of how the others fare, but I
work more to twist out of harm’s way, myself, than anything else right now,
watching for my chance, watching, dodging and scrambling and watching and
hurting and watching... There! The first rappelers skip down the
mountainsides! Now more than ever must
we keep the enemy distracted. I leap up
on a barrel and give out three loud yips, then jump down laughing, twisting
around gunfire. At my signal my reserve
of wild women streak down our hill clad only in bandoliers, boots, and the
savage paint of a badger’s blood, screaming like furies and shooting as they
run, their bare breasts bobbing defiance of the bullets coming back, but we
don’t have armor anyway. And–perfect stroke! Somebody has fired up the
ammunition-shack! Their sounds hidden by
the explosion’s roar, children swarm up the backsides of the cannon-nests and
take down the gunners before they have time to switch to conventional rifles. One cannon still roars—straight
at the cliffs! God NO! I see rebels falling and
then another blast and then dear God, again! I stumble over
bodies–theirs and ours–circling the building for the ladder that I’ve seen in
flight, the one that goes up to the roof, to the cannon meant for me, above all
distractions, firing now at our descending troops. I cringe at the sound of another blast. Idiot! Who needs a ladder? I’ve gone too low on blood-sugar for full
flight, but I can still run up the wall onto the roof and take a flying leap at
the man behind the weaponry. I tackle him and we fall
hard on the roof, skittering and sliding over its terracotta corrugation as we
grapple, trying to reach each other’s throats, trying to kick each other’s
vitals—oh the deliciously hateful embrace!
We roll off the side to a lung-stunning THUMP! while clay tiles fall
with us and shatter. Somebody trips over
us, cursing, and I don’t even know which side.
I don’t break anything because he lands under me, and he doesn’t break
anything because I’m too light upon him to do much damage. But I catch my breath faster than he does, so
I finish the job, and after he stops struggling and my tight fingers feel no
further pulse, I stagger to my feet and look for other damage to inflict. Cyran’s troops have broken
through on the other side—I see Cantunta out there--and more of the rappellers
stream down all the time, but the enemy troops have numbers, too. And...good lord, is that Baruch? That is! I recognize him even through the bruises
swelling up his face.—I promised his mother that I’d watch out for him! I charge towards him, but
the enemy keeps getting in the way. I
body-slam somebody aiming at him, but I hit with all the impact of a leaf slapping
a tree-trunk. No matter, I still messed
up his aim; he shot a fellow-soldier in the ankle. Now he swings the rifle at me but I duck
under it, grabbing his belt for balance, trying not to faint as I pull him off
his center so I can knock his feet out from under him. I fall anyway, but I bring him down with me. Baruch nails him. Then he nods to me and gives me a hand up, angry
concern on his face. I stagger to my
feet, force a grin, nod back, and toss the soldier’s gun and ammo to a rebel I
sense behind my left shoulder; the motion nearly throws me off my feet again. Baruch’s gone, hunting other prey. My head spins; I’m running
out of me. Time to do something smart,
maximum results for minimum expenditure.
Time to think...think...no, engage before that guy kills me! More flurries of fighting, thank God or hell
or the devil for my wicked reflexes, can’t keep this up, I’ve got to do
something before I pass out with no one to defend me. Inside. Got to get inside. Military academies teach about Alexander’s
tactics, but not his psychology. All the
best schools these days tell officers to stay apart from the fray if you can
possibly manage it. She’s got to be in
there. But where...kick the gun
out of the hand pointing at me...how can I...whirring in my ears...fist to the
stomach won’t kill that one, but then pulling the same fist up to his chin
knocks him out...where... ...There! An opening–I can make it to that door! I slam inside–and curse my
bad luck. I got turned around–this is
the south end! I’ve entered the
storage-side: a maze of boxes, jars, and rusting things, the noise of battle
now muffled outside. I don’t think the
Abojans remembered half the things they’d accumulated here, while they lived,
and now nobody left can guess. I do know
one thing that I won’t find in here, though–egress to the main building. No inside door connects the two. Still, this mishmash
certainly holds the wherewithal for someone like me to come out armed–and
more to the point, fueled. I’m sure they
must have some food stashed in here somewhere–that’s half the point of putting
storage on the south side, to keep food cool, besides insulating the rest of
the house. I move about the place
quietly, tottering a little, looking for that old, dead refrigerator where Deni
used to keep her grain-goods safe from weevils when I see her! Never
mind what I said about luck–there she stands, General Aliso herself, in all her
blonde-curled glory, up close and personal!
She stands smack dab in front of the refrigerator that I seek–the
General must have come in here to fetch something, all alone, moments before
our attack–mere moments! |
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