by Blackhawke
Copyright ©2001--2007
All Rights Reserved

---

Bagédaan, 26 Læmath 561
Northern Sudaan

``The fliers dropped, Cap'n,'' Chief Westman murmured.

Two of the winged humanoids that had been circling the former city of
Bagédaan swooped down below the city's walls. Then came the peal of the
alert horns sounded by the remaining two, still flying their circular pattern
over-head.

``Yeah,'' the Captain replied, his spyglass still pointed down at the town
below. They were well hidden in the brush on a hill a couple of kilometers
away. ``Attack warning, right?''

This was the young Captain's first combat mission, odd as that sounded. Harry
Westman was no older than his new captain, but unlike William Terrell, he'd
spent his teenage years as cabin boy to an International Merchant Marine Naval
line captain. ``Aye, sir,'' he replied.

Twenty gray winged fliers rose from the walls of the town, took up formation,
and headed out to sea. Wil swung his spyglass out and scanned the horizon.
``Ah,'' he smiled. ``Sail ho. The IMMC Navy seems to have a lot of faith in
us, Chief. Looks like four ships, three masts each. They're still hull down,
but I'll bet they're first rates.''

``With the aviation support ship well over the horizon. Aye,'' Harry
agreed. ``That's doctrine, Cap'n. If you're right--and I expect ya are--they
won't be sendin' a squadron without air support. Those orcish bombers'll
chew 'em up before they get in range to begin the bombardment.''

Air support. Only twenty years old, it was the newest tool in the theater
commanders' arsenal. The Confederacy had thought it up first, breeding the
winged humanoids out of the same stock they'd used to create the standard War
Orc. The Allies had countered by once again turning to the industrial
mages--people born with just a little bit of magical talent. Sent to school,
they could be taught to do one thing with that talent, or for those with a bit
more ability, a collection of closely related things. It took three months to
turn a civilian with industrial grade talent into a warrant officer capable of
transforming into one of the various humanoid avian forms--a fraction of the
time it took the Confederacy to grow a flier up from infancy. For the first
time, the Allies had gained an upper hand in cranking out a decisive combat
tool in mass.

``You don't suppose the Navy has decided to help us?'' Wil drawled. He hardly
believed it himself. The teenage captain and his equally youthful crew of
street rats were expendable. That was, in blunt point of fact, why he, and not
a `real' captain, was there.

Harry thought about that for a moment as he watched the Confederate fliers
wing seaward. ``Cap'n, we may be expendable, but the Navy does need this place
neutralized. They may not care if we live through it, but they do want us to
succeed.''

``Right,'' Wil agreed. ``But it might have worked better if they'd coordinated
this little stunt with us. We're not exactly ready to take advantage of them
having drawn off the airborne patrol.''

``Doubt that's what they've got in mind, Sir,'' Harry huffed. ``You may not
like 'em, Cap'n, but they're not so stupid as all that.''

``Alright, Chief, then just what do they have in mind?''

As if in answer, forty blue winged fliers dove from where they'd been
circling, high above the gray Confederate formation. Light, steel pointed
lances reached out into the air ahead of them as, wings tucked in for a power
dive, they plummeted onto the unsuspecting Confederate bombers in two
waves.

``So that's what they're doing,'' Harry chuckled. ``Lancers.''

Blue closed on gray at frightening speed. They met. Puffs of feathers
appeared. Several gray fliers disappeared in fireballs, the lancer's weapon
having broken the ceramic-shelled firebombs that were strapped to their
chests.

Some of the lancers missed their targets and strained to pull out of their
dives before slamming into the sea. The second wave was right behind them.
Their mission was to pick off those missed by the first wave, now complicated
by the loss of tactical surprise.

The remaining Confederates dove for the deck and banked hard, hoping to
out-maneuver the diving lancers. Would they try for a kill, diving straight
into the sea, or pull out to save their own skins?

The lancers had trained for just that kind of attack response. Fifteen of
twenty blue-winged lancers broke off the attack, leaving five to bear down on
the remaining gray winged bombers. Two hit; one bomber exploded fifty meters
above the waves. Both lancers escaped, unlike their companions who missed
their targets and slammed into the ocean at over a two hundred kilometers per
hour.

Three more lancers tucked their wings, headed for the deck. The bombers were
now flying right on the wave-tops. A tiring proposition on the best of days,
they hoped the proximity of the water would foil the lancers approach.

But these lancers weren't orcs. They aimed their dive points at vectors well
away from the retreating bombers and then, in a well-practiced maneuver,
swooped out like eagles attacking prey. The bombers had no place to go. The
safety of the waves turned into a trap that prevented them from jinking away
from their streaking assailants. All three exploded into burning fireballs
that crashed into the sea.

The entire battle had lasted less than five minutes and the entire aviation
squadron at Bagédaan was gone, the cost, three Allied fliers.

Mission accomplished, the Allied warships ships changed course and headed back
out to sea.

``Damn!'' Harry breathed.

``Sucker punch,'' Wil chuckled. ``And that clears out the only real obstacle I
was worried about. Time to get back.''

* * *

IMMS Spearfish
Northern Sudaan

``Looks kinda like Second Fleet aviation had themselves a field day,''
Commander Finway growled. It was after dark. Wil and Harry had just gotten
back to the ship, anchored behind a rock formation just north of
Bagédaan. ``I told you sorry bastards the Navy wouldn't abandon us!'' He
yelled at the crew. ``Ya don't do nobody any good by dyin', ya sorry
sons-of-bitches. Ya win the war by living!''

Commander Isac Finway was a stubborn, old, illiterate officer who'd worked his
way up the ranks the hard way. The promotion boards wouldn't touch him and the
orcs couldn't seem to kill him. He was the classic `troublesome' career Navy
man.

``Who the fuck says we is interested in this fucking war, old man?'' One big
mouthed youth demanded.

Harry's knife sank into his belly before anybody could answer. The kid buckled
and fell over the side. The crew looked stunned. Nobody dared move to help
him. From the water below he cried and pleaded to be rescued. First
casualty to discipline, Harry growled to himself. And likely not the
last, with this lot. He slowly took his cigar from his mouth. ``Any more of
you soft-assed lubbers got anything to say?''

Silence.

``Good!'' He put his cigar back in his mouth. ``Fish that dumb-fuck back
aboard and get him to the corpsman,'' he chawed around it, then turned and
went below.

Rule number one, and everybody aboard had learned it in the first week of
training: Nobody--nobody messed with the Chief. Like his young
captain, Harry had grown up in one of the roughest neighborhoods of Fernwall,
and had learned to survive by wit and, at times, sheer cold-blooded meanness.
Given the unruly lot of street toughs he'd been handed, he'd had little choice
but to take them down, singly and in groups. A few hadn't survived.

Below was another very young officer whose pre-service reputation as an expert
swordsmaster preceded him. In point of fact, he wasn't even supposed to be on
Spearfish. But since it was a boat load of nominal convicts, and since
he himself had run from the law into the military, he decided to ignore his
assignment orders and ship out with Captain Terrel and his crew. He'd pay for
that when they got back--if they got back--but he didn't care.

Ensign John West, Class IV Navigator. Yet another use the Navy had found for
industrial mages. He could call up a `mage wind' to drive the ship when there
was no wind, or even against a light wind. C4Nav's were also able to
manipulate the magically enhanced plotting board that was tied into other
magically assisted tactical hardware--except there was none aboard the leaky
old Spearfish. The Navy wasn't about to put such very expensive
hardware aboard a vessel they expected to be sunk.

``Well?'' He asked as Wil, Harry, and Isac made their way into the
after-cabin. His voice was soft and quiet.

``Navy aviation just flattened Bagédaan's squadron of bombers,'' Harry
grinned. He went on to describe the battle. Harry loved to tell stories, and
was good at it.

``Those the only fliers naval intelligence says they've got?'' John asked.

Isac barked a laugh then spat into his spitoon. ``Sonny-boy, you think the
Navy's going to let any of this lot anywhere close to a classified
briefing folder?''

``Fuck no,'' Harry snorted.

``Doctrine says young Wil here should be in charge of this whole operation
because he's the mission commander,'' Isac jabbed a thumb in the captain's
direction. ``Ya didn't see them ask his opinion before they ran that
lancer mission, did ya?''

``Point taken,'' John replied. He didn't smile, but then, John never did. ``So
we're supposed to do this mission based on what?''

``This,'' Wil dropped a packet on the small table. The seal had already been
broken, mute evidence that he'd already scanned the contents of the mission
briefing. ``Which contains nothing more than a reiteration of our orders,'' he
held up a sheet of paper, ``maps of the town,'' he held up a folded bundle of
pages, ``which does contain engineers drawings of the sewage system,
but only because I badgered Admiral Meric into getting them for me. And,'' he
held up another smaller bundle of papers, ``the lay-out of the weapons depot,
complete with floor plans for all the major buildings.''

``You've already been through that stuff, lad,'' Isac surmised slyly.

``And you told me on the hill that the fliers were your only real concern,''
Harry added. ``Which means you've already got a plan.''

``And I'll remind you again, you're the boss,'' Isac told him pointedly.
Reality was, rank or no rank, Isac Finway was in charge. Young Wil was captain
not because the Navy said so, but because Isac Finway said so and made sure
everyone else jumped at Wil's command--or else! ``If ya want advice, ask. If
ya don't, don't. The success, or failure, of this mission is on you, like it
or not. An' the only thing equivocatin' will get ya is mutiny.''

Wil looked at the old officer and swallowed hard. He'd been told all this
before, of course. He'd served as cabin boy to a merchant captain who had,
from the very beginning, set out to properly educate the young street waif.
Reading, writing, and arithmetic--Wil absorbed it all like a dry sponge. And,
as his captain had been a military officer in his youth, military history,
tactics, and logistics had been heavy on his reading list. They also made up
the basis for his essays and practical mathematics problems. Then his captain
had sent him to Officer Candidate School, where he'd had many of the same
lessons on command pounded into him again, military style. Nevertheless,
this wasn't a paper exercise in logistics. Here, his choices meant life or
death for two-hundred sailors.

``Especially with this lot,'' John added.

``Alright,'' the young Captain said finally. He spread out the maps and hoped
nobody would notice he was shaking like a leaf.

* * *

Four hours later, eight longboats slipped silently between the rocks that hid
their ship and glided like ghosts toward Bagédaan, two nautical miles south;
three and three-quarter kilometers, as things were measured on land.

Orcs, like snakes, saw the world of the infared, not the human world of
consistent color. Darkness, therefore, was cover only for any humans that
might be manning the distant walls; for the bulk of the enemy's sentries a
soaked sailcloth was necessary. Fitted over the longboats, it gave them a heat
signature nearly the same as the sea around them; coupled with the thermal
damping cloaks they all wore (standard IMMC equipment), they were almost
completely invisible to the non-human sentries. And for what Wil had in mind,
almost was good enough.

Much of his plan for infiltrating Bagédaan depended on John's detailed
charts of the area. A half-mile from the wall, for example, was a small rock
outcropping just large enough to hide their long boats from view. And, typical
of most sandy beaches, the beach quickly dropped off to one fathom just a
stone's throw from the surf-line. Add sticks of bamboo and the hardest part of
the whole operation, in his inexperienced opinion, was solved--if, and only
if, the fliers could be neutralized. Thankfully, the Navy had taken care of
that for him. He'd have to thank Admiral Meric when he got back. He could
smell COMFRSTFLT's touch all over what the lancers had done this afternoon.

They worked quickly and quietly, using the street hand signals that all but
John, Isac, and a a few insubordinate Marine transplants had grown up knowing.
It had made the street toughs feel rather smug that they actually had
something to teach a couple of officers and NCOs.

They had been towing the bamboo behind the boats to allow it to cool to sea
temperature. Now, in groups ten minutes apart, led by officers and ex-Marine
NCOs, they stepped out of their boats into waist deep water. Each was burdened
with a pack that weighed nearly as much as they, making it easy to slip down
into the water to walk the final half-mile to town. Each officer and NCO had
been briefed on how to get through the sewers to a safehouse in the
streets. They would regroup there.

Wil went first, followed by twenty-five crew. Each had their bamboo pole,
fitted with a right-angle mouth piece, and a long wooden staff with which they
carefully probed the sandbar to their right. So long as they followed the
drop-off, they couldn't help but run into the walls of Bagédaan.

The trip seemed to take in interminable amount of time. Wil couldn't see in
the inky water and kept stumbling on the odd rock sticking up out of the sand.
Then there were the--things that slipped by his legs, hard enough for
him to feel it through his trousers. Sharks? Eels? Some other creature large
enough to do serious damage to a human? They were in tropical waters only five
hundred nautical miles north of the equator. While it was true that most
marine life was dormant at night, he was still aware that there were lots of
things that lived in these waters with teeth sharp enough, or poison strong
enough, to kill or maim. He pushed the thought out of his mind and plodded on.

Too far, he finally thought. A great idea, but this sand bar must
curve around the wall. Frustration rose in his throat like bile. His first
mission and he'd already blown it. But no ...The wall opens into the
inner port, which is five fathoms deep. I can't have passed it yet.

He relaxed, then bumped into something hard. It was smooth with irregular
crevices. A stone wall. His heart leaped. He'd done it!

It took several minutes for the twenty-five crew following him to catch
up. Then they worked their way around the wall until they found the iron grate
covering the outflow of the city sewer. Working by touch alone, Wil explored
the grate's construction. It was a meter and a half in diameter.

Next he took a very special saw from his belt and began to work on the rusty
iron bars. It was a dwarven saw, hard enough to cut most things made by man or
dwarf. He'd ...well, procured it from a weapons maintenance locker
prior to leaving port. It was the only tool the IMMC had that would cut
through the strange dwarven steel that powered their military ballista. On old
wrought-iron it cut like a knife through butter. In mere minutes they were
headed up the outflow and into the main sewers. Stone troughs with walkways on
either side interrupted by smaller flows from feeder lines, which were fed in
turn by a maze of pipes far too small for a human to use.

Behind Wil, someone began to retch.

``Ye'gawd,'' someone else groaned. ``The smell's awful!'' He too began to
vomit. Several others followed.

``Shhh!'' He hissed, trying to keep his own stomach down. He tried not breathe
too deeply as it just made the sensation worse. Thieves were used to the smell
of human sewage; it didn't particularly bother them. But this city had been
occupied by Confederate orcish troops for almost a hundred years. The sewage
system was now permeated with the foul odor of their putrid feces.

He retrieved flint and steel from a belt pouch and lit a small lantern.

``We can't go above ground like this,'' a female voice snarled. ``And if we
stay slimed in this muck we'll die of dysentery--or worse.''

``Quiet!'' Wil snapped. The lamp took flame. He closed the door and held it
up to look over his troops. They all were a mucky mess, coated thickly in oily
black feces. Inwardly he shuddered. ``We're about to clean up. Stay quiet,
stay close, and follow me.''

The sewage systems in most towns were very similar, having been the product of
one engineering firm's genius just before the war. It also meant that they
were all well over a hundred years old. Thus, it was no surprise to find
Bagédaan's crumbling for lack of maintenance. Some feeder lines were
blocked. Twice Wil had to take his troops down into the raw sewage again to
get around places where the wall had caved in onto the walkway. Eventually he
found the correct side passage, and entered a fair sized room. A water trough
stood at the far end, carved out of rock and fed by a trickle of water that
entered through a rectangular hole in the wall. The outlet too, disappeared
into the wall and ran down into the main sewer.

``Alright, gather 'round,'' Wil said softly. ``This is a cleaning station. I'm
sure no-one's surprised that its unused.'' There were some chuckles and acid
commentary that quickly died away.

``We exit through the manhole above.'' He pointed to the rusty iron rung
ladder set in the wall. ``Wash hands first, then packs thoroughly, then hands
again. Then disrobe. Pile your discarded cloths over there.'' He pointed to a
distant wall. ``Then open your packs for soap and thoroughly wash. If the
contents of your pack aren't perfectly dry, you didn't pack and seal it right
and you're screwed. Everybody move quickly and quietly. The next
team will be here in ten minutes and we should be gone or leaving. Go!''

Seven minutes later Seaman Tasha McKinnis cautiously pried up the stone
manhole cover and examined the darkened street above. Below her, the last
bathers were quickly pulling on boots and resealing their packs. The danger
here was that orcs didn't need street lamps to see. In fact, individual light
sources were a hindrance to them, not a help. She backed down the ladder.
``Can't see shit,'' she murmured to Wil. ``Street's black as a merchant's
soul. Quiet too.''

Quiet was a difficult task for orcs, they all knew. But they also knew that
the Confederate War Orc was a slightly different breed. Unlike its wild
cousins, it was more intelligent and therefore capable of military order and
discipline. The War Orc made up the bulk of the Confederate cadre for all
services. Half-breeds--half-human, half-orc--the product of Confederate
breeding camps, filled the NCO ranks and warrant grades. Quarter-breeds were
usually officers, in some cases rising to join their human and dark elf
leaders in field and theater commands.

``Risky, Cap'n,'' Seaman Darrel Dexter offered. Dexter was a tall lanky kid
almost old enough to shave.

``Yeah, but we can't stop now,'' McKinnis countered.

``Arrow bomb?'' Dexter suggested.

McKinnis snorted and tossed her wet hair. ``That'd work for us, but everyone
else'd have to fight their way outta here.''

``Which would ruin the mission,'' Wil agreed. ``McKinnis, go topside and see
what stirs. If it's clear, tap on the cover.''

She nodded and turned to climb the ladder--his first real combat decision. He
could be sending the girl to a tortured existence in a breeding camp. That was
where the Confederacy sent all women capable of bearing young. Training had
forced the words out of his mouth before his conscience could make him
hesitate.

He tried to tell himself that such orders would get easier, but he knew it was
a lie. When it became comfortable to send people off to die, he would be no
more human than the enemy he was here to fight--and visibly relaxed when a
tap came from the street.

Seaman Dexter bounded up the ladder and pushed the cover aside. ``It's
clear,'' he announced sotto voce.

``Let's go!'' Wil ordered quietly.

It wasn't far. Out the manhole, ten meters down the street, and into a low,
two story apartment building, long since abandoned. Wil had picked an
apartment on the upper floor that overlooked the supply depot. Everyone
breathed a sigh of relief as they heaved off their packs and collapsed onto
the living room floor.

``It'll be a long day in hell afore I wanna do that again,'' a female
voice said.

``You'll likely do what the Captain says,'' McKinnis told her
pointedly. ``Sir, would you like me to report?''

``Sure,'' Wil shrugged, then straightened his shoulders. That was no way for a
military officer to behave. ``What did you find, sailor?''

``Nothing, Sir,'' the girl replied. ``The buildings are all built out of that
clay brick the Sudaani like to use. Works great if someone's around to
maintain the buildings. But most of them in this section of town seem to be
largely unused. A lot have become unsafe. that includes sections of this one,
Captain.''

Wil eyed the girl suspiciously. Sixteen or so, atheletic, brown hair and
intelligent brown eyes that had more than a hint of steel in them. In the
hectic two months of training, there had been little time for him to get to
know his two-hundred conscripts personally. McKinnis didn't talk like a street
kid, but she obviously had the skills nonetheless.

``Where you from, Seaman?'' He asked.

``Fernwall, same as you, Captain,'' she shrugged. ``Dad died in the war--''
like most everyone else's dad had-- ``and mom died a few years ago.
Pneumonia, I think. I'd been away at school. I was too young for the service
still so I took to the streets. Thieving and whoring,'' she shrugged. ``I
lived.''

``Sounds rough,'' Dexter drawled sarcastically. ``Grew up a stone, ended up in
the streets.'' He clicked his tongue, using street slang for folks with
families, jobs, and a more or less normal life.

``Cork it,'' Wil told the lad. ``So we've got the immediate area to
ourselves?'' He asked McKinnis.

``Seems so,'' she shrugged again. ``I can make a more thorough check if you'd
like, sir.''

``Do. And you too, Dexter. Be back before dawn, immediately if you discover
something that might endanger the incoming teams.''

``You ain't gonna send me out with her?'' Dexter asked incredulously.

The sound hadn't even died away before Wil's dagger had buried itself in the
floor between Seaman Dexter's legs. Wil was big. Very big and
very strong. He stepped over, picked the kid up with one hand, and held
him overhead. ``Let's get one thing clear, kid. If I tell you to pee, you best
whip it out before asking where. I just ordered you out on recon.'' He threw
the kid over onto a pile of packs with no show of effort. ``You're going on
recon. If you don't, I'm sure everyone here will be pleased to know you ain't
blood.''

It was the first time any of them had ever heard their young captain use
street slang. Street kids took the idea of blood kinship very seriously. Only
blood was trusted with the gang's secrets: its hiding places, code words, and
permitted targets for thieving and whoring. Competition was fierce. Blood
feuds for betrayal were often as complex as a military operation--and just as
deadly.

McKinnis hadn't grown up in the streets, but in her few years on them, she'd
learned the language and the customs. She took out her knife, cut her palm,
and held it out to Seaman Dexter.

He stared at her, then her outstretched palm, then spat on it. ``I'll go,'' he
growled. ``For them.'' He jerked his head at the rest of the stunned
sailors. ``But not for you, stone whore!''

McKinnis turned to her captain, in a great deal of turmoil.

Wil cut his own palm and took her bleeding palm in his, the gesture saying
things words never would. ``Go,'' he said softly, dropping her hand and
turning to the room.

The eyes of his troops told him larger than words that what he'd done had
earned him more loyalty than had the last sixty days of drill under his
command.

* * *

It was an hour before dawn when Mate Wright, ex-Marine NCO, came over to
where Ensign West and Commander Finway were talking quietly with Wil and Chief
Westman.

``Sir, I've got some bad news,'' he said quietly. ``I only brought twenty
through with me. The rest and the last team all turned back. I think they're
planning on stealin' the ship, sir.''

Wil felt his heart jump up into his throat. Isac swore quietly.

``Limey bastards!'' Harry Westman groused. ``An' I had all my books on that
leaky tub.'' Like Wil, Harry had served as a cabin boy. In his case, to a
Naval line captain. Unfortunately, his captain hadn't bothered to teach him to
read, so Harry couldn't pass the exams to get into OCS. Nevertheless, he'd
had taken it upon himself to learn.

John West's eyebrow shot up.

Wil started to chuckle, despite himself. Here they were, stranded in the
middle of an enemy depot, surrounded by several thousand troops, and his Chief
was worried about his school supplies.

``I'm glad your laughin' lad,'' Isac said quietly. The Mate looked a bit
non-plussed. ``Thank you son,'' the old officer told him. ``Yer dismissed.''

``But ...Well, what're we gonna do?'' An eavesdropping sailor demanded.

``Right now yer gonna obey orders,'' the Commander told him. ``To wit, give
yer Cap'n space to think about it a bit, laddie. I doubt havin' his ship
stolen was part of the Capn'n's plans, an' ya don't change a plan involvin' a
hundred an fifty people like ya might change yer pants. So give 'em some
space, sailor. Dismissed!''

Grumbling, the eavesdropping troop retreated into another room.

``Our time-table just went to hell,'' Wil murmured thoughtfully.

``Aye,'' Isac agreed. ``That it did, lad. We can't let those mutineers keep
that ship. Ya know where they'll be headed.''

``No, I don't,'' will confessed.

``Toraz Islands,'' Harry supplied.

``Toraz Islands?'' John snorted. ``That's right in the North Fleet traffic
lane.''

``Aye,'' Isac agreed. ``But the fleet don't sail into the islands and its
become a haven for the pirates and privateers that make their livin' supplyin'
the Confederates with sophisticated Allied war gear. Ya don't think they get
that special steel to power their ballista direct from the dwarves, now do
ya?''

``I didn't know that,'' John confessed.

``Nor did I,'' Wil agreed. ``That ship also still has all the IMMC charts
aboard it ... ''

``As well as my sextant and almanac,'' John finished. ``I knew I should have
brought them with me,'' he sighed.

``Be thankful that old barge wasn't equiped with ATAC and
MASCR and all that other modern tactical junk,'' Isac said. ``She was
unarmed--not that it mattered. This lot hasn't a clue how to fight a ship.''

``We didn't lose a combat vessel,'' Wil agreed with a sigh. ``Alright. This
crew may not know how to fight a ship, but they sure as hell know how to steal
one.'' He grinned suddenly, and punched Isac on the knee. ``If we steal one,
you think the Navy will let us keep it?''

Isac stared at the kid for a moment, then started to laugh. ``Aye lad. Yah
live through this mission and come back with better than they gave ya, I've no
doubt they'll do that. An if ya kill the mutineers, that's all the better. So
steal yourself a warship, if yer gonna steal one at all.''

``Alright!'' Wil beamed. He stood up and went over to where the crew were
looking more worried by the moment.

``Gather 'round,'' he said quietly. ``Come on. In tight.'' He gestured,
pulling them all up in a circle around him. ``Okay, as you've no doubt heard,
we're it. Fifty-five decided to mutiny and are, by now back at the ship and
headed off with it.'' Angry grumbles rippled around him. ``Which blows our
time-table for this mission right out the window. We've now got to do what we
came here to do, and stop the mutineers as well. Which means,'' he took
them all in with his eyes, ``we've got to kill our former comrades.''

``They fucking deserve it!'' One sailor growled.

``Ain't no way they was ever blood,'' another agreed.

``Ya don't sell out yer own blood,'' someone else added.

``Damned straight. We're with ya, Captain,'' someone else offered. it was more
enthusiasm than he'd ever seen from this crew. ``We'll kill 'em all, the stone
lovin' bastards.''

``Leave us stranded in orc country,'' another groused. ``Damned straight!
Killin's too good for ... ''

``Alright,'' Wil cut in. ``Alright. So here's what we've got to do.'' He went
on to explain how they were going to escape the death trap their former
shipmates had just set for them. Everyone was very attentive.

Thirty minutes later Seaman McKinnis reported in, towing Seaman Dexter behind
her. The boy's shirt was saturated with blood and he looked quite dejected.

``It's not as bad as it looks,'' she told the officers dryly. ``Got him in the
shoulder. Bled like hell, but I managed to stop it. Those War Orcs are fucking
strong!''

``Aye lass,'' Isac agreed. ``That they are. But since yer here, I assume its
dead?''

``Damned straight!,'' she grinned viciously. ``I pitched it into an abandoned
building. They'll find it several days from now when he starts to stink.''

``Yer assuming they can smell,'' Harry drawled. ``Good work, sailor.''

McKinnis beamed.

``So report,'' Isac ordered.

The girl straightened. ``Well sirs, it appears nobody knows we're here or, if
they do, they're not doing anything about it.''

``Then they don't know,'' Isac assured her. ``If they did you'd be on yer way
to a breedin' camp. No doubt you'll make fine half-orcs.''

McKinnis wrinkled her nose. ``No, thanks. I'm too young to be a mommy and
could never produce something that ugly.

``Anyway, it looks like we got in clean, and these dwarven cloaks do make us
at least partially invisible to them. I say partially, cuz Darrel got hit by
one that surprised him. Closed to inside three meters.''

``Nice to know the equipment works,'' Wil murmured.

``It's been working for seventy years, lad,'' Isac reminded him. ``It ain't
exactly new, but it ain't exactly perfect neither. Go on, Seaman.''

``We appear to be in an old housing district,'' McKinnis went on. ``Which is
completely empty and falling apart. They all are, if they're not being used
for non-critical stores such as food, lumber, leather, bulk metals, and so on.
None of the stuff was guarded. Apparently all the critical stores are in the
depot proper.''

``Makes sense,'' Harry said. ``The human population's long gone and the orcish
cadre has no use for human style compartmentalized housing. They like to live
communally, in hives. So all the housing districts would be either used for
storage or left to rot.''

``Or leveled,'' McKinnis continued. ``It looks like some of them have been
torn down completely for reasons I don't understand.''

Wil took out his maps. ``Where?''

She looked over the map for a moment. ``Here,'' she pointed, ``and
here. Those buildings are gone.''

``Troop staging areas,'' Isac rumbled. ``They line 'em up in formation then
march them right down this broad avenue here right onto the waiting troop
ships.''

``Sure looks like it, sir,'' McKinnis agreed. ``Which might explain the
condition of these remaining apartment buildings,'' she pointed to some around
the perimeter of the open spaces. ``Darrell and I snooped in all of them and
they've been pretty much gutted inside. Some attempt has been made to hold the
clay bricks together, but they don't seem to have the skill to do it right,
cuz the buildings are falling down anyway. And these,'' she pointed to several
other buildings, ``are the barracks for the resident troops. We take those out
and we'll pin most of the troops inside the buildings.''

``And kill a lot o' 'em from heat suffocation even if the clay walls won't
burn,'' Isac nodded.

``How's security in general?'' Wil asked.

``Not as tight as I thought it would be,'' McKinnis frowned. ``Certainly not
as tight as it is in some places in Fernwall.''

``They don't have the discipline for that,'' Harry chawed out around a new,
unlit cigar. ``The half-breeds could do it, but they likely don't want to use
'em up on guard duty. They need 'em pushin' troops.''

``Especially since this place has withstood three attempts by the Marines to
land troops here,'' Isac agreed. ``Sustained bombardment's impossible with the
batteries all lined up on the walls like they are and what with a complete
aviation battalion lined up agin' ya. Ya end up tradin' shots with the enemy.
An' for a ship, that's suicide--as the Navy 'as recently been reminded.''

``And there aren't any beach-heads big enough to stage troops that aren't
ouside the range of enemy battery fire,'' Wil added.

``Aye,'' Isac agreed. ``And if ya land a small detachments of regular troops
on the small beaches that are avaliable they'll defeat ya in
detail. All of which goes to explain why they sent us in.''

``And I suppose sending an invading force down this one supply route is about
as stupid as trying a landing by sea?'' John asked, pointing to a road that
was supposedly well-maintained. It also went through a pass in the rocky hills
surrounding Bagédaan.

``Yup,'' Wil agreed. ``You could easily kill of a regiment trying to punch
through that pass. Anyway, carry on, sailor.''

``Aye sir. As I was saying, the good news is, the guard details are pretty
amateurish compared to what we're used to. The bad news is, anyplace that's
important is crawling with orcs, half-breeds, quarter-breeds, and on the
southeast side, humans and dark elves. Sir, if we're supposed to take out
their commanders its going to be tough--maybe impossible without getting
caught.''

Wil huffed a small smile. ``Two choices, sailor, you can either believe we're
here to die, or you can believe we're here to do the impossible and live. Your
choice.'' Personally, he believed neither.

``Yes sir.''

``Thank you, sailor,'' Isac rumbled. ``Dismissed.''

Sailor McKinnis went over to join Darrell Dexter, Wil noticed. Apparently the
kid had had a change of heart concerning the girl. They were sitting awfully
close together.

``Just how do you plan to take out the command center?'' John aked.

Wil smiled. ``I don't.''

``Cap'n?'' Isac warned. ``That's a violation of orders.''

``Tut, tut, Commander,'' Wil replied, his secretive smile still playing across
his young lips. ``I beg to differ. The orders said we were to `neutralize'
this place. Now, as I recall from my text books, the standard military
definition of neutralization is to eliminate the ability of the enemy or enemy
position to fight, correct?''

``Aye,'' Isac replied cautiously.

``So our objective isn't really to reduce this town to rubble, it's to
eliminate its military operability. Now, I remember from my texts that its
also standard military proceedure to have patrols watch strategic enemy
positions from a safe vantage point. Do you suppose the Army might have a few
SAS troops up in those hills watching, waiting for us to do our job?''

SAS: Scouts and Surveillance. Specially trained teams designed to infiltrate
enemy territory and report their findings using carrier pigeons. ``Aye,'' Isac
said again. ``An yer thinkin' they'll likely swarm on through the gap and
storm this place as soon as we've done our job--before the enemy has a chance
to reinforce and regroup?''

``Wouldn't you?'' Wil asked pointedly. ``I'm no military genius, but this
place strikes me as a perfect jumping off point for troops and supplies headed
south into the Sudaani heartland. If the Allies own this place, they can begin
to squeeze the Confederates between Bagédaan here in the north, and Shanakra
in the south. They'll close the Confederate supply lines in a matter of
months.''

``Aye lad,'' Isac sighed. ``You've a gift fer this, I can tell. So now explain
how not killing off their commanders works to our advantage.''

``I didn't say I wasn't going to kill the commanders, Isac,'' Wil corrected.
``I said I didn't plan to raid their headquarters. Seaman McKinnis is probably
right. That would be suicide without much better equipment and training than
we've got. So rather than going after them, we make them come to us.''

One of Isac's bushy eyebrows shot up. ``Yah plan to fight over two-thousand
troops with a hundred and fifty? Lad, I take it back. You've no gift, you're
crazy.''

``Calm down, Isac,'' Wil sniffed. ``Not fight off. Draw out.'' He reached for
his maps again, and began going over his revised plan in detail while the
sailors who would make it work dozed off one by one.

* * *

By the time nightfall settled once again over northern Sudaan, every detail
had been hashed and rehashed. What was once going to take a day or two would,
hopefully, be done in one long night. They had even gotten a look at the
harbor through the closed shutters of the apartment and selected a suitable
ship for their escape, a military schooner of moderate size whose sides were
lined with locked down ballista ports. She looked to be state-of-the-art, and
from John's assessment of the activity on deck, she was also only partially
manned. Probably in port for maintenance and resupply.

``This ain't gonna be easy,'' Isac murmured as he looked over the young lads
and lasses around them. He turned to Wil and caught the young Captain's
eye. ``Yer gonna lose people, lad. Steel yer heart for it. Yer plan is as well
designed as can be, but the one thing them textbooks don't tell ya is that no
plan survives execution.''

```No battle plan survives contact with the enemy'. Shuster Hymen,'' Wil
smiled. ``Yeah, I know.''

``I didn't know it ever got writ down,'' Isac huffed. ``I'm glad it did. So
did them books teach ya how to live with yerself when yer people start
dyin'?''

Wil's smile faded and he looked over to his troops. Tasha McKinnis was still
asleep, her head on Darrell Dexter's shoulder. Ralf Jackson was quietly eating
hard-tack and jerky. Others were sharpening knives. His ex-Marine NCOs were
huddled together talking quietly. They all knew tonight was the night. Some
would die. Others would live but never escape. Most of those would wish
themselves dead before sundown tomorrow. All war was horrible. This war was
inhuman. The parents of these kids had done things that nobody could easily
live with, but had learned to go on to anyway. Now, like their fathers,
mothers, and grandparents before them, it was their turn to face the horror
and deal with the consequences.

It was all in the book, of course, but until now it had all been an unreal
dream, a drill he'd had to repeat over and over until he knew it by heart.
Every command, every equation, every mathematically modeled outcome.
But ...  ``No,'' he finaly admitted softly. ``They tried, but I don't think
that's the kind of thing a book can really teach, is it?''

``Right enough there, lad,'' Isac agreed. ``It's the kind of thing one has to
experience, and every man I ever knew had a different way of dealin' with
it.'' He put a hand on Wil's broad shoulder. ``It won't be easy, Cap'n, but
we'll get ya through it. You've got the makin's of a good a commander in ya
lad, too good to let die from swimmin' in yer own emotional soup.''

``Tell me I'm a good commander when the dying's done,'' Wil whispered. He
suddenly wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. It was just as well. It
wouldn't do for an officer to be seen crying, especially just before a
battle.

He hadn't cried since he was ten years old. But then, he'd never sent a
hundred and fifty people off to die before either.

* * *

An hour later, Harry wordlessly clapped Wil on the shoulder, then led his
six-volunteer team quietly out of the apartment building and toward the
Confederate armory. Phase one of Wil's first real life battle plan was under
way.

The sky was clear. Sylvana, bright and full, rode high in the sky.
Thorin, her smaller lunar sister was waning toward new and seemed to be
trying to cower protectively behind big sister's bright face. Harry's team
darted from shadow to shadow with practiced ease, cloaks tucked close about
them to hide their tell-tale heat signature. The cool lunar light would
neither help nor hinder the orcs, but was plenty helpful to human eyesight.

With all deliberate speed they moved to where the wall of the supply
depot met the town wall. Above them, two orcish sentries patrolled the point
of ingress.

Harry chawed thoughtfully on an unlit cigar as he watched the guards pace out
their beats: Out two, three, four, five ...Back ...Meet ...
Out ... He gestured to Carol Jakes and Mark Carpenter. The two were
damned good shots with the crossbow. Jakes darted left, Carpenter went
right. Neither could see the other's target, but both could see Harry and
Harry could see both targets. They had to accomplish three things with two
bolts fired simultaneously, and they'd never rehearsed doing it before.

Out two, three, four ...Merlon, crenel, merlon, crenel ... The
guards walked away from each other as Harry watched, each now tracked by a
marksman. The kill had to be clean and quiet, the bolts had to hit bone, and
so drive the orcs through a crenel in the wall so they'd fall outside the city
where nobody would hear or notice them dying. Twenty-one merlon,
twenty-two ... Harry chopped sharply. The soft, twin thump of the
crossbows sounded; both guards staggered backwards and disappeared, one with a
bolt buried in its mouth, the other with a bolt in its neck.

``Go!'' Harry hissed. Everyone bolted.

Carpenter was first to the base of the wall. He stirruped his hands together
and lofted Jakes upward onto the rampart. Three more, then Harry, who clasped
Carpenter by the arm and hoisted him up.

``Go, go, go!'' Harry hissed again. Time was not on their side so long as they
were on the wall. The team took off, staying low and keeping their cloaks
close about them. Twenty meters from the wall was the first building.

They dropped off the rampart and ducked under it, hidden by the wall on one
side, sloping roof on the other, and rampart above. A kid known only as Mouse
began to dig earnestly into the sod roof while Jakes and Carpenter disappeared
into the shadows to deal with two aproaching sentries. In minutes Mouse'd
cleared out enough--Harry attached a scissors clamp to the roof truss,
clipped a line to it, swung into the building, and slid down to the
cross-beam.

A moment later, a bulls-eye lantern flared to life under his flint and steel.
He looked around the room and whistled softly. The building was crammed full
of ceramic-shelled firebombs, the most common artillery weapon used by both
sides. There were bins and bins of them, enough to supply a regiment and a
squadron of first rates for weeks--probably exactly what the Confederate
commanders had in mind.

Carol Jakes poked her head through the hole. ``Done!'' She whispered. Other
teams were thinning out the wall guard so that the weapons they needed could
be moved over the rooftops with less chance of discovery.

``Aye. Let's get to it then.''

The team went to work. One went down into the bins and began handing up the
four kilogram bombs to the next team member, who in turn handed it up to the
next, and so on. Several minutes later, crewmembers from other teams began to
arrive and carry them off to various locations around they city. Other
crewmembers discreetly killed off guards and soldiers who got in the way.
Aloft, Harry set up a network of small cordage that held a single bomb over
each bin of firebombs. The network traced back to a single line place in
proximity to a candle. When the candle burned down far enough it would sever
the cord and drop all the suspended bombs. The resulting conflagration was
guaranteed to be quite spectacular.

* * *

Across town, Confederate General Tzäctl was finishing dinner with his
officers in what, a hundred years ago, had been Bagédaan's city hall. ``To
the success of the Confederation,'' he held up a tall, spired glass filled
with tok, a favorite fermented drink of the dark elves. The General was
careful to keep a cynical sneer out of his voice as he offered the toast.

The other officers, humans with half-orcs at the lower grades, all solemnly
and fervently returned the toast.

Fools! Tzäctl thought sourly to himself, even as he raised his glass
with the others and took the obligatory token sip. The Confederate war effort
was not going well. In fact, to be blunt, it was quite obvious they were
losing on all fronts. He himself now commanded no more than two battalions.
The three Allied attempts to land troops had been rebuffed--that in itself no
small success, he reminded himself--but at fearful cost. His army regiment
was at fifty-percent strength, supply battalion down a third, of the naval
squadron assigned to Bagédaan there were only a half a dozen ships left, and
yesterday's Allied stunt had obliterated what little had been left of aviation
battalion.

And replies to his urgent requests for replacements were always returned with
the same reply: None avaliable. Couple that with the information gained from
his own sources and things looked dismal indeed. The Confederate Army was
being pushed back everywhere and hadn't won a major land engagement since the
battle of Tournæ, in Miruvor, eleven years ago. And even that battle had
been an anomaly, a single victory surrounded by loss after loss.

From its high point forty years ago, when the Confederation occupied all but
two of the first world countries (and two-thirds of one of those) they had now
lost all but Sudaan, the first country occupied--and that never completely.
The Supreme Confederate Council and their allies were no innovative match for
the accursed dwarves in their mountains, their wretched elven brethren, and
human ingenuity.

It was the dwarves who had created the special non-ferrous metal that powered
the Allied high-powered ballista. A devastating weapon, especially when coupled
with the firebombs, also developed by the dwarves. And then there were the
thermal damping cloaks, now standard issue for all Allied troops. An invention
of the fair skinned elves, it had nullified the only real battlefield
advantage the Confederates ever had. The orc, even the War Orc, was a fairly
stupid and gross creature; but they bred like rabbits, matured quickly (in ten
years), with eyes that saw the infared. What they lacked in intelligence,
therefore, they more than made up for with their ability to fight at night,
when humans were blind, and in their ability to reproduce rapidly.

Those advantages had nearly won the Confederacy the war. But the Allies had
rallied technologically, and just in the nick of time. A war that had begun
with skein-powered torsion weapons and galleons was now being fought with
triple-decker man'o-war, clipper ships, steel powered ballista that were just
as functional at sea as on land (and were highly mobile!), invisible troops
(to his army, anyway), and in the air with winged fliers. Only the last had
been an invention of the Confederacy, and even then the Allies had made better
use of the idea than they had.

And now, while some two hundred kilometers to the south his peers were being
driven from their long-held positions a hundred meters at a time, here he sat,
holding a major strategic position at fifty percent strength with no hope for
reinforcements. Defeat was ultimately inevitable; it was just a matter of
time.

The ground suddenly shook with the roar of an enormous explosion. As one, his
officers dove under the table.

``What was that?'' Growled a half-orc lieutenant.

And so it begins, he thought. There were only two things that could make
that sound: Offensive wizard magic, or his ammunition dump exploding. Either
way, this was likely his last battle. ``Silence you fool!'' he snarled.
``We're quite obviously under attack. Commanders, to your battalions!''

The officers crawled out from under the table and ran for the doors as thunder
rolled outside with an irregular roar. Tzäctl was right behind them. He had
to see what the enemy was doing to coordinate the defense before his forces
were defeated by their own chaos. Their only ally now was experience. Every
soldier and sailor present in Bagédaan had been under fire. They were
unlikely to panic.

The scene outside was one of devastation. The whole northeastern quarter of
the city seemed to be engulfed in flame, and from the look of it, so was part
of the port. The center of town too, was dotted with buildings enveloped in
fire. Buildings around his headquarters shot flame clear above the walls. All
around the square orcs ran hither and yon, donning battle gear as they went.
Others stood on the walls looking frantically without for signs of the hidden
enemy artillery.

It took a moment for Tzäctl make sense of what was happening, even as he
heard the crump, crump, crump of light, portable catapults lofting
their loads. A moment later the soldiers staring out over the walls vanished
in sheets of fire.

Impossible! They're inside walls! The barracks are burning, troops in
them, no doubt. The depot is gone ... !

Crump, crump, crump.

``Lieutenant!'' He screamed to at his aid. ``Order the commanders ... ''

General Tzäctl and his command staff died the good soldiers' death.

* * *

``Yee-hah!'' Seaman Dirk Fornseby exlaimed. ``Got the dark bastard.''

``That was the boss,'' grinned his partner, Arny, who was busy cranking the
little catapult arm back down for another shot. ``And all his cronies too,
I'll bet.''

``Look out down below,'' hissed another team of catapulters on the other corner
of the roof. ``They're beginning to get wise to us.''

``Incoming!'' Shouted Crewman Wheeler, their team leader.

A muffled ``ungh!'' sounded with the hiss of a cloud of arrows passing over
head.

``Damnit,'' Fornseby cursed, now near tears. An arrow stuck out of his
partner's eye.

``Pay attention!'' Snapped Wheeler. ``Load a bomb on that thing and fire.''

``But--!''

``Do it, damn you, or we're all dead. You want Arny to die for nothing?''

Tears streaming down his young face, Forneby pushed the body of his friend
aside, loaded another firebomb, lined up the miniature catapult and jerked the
trigger release. The bomb exploded in the middle of a knot of archers
searching the roofs for targets. For you, Arny, he thought. It made him
feel better.

Several blocks back Seaman McKinnis tucked and rolled as a firebomb landed
right where she'd been standing, setting fire to the three other people she'd
been with, as well as their catapult. Any closer and it would have set
off those firebombs too, she thought, fighting back tears and nausea as she
watched, and heard, her companions die in agony. And but for a fuck of a
lot of luck, that could have been you, harlot! Some got to one of the ballista
on the walls.

Below she heard a squad of orcs climbing up to the roof. Steeling herself to
the cries of the dying, she scampered over as close to the flames as she could
stand to be and readied her crossbow. Between her cloak and the roaring of the
flame, she'd be completely invisible to them. An opportunity for revenge!

Six orcs climbed up onto the roof, three with drawn swords and three with
limbed bows. Other way, she urged them. Not over here. She
picked up a loose piece of slate and tossed to the other side of the fire.

One of the orcs snorted and headed that way. Good boy. Walk into the
trap. Walk into the trap. The orcs complied quite nicely. Protected by the
flame that was now between them, McKinnis backed away to the roof's edge. The
street was clear. She went over the edge. Her toes just reached the upper edge
of a window frame. Standing on tip-toe she aimed her bow at the pile of
firebombs, fired, and jumped. The whole roof went up in flames, some of it
blown into the street.

That's for Mary, Jo, and Josh! She half sobbed as she hit the street.
Six orcs for three human lives. Horrible rate of return, but why do I
think the military would approve?

Her team was gone, as was their weapon. She had no idea what to do. Was she
supposed to return to the safehouse? They were all supposed to bug out when
things got too hot, but she didn't really know what that meant. Were other
teams already packing up to leave? From the sounds of firebombs going off all
around her, she doubted it. Was she supposed to find more orcs and kill them
first? Probably. Yeah right. With what? She had her small bow and a
handful of bolts. Not enough for a fight. Maybe she could find another team to
help. Doubtless other people had died. The living and wounded would need
help.

``Up on the wall! Up on the wall!'' Crewman Brenda Strong called to her
artillery teams.

The sound of dull wooden thunder filled the air and an entire battery of five
ballista fired as one. Crewman Strong and her team dove for the cover of the
roof sill as the whole side of the building upon which they were standing
erupted in flame. Someone to her right screamed in agony as the burning liquid
sizzled over the ledge and onto the roof behind them.

``Return fire!'' She ordered. The three little catapults crumped and
three of the five ballista vanished in balls of fire. Only then, she was proud
to see, did the wounded man's partner turn to smother his burning arm. It
sounded cruel, but Crewman Strong was one of the ex-Marines. She'd been under
fire before. If you didn't kill the enemy they were bound to kill you. Kill
them first, then attend to your wounded. That was the surest way for
everybody to live. That this unruly lot had listened to her was a bit of a
suprise.

``Ahman, you've got the left one,'' she called to the team at her left. Orcs
were now trying to crawl out of the barracks they'd fired with their opening
salvo. Some were aflame, most were not. If you didn't get hit with the naptha
the firebombs were loaded with, you had some chance of not catching fire from
the flames alone. Not much--the damned stuff burned as hot as a forge
furnace--but some.

``Right chief!'' The Sudaani native called back.

``I ain't no chief!'' She snapped back. This lot never will have any
respect for military rank, she grumped.

Ahman's catapult crumped once again. She jerked the release on hers
right behind his. The last two ballista vanished. The orcs had obviously never
faced the tiny portable catapults before. They could fire at twice the rate of
their larger cousins, albeit at only a third the range. Pity them, she
chuckled.

``We got company, boss,'' the effective to her right called. He was known as
Hops. What that meant, Strong didn't know. ``Climbin' up the drain, it looks
like.'' He grabbed a firebomb and grinned at her. She grinned back and nodded.
The sailor dropped the bomb on the orcs' heads. It showered all six with
flaming goo as it burst on impact with the first one.

``Flames are dying down boss,'' Ahman observed.

``Right. Think we can hit the doors?'' Strong asked.

``Sure,'' Ahman shrugged.

They aimed their next rounds carefully.

``Wait till they start tryin' to jump the fire,'' Strong ordered.

``Wait,'' Hops urged. ``Lemme get this thing ready to go. Three's better'n
one.''

Strong nodded, waiting until all three of her catapults were ready and
aimed. ``Fire!'' She ordered. Three were on the outer edge of the blast area
already. One caught the full brunt of the three bombs as they landed, but from
the screams there were plenty more milling around inside that suddenly became
unhappy.

``Nice shooting,'' she complimented her crew.

``They're ain't gonna be enough orcs left in this place to spit on when we're
done, Chief,'' Ahman grinned.

* * *

Harry's unlit cigar was getting dangerously short--about as short as his
temper. He snapped his fingers. The dozen orcs across the intersection jumped
and turned but were too slow for the hidden archers. Twenty light crossbows
thrummed as one and the orcs all collapsed like chopped-down weeds.

Another signal and his troops dashed across the intersection and dove into
entryways, each frantically tugging back the strings on their bows.

Harry watched them move, chawing on his cigar in irritation. This wasn't
working out well at all. He'd only lost five sailors, but between the positions
pinned down by their own artillery crews and the milling orcs, getting back
across town to the safe-house where he was supposed to be was proving to be
dangerous work. And he couldn't afford to lose anymore people.

He looked carefully up and down the streets then dashed forward to join his
troops.

``Don't see anyone,'' Seaman Carpenter whispered.

``Right,'' Harry grunted. Damned few people ever got killed by what they
saw. ``Let's go.''

He signaled the troops across the street and everyone dashed up to the next
porch. So far so good, Harry though. And now I remember why I
hated gang wars.

``What's that smell?'' Someone asked.

``Fuck!'' Carpenter swore, his bow already snapping into place.

``Jump!'' The first voice shouted as Mark Carptenter's bow sang.

Twelve people dove into the street. Carpenter's shot hit a firebomb held by an
orc as five hand-thrown rounds landed in the alcove everyone was hiding in.
Human shrieks of pain blended with orcish howls. Six dead, Harry
snarled to himself, as he watched a young lad too slow on his feet burn to
death. Thankfully, it was quick.

``I didn't know the sons of bitches could throw the damned things,''
Carpenter grumped.

``They're a hell of a lot stronger than the average human,'' Harry
chawed. ``An' ain't nobody ever passed a law that said we was the only ones
who could be tricky.''

``How the hell they see us?'' Another young trooper wondered.

``You dumb-fucks make sure to keep those cloaks closed all the way,'' Harry
answered. ``That's how. Let's move!''

One block over, a barracks was engulfed in flame. The steady crump of
their light catapults sounded over head. Ahead and to the right they heard the
rhythmic thump, thump, thump of double-timing feet and dodged into the
rubble of a collapsed wall.

``That's a whole company, Chief,'' Carol Jakes whispered into Harry's
ear. They'd dove into the same hole.

``Yeah,'' Harry agreed. The orcs were still a half a block back. The light of
the fires flickered over the company as they approached the hiding
sailors. ``Looks like about ten of 'em are carrying bombs. Pass the
word. Shoot the bombs not the troops. On my signal.''

``Right!'' Jakes whispered.

Harry waited until the company was in the intersection before allowing his
troops to shoot. The front half of the company disappeared in a fantastic
fireball. The rest of the company dove back into the building alcoves behind
them.

Unfortunately, there were still twenty-five orcs standing. Harry had started
back with twenty-five sailors. He now had only nineteen. And the orcs were not
only stronger, they were also armored. He began to swear under his breath as
his troops frantically recocked their crossbows. ``Patience, lads,'' he
cautioned his troops. ``Patience. They ain't figured out where we are yet.
Make 'em think. Orcs hate that.''

There were some soft chuckles behind him.

``There,'' Jakes pointed. ``And there.''

``Aye, lass,'' Harry agreed. ``Alright. Select targets, marksmen excluded. That
means you and Carpenter. Hold fire until orders. Pass the word.''

It became a painful waiting game. Harry couldn't afford to telegraph the
position of his troops by letting Carpenter and Jakes pick off orcs who stuck
their blunt noises out, and the orcs were blinded by the gooey naptha burning
in the intersection.

``Why not pick them off?'' Jakes wanted to know after Harry let the third
opportunity for a kill pass.

``'Cuz that's exactly what they want us to do,'' Harry replied. ``You notice
they was carrying limbed bows, not crossbows? They can shoot faster an'
further than we can. Let 'em get a bead on us an' we'll be here the rest of
the mornin' shootin' each other. A proposition that'll get us all killed or
wounded one by one.''

``So what'd we do?'' She demanded. ``Sit here and do nothing?''

``Yup,'' Harry agreed. The girl stared at him. ``Lassie, there ain't nothin'
harder work for an orc than real thought. They ain't good at it, so sooner or
later they inevitably give up and decide to do what they are good at:
killin' and beatin' on things. Sooner, usually.''

Carol Jakes looked dubious, but she knew better than to question the Chief any
further.

It took fifteen minutes, during which the orcish troops got more and more
unruly, before they screwed up their courage and cautiously pressed on. The
naptha had burned out, leaving behind the charred remains of their companions
and increasing their visiblity. They got very nervous as they approached the
point of the last attack, then relaxed as they passed it.

Harry gave the fire order. Nineteen orcs fell, dead or wounded. The six
survivors were momentarily stunned.

``Up and at 'em, lads!'' Harry roared.

Nineteen sailors boiled out of the rubble down onto the six survivors.

The orcs fled.

* * *

Wil peeked through the cracks in the shutters out at what he now thought of as
`his ship'. ``Where the hell is Harry?'' He asked for the umpteenth time in
the last thirty minutes.

``There be a battle goin' on out there lad,'' Isac sighed. ```No battle plan
survives contact with enemy','' he reminded him. ``Yer job is to
figure the odds an' make contingency plans.''

So this is what it means in practice, Wil thought to himself. Reality
never compared well to paper exercises. Real people were doing the dying; a
real enemy commander was trying to rally his troops in response. Probably one
with years of real battlefield experience. Decades, maybe even eons worth,
given the Confederate predilection for using dark elves in key command
positions. Right now the weight of the entire city felt like it was bearing
down on Wil's shoulders.

``I wish I knew what was going on,'' he complained. Was that really as
frightened and peevish as it sounded?

``Aye,'' Isac agreed. ``There's two more things to get used to, lad. Ya ain't
never gonna know everything ya want to know in a battle, yet yer always
havin' ta make decisions anyway.''

Five unblooded sailors watched and listened to the officers in silence.

``So I'm supposed to make intelligent decisions in a vacuum?'' Isac's cold
analytical assessment wasn't lifting the crushing weight at all.

``That sorta sums it up rather nicely, yeah,'' Isac agreed. ``That's why all
them exercises in school about leadership an' logistics. Leadership is what a
commander has ta develop in his people. They gotta be able to make decisions
without ya standin' over 'em all the time. Ya point yer troops in the right
direction an' they go off an' do their jobs fer ya. Logistics is fancy talk
for supplies and information, both of which are needed to win. Yer NCOs need
supplies, information is what ya gotta have to command. They get ya one from
their little corner of the battle, ya give them the other an' sit back an'
sorta guide the operation from yer supreme position overlookin' it all.''

Isac's illiterate summary of about four years worth of command college did
nothing to solve his problem for him. What was going on around him was out of
his hands, as the old Commander had said. He put together the battle plan, its
success or failure was now in the hands of his people, not him. His job was to
take that ship down there so they could all leave. Did he leave now, just he,
five troops and Isac? Or did he wait longer for Harry to show up with the
crossbow troops that had cleared the walls? If the battle in town was going
well, he could afford to wait. If the enemy had managed to rally, every minute
could end up being critical.

In the end, Harry solved his problem for him by bursting through the door,
cussing and swearing like the sailor he was. ``Had ta fight my gods be damned
way half way across this fucking city to get here, but we made 'er, Cap'n,''
he growled. Nineteen sailors followed him in looking wary and dangerous. ``Lost
six on the way. Sorry.''

``Shit,'' Isac huffed. ``That ain't bad Chief. Don't be so hard on yerself.''

``It ain't that, XO. This is war. People die. But we need them people.
Those fuckin' mutineers has cut us short. Every sailor counts.'' He eyed
Wil. ``You alright, Cap'n?''

``First battle,'' Isac murmured. ``He'll be alright.''

``Yeah.'' Harry pulled a fresh cigar out of his pocket and stuffed it in his
mouth.

Harry's unflappable confidence felt like a splash of cold water. Much better
therapy than Isac's illiterate academy lectures. Privately Wil thought there
were better places to analyze a battle from than inside it, but he didn't dare
tell the old officer that, and knew better anyway. Inside a battle was
exactly where the analysis counted the most. ``Alright,'' He finally
said, straightening his back. ``Lets go.''

``Ah' right!'' Harry grinned.

* * *

Seaman McKinnis shrank back into the alcove and pulled her cloak tightly about
her as a company of orcs trooped passed doing double-time. She'd retrieved a
whole quiver of bolts she'd found next to the charred remains of one of her
former shipmates, but a whole company was far too many for one person to try
and take on.

It seemed the dead and dying lay screaming all around her now, and fighting
back tears had become as constant as the struggle for survival. The answer,
she had learned, was to focus on what was going on around her. These orcs had
been carrying picks and mauls; their swords were sheathed at their sides.

She'd just decided to follow them when the thump, thump, thump, thump
of more heavily booted feet froze her in place. A minute later another company
similarly equipped trooped passed her.

Two of them. She cautiously poked her nose out of the alcove and
watched them continue on down the street, then carefully followed.

The companies marched down several blocks, turned toward the port and
continued on for several more blocks, then stopped. One orc, evidently the
person in charge, started giving orders and the companies broke down into
squads and began beating on the buildings at designated points.

McKinnis watched, puzzled, from behind a set of steps as the big, thick-bodied
orcs pounded huge chunks out of the building with every blow. In less than
fifteen minutes the building began to quiver with every blow struck. Someone
unseen barked an order and the work stopped. The orcs ran on down the street.

McKinnis had nearly decided to follow when another might blow struck the shaky
building. Then another, and it began to squeak and groan. They're
knocking it down! The groans turned to lamented shrieks and the whole
building toppled with a defeaning roar.

McKinnis bolted. What this was about was all too clear, even to her
inexperienced perspective. Another building fell before she'd cleared two
blocks.

She had to get to the former Marine Mate. She had to!

Unfortunatley, cloak flying behind her in her panic, she ran right into a
patrol.

They bellowed the instant they saw her and several arrows thacked into
the side of a building behind her as she dodged into an alcove, blew through
the broken door, and dashed upstairs.

Now what, you dumb bitch? Think, think, think! She heard the orcs
snarling as they entered the building. Five of them, one of you. Five of
them, one of you. She looked around, fighting down panic. Crossbow?
One shot and you're done, you dumb whore. No time to reload.

Steadying her breath she picked up some debris from the filthy floor and went
to one the end of the hallway and armed her crossbow.

They were coming, slowly, disorganized, as she'd heard orcs were.
They're dumb, you're smart. They're dumb, you're smart. Make them think.
Make them think. Chief Westman's oft' given lecture on the subject sprang
to mind in short, pointed jabs of memory. She forced herself to breathe
normally and waited. Finally, she heard their heavy shod boots on the rickety
stairs. Okay, here we go.

The first orc topped the stairs, looked right at her, then turned to look the
other way. Fingers, eyes, and toes crossed she pitched one piece of her debris
through an open door at the other end of the hall. It clunked and rattled
nicely when it hit, and she thanked every god whose name she could think of
that she hadn't hit the ugly brute in the head with it instead.

The orc snarled and barked something unintelligible back down the stairs to
his fellows. Four more orcs stormed up the steps and followed the first into
room. She waited for the last one, aimed carefully, then buried a bolt in the
back of his neck and bolted down the steps.

The sounds of rage from his surviving companions was gratifying. She could
probably flee now, but having four orcs chasing her across town wasn't her idea
of fun. She slammed the main door to the street, then darted into what must
have been an office and heaved back on her crossbow string to rearm it.

Once again, as Chief Westman said they would, the orcs responded by charging
rather than thinking. All four roared out into the street looking for her. She
picked another one off through the office window then dashed across the hall
into the other office while the orcs howled in frustration and tried to find
their elusive prey.

Two down, three to go. She was suddenly feeling much better. Less
scared, more confident, and that sick feeling at the loss of life had shrunk
to a memory made less painful for the revenge she was exacting on the killers.
She could do this, she could actually fight back. It was exhilarating.

A third orc died as the troop tried to re-enter the building to find her. Luck
of the draw, the body fell in such a fashion a child would have concluded the
shooter was across the street. The two remaining orcs, with their child-like
brains, smashed through the door to the building opposite and disappeared
inside.

McKinnis heaved back on the string of her bow one more time then took to the
street. Five minutes later she was reporting to Mate Wright.

* * *

Seaman Fornseby was sweating like a pig in the tropical heat. Crank, load,
aim, fire; crank, load, aim, fire. Below, the whole broad avenue between him
and the headquarters building was dotted with flames full of burning bodies.
Orcs and half-breeds dodged between the burning puddles of naptha and tried to
shoot up at them. Several times they'd collected into company formations and
made pushes to get past their line of fire and into the streets along side,
but Crewman Wheeler had ordered rounds dropped straight down from the building
to block the street. Fornseby was in the middle of his roof, so he hadn't
participated in that little stunt.

He had particpated in the death, though. His life-long friend Arny had been
the first on Crewman Wheeler's team of twenty to die--but hardly the last.
Four others now lay dead along side their companions, just like Arny, and
another six were wounded but still manning their weapon.

Suddenly, the whole building shuddered as, far behind them a three-story
apartment building collapsed into the street.

``That supposed to happen?'' One of the Seaman to his right asked.

``Beats me,'' Fornseby shrugged. ``That supposed to happen, boss?'' He called
to Crewman Wheeler. The look on the young man's face answered the question.

``Not in any briefing I had,'' Wheeler replied. ``Keep shooting, we've
about got these bastards licked.''

Another tearing crash and more dust arose from behind them in the city. Then
the low wooden thunder of ballista firing sounded to their left. The rounds
landed two buildings away from their left most position. Another roll of
thunder and fire erupted to their right.

``We're out of their range,'' someone laughed.

``Good!'' Wheeler shouted. ``Pound the bastards!''

Fifteen long minutes later the diminuitive Seaman Mouse, who jumped from one
rooftop to the next, and came skidding to a halt next to Wheeler. ``Time to
bug, boss man!'' He panted. ``They're pulling down buildings to block our way
back to the port. They've also piled troops up at all the gates. Seems someone
doesn't want us to leave,'' he grinned.

``Ain't that just too bad,'' Wheeler mused, looking back towards the
port. ``Where's the Captain?''

``Fuck-if-I-know,'' Mouse shrugged. ``His job was to get us that ship to leave
on. I'd assume he's doin' that.''

``So who gave the order to withdraw?'' Wheeler demanded.

``Mate Wright. Look, I gotta run and warn the others.'' Without waiting he
started to run.

``Wait!'' Wheeler called, then cursed as Mouse made the jump to the next
rooftop. ``Shit! Alright, last loads then double up and dismantle as many
units as we have teams.''

``We're gonna carry these fuckers outta here with us?'' Fornseby asked
incredulously.

``No, you dumb shit, we're gonna have to fight our way outta here.
Weren't you listening? And to do that we're gonna need the catapults.''

. . .

``This place is finished,'' Seaman As'sad ben Ahman told his Crewman.

``Got that right,'' Strong laughed shortly. The whole barracks was aflame. It
had taken nearly an hour but they'd finally punched enough holes in window
shutters that they'd gotten the wooden floors and walls to ignite. Nobody was
getting out of the barracks alive. Scratch at least five hundred orcs and
their officers, she thought smugly. ``Wrap it up troops. Time to ... ''

Mouse launched himself from the rooftop behind them over on to theirs and ran
up to Strong, panting hard. ``Long ...way ...across this
town ... '' He huffed.

``So take a minute and catch your breath,'' Strong advised. ``We're done
here.''

``Good thing,'' Mouse wheezed. ``Time to bug. They're knocking down
buildings ...to block us off ...from the port.''

``Zat what that was?'' Strong mused. ``Well, I guess you can't ask the enemy
to be completely cooperative. Whose giving orders?''

``Mate Wright. Cap'n's supposed to be stealing our ship.''

Brenda Strong thought about that. She was nearly ten years older than her
teenaged Captain. She'd survived her first beach assault before he'd learned
his times tables. Still, this had been his show and so far it'd gone better
than many missions she'd been on commanded by experienced veterans. What the
kid lacked in age experience he obviously made up for with a certain genius.
``Right,'' she said finally. ``So we're supposed to withdraw to the ship to
sail outta here? Mission accomplished.''

``I guess so,'' Mouse shrugged. ``I done told ya what I was told.''

Strong swore. Young commanders did have their flaws. ``Alright. Take this
directly back to Mate Wright. Tell him he's the ranking NCO and
coordinating the withdrawal is his job. See that building over there?'' She
pointed. ``Teams will meet him there. If we gotta fight past a blockade we're
gonna have to make instant marines outta you squids.''

Mouse swallowed hard. ``Right. I'll be off then.''

Strong watched him go wordlessly. There were only about a dozen things that
could go wrong with the stupid stunt. Communications were an absolute shambles
and a hastily planned withdrawal strategy put together on the fly by squad
leaders rather than officers who had the larger picture of the battle area
usually cost a lot in lives. None of which had mattered so far, but her gut
told her that was about to change. ``Break down. We're outta here!'' She told
her troops.

* * *

``Alright, what've we got?'' Wil mused. They were standing in an overloaded
warehouse not ten meters from the deck of their target ship. Not surprisingly,
nobody could read her name.

``That ain't no good omen,'' Isac had growled. Isac was the superstitious sort
when it came to warships.

Harry spit a piece of tobacco out of his mouth and squinted through the doors
again. ``Don't look like much, Cap'n. I'd say a security watch an' that's
about all. Everybody else is probably off fightin' the fires.'' There was a
phenomenal amount of activity going on around the warships that they'd set
ablaze.

``Either that or they're all below-decks sleeping,'' John added.

``Don't say that, Ensign,'' Harry complained. ``You'll melt my rabbit's foot.''

Wil chuckled even if John didn't. The day John West actually grinned the sun
would likely freeze in the sky. ``Alright, so we cover all the exits. Harry,
take eleven of your team down the main hatchway. That's probably where the
main fighting will take place. John, you and five sailors go forward, through
the fo'csle. Isac, you and the rest are with me. We'll take the stern
cabin. We fight to within sight of the others and work our way to the
hold. Got it?''

``Ya done this before, lad?'' Isac wondered.

``No, why?''

``I's afraid you'd say that,'' he sighed.

``You, you, you,'' Harry started picking out troops. ``With the Cap'n. You
lot, with the navigator. The rest with me. Any questions?'' Nobody said
anything. ``Aye, aye. I ain't gotta remind anyone. This is the only way we got
outta here. So we win or we die tryin'. Got it? Good. Whenever you're ready,
Sir.''

``Alright. Go!''

They swung the door open and bolted across the dock to swarm over the
schooner. The four guards on deck were cut down by bow fire before they could
even react. Wil cut right, John left, Harry's bunch went straight for the main
hatchway, which stood open. There was an orcish bellow from below as the human
troops boiled down the hatchway. One lost an arm and was knocked clean off
the ladder before he reached the deck. A bolt disabled the sword wielder
before he could make another cut. Four more bows sang out. Three orcish
sailors howled and sank to the deck and then they were down to the deck.

``Urgash Spatz?'' Roared a half-breed from an aft companion way. Harry
shot him in the chest.

Swords rang and crossbows hummed in the confined quarters. The orcs were
confused, but outnumbered Harry's squad. By the time all the bows had been
discharged, however, the numbers were more even.

``One's got a bomb! One's got a bomb!'' Someone roared over the din.

``Don' let him drop it lad!'' Harry shouted, ducking a sweeping blow from an
enraged opponent. He buried his short sword in the orc's side then ran to
assist. A knife suddenly grew in the orcish sailor's chest however, and Harry
was left to dive for the falling firebomb to soften its landing. Another
sailor finished the orc off. ``Head for the magazine, lads!'' He shouted.

The surprised orcs hadn't fought very well, even though they'd had the
advantage of numbers. The last one lost his head and Harry's troops boiled
down one more deck, leaving three of their number behind.

The sounds of fighting rang up from below. Harry carefully placed the firebomb
back on the pile with the others and went to the lad who'd lost his arm. The
kid was trying frantically to get a tourniquet on the stump. ``Here lad, lemme
do it.''

``Thanks, the boy said weakly. We beat 'em though, didn't we Chief?''

``Aye lad, that we did. This ship's as good as ours.'' Shouts mingled with the
ring of swords from below decks.

Isac came through the aft bulkhead, breathing hard, blood running down his
face. ``Damned black-blooded bastards,'' he growled.

``Aye,'' Harry replied, a concerned look on his face. ``You alright, XO?''

``Aye, Chief. I'll just need a swatch of that linen outta yer kit, that's
all.'' He leaned his bloody sword against one of the huge timbers that ran up
and down between the decks and sat down. A loud boom sounded from down
below.

``Shit!'' Harry growled. He handed Isac a strip of bandage linen.

Calls of ``Fire! Fire! Fire below decks!'' Sounded up to them. Then they heard
the Captain giving orders to man the fire-fighting equipment.

``Ah! Was only one, Chief. They'll put it out--though I wouldn't be in too
much of a hurry if I was them. Let them fang-faced bastards roast good,
first.''

``Aye, but ain't one of them had naval casualty training, Sir.''

Isac chuckled as he tied the bandage around his head. ``Ya underestimate yer
young Captain, lad. He ain't got no experience, that's true; but they don't
make 'em any brighter.'' He stood back up and grabbed his sword. ``I'll tell
ya somethin' Chief. The kid won. Whether we live or die, don't make no matter
now save for this: It'll outright fuck-up Admiral Lor' Grayson's whole outlook
on life if we make 'er back. An' that, in my not so humble opinion, is worth
the livin' for!''

Harry, who'd been tending to another of the wounded, started to chuckle.
Admiral Lord Grayson, or CINCNORFLT as he was known by his job title, had a
reputation for being arrogant and self-righteous, and possessed of definite
parochial views concerning the superiority of the gentry--or perhaps the
inferiority of everyone else. It was no secret amongst Captain Terrel's
officers and NCOs that Admiral Lord Grayson had been the mastermind behind the
`disposable troop' mission idea.

Two sailors came carefully up the main ladder from below-decks, one supporting
the other, who was badly wounded. ``Ship's secure,'' the sailor
reported. ``Now they're trying to get the fire out. The Cap'n says the
Confederate fire-fighting solution is crap compared to ours.'' He helped his
wounded companion sit down then started breaking out his first-aid kit. ``Wish
the damned corpsmen weren't with the mutineers,'' he grumbled.

``You wish?'' The wounded sailor chuckled--which ended in a painful,
gagging cough.

Harry and Isac looked at each other, but neither of them answered either
sailor's unspoken question.

* * *

Progress was slow. Because they were carrying the light catapults and
ammunition with them, they had to descend from the roof to the street to make
their way across town. Seaman Fornseby had quickly concluded that carrying the
special backpack loaded down with the catapult and other gear in the tropical
heat was more than just work. Despite two months of continuous drill, he was
still wringing wet with sweat and the damp, tropical air seemed too thick to
breathe. He had to concede even to himself, however, that some of the sweat
was from out-and-out fear. So long as they were on the rooftops they knew
when anyone was trying to approach. Now, down on the streets, an abush from
the buildings on either side was a very real possibility. And twenty-odd, heavy
packing sailors trooping down the street were hard to hide, elven cloaks or
no.

Crewman Wheeler had broken them into two squads, one of which walked quietly
down each side of the street. All had their crossbows out and armed. Wheeler
himself was at the front, checking out each alcove and intersection as they
came to it.

Suddenly the opposite side of the street erupted with orcs, stunning the squad
of sailors with their sudden emergence from the deep shadows. Cries of shock,
roars of attack, the flash of cold steel in the moonlight, the ring of metal
on metal, and the call of Crewman Wheeler to ``Fire!'' all exploded into the
street at once.

Bows whined. Orcs fell. Swords flashed and sailors fell. A firebomb went off
to Fornseby's far right, setting off the other three the sailor had been
carrying. The flames engulfed three orcs and two other sailors.

``Draw and engage!'' Wheeler ordered.

Some reluctantly, some enthusiastically, Fornseby's entire squad began to
advance on the orcs that had well-nigh decimated the other half of his team. A
firebomb ignited against a building wall. The flames rocketed back out into
the street and set the backs of a half a dozen orcs on fire. The bellowing of
the burning now began to overtake the din of the frantic melée.

Another firebomb went off against a building further down the street, but
wasn't as effective. One thing the fires did provide, however, was light for
the humans.

Fornseby reluctantly engaged the nearest orc. He was no expert with a sword,
but had to do something to help his companions, and Wheeler's order freed him
from trying to think when he was numb with fear. Unfortunately, the orc was
both fearfully strong and experienced, and hammered at his inexpertly
proffered blade relentlessly. It was all the Seaman could do simply to keep
the weapon between he and his enemy. Several blows grazed dangerously close,
tearing at his cloak and pants and shirt. Worse, the orc was unburdened and
Fornseby was weighed down some twenty kilos of equipment, nullifying the one
advantage that had kept him alive in the streets.

Finally, fatigue, encumbrance, and lack of experience lost to superior strength
and skill and Fornseby felt the orc's sword bite deeply into his leg. He cried
out even as the pain disappeared under the narcotic influence of shock. Death
was only a blow away. The world slowed. The orc's blade arced. Desperately, he
raised his sword to counter but despite his frantic effort, it came up too
slow.

Then the orc collapsed, bellowing. Crewman Wheeler, sword dripping black
orcish blood, grinned at him. ``Get a wrap on that wound, sailor!'' He
ordered, then headed back into the fight.

Fornseby staggered across the street, shrugged off his pack, sank down against
a wall, and numbly began digging for his first aid kit. Half his team was down
but the orcs were nearly defeated. Wheeler now led the team's best swords
against the handful that remained. It was obvious even to his inexperienced
eye that the orcs were ready to bolt. They would win the fight, but from the
looks of the dead and dying in the street they may as well have lost.

* * *

Crewman Brenda Strong and her troops also made their way through the darkened
streets toward the barricade, all heavily loaded with their equipment. But
Brenda had been one of the Marine's elite SAS troops before she'd gotten into
trouble. So unlike the other defrocked Marines on this mission, she understood
the value of the skills her rather eclectic group of former thieves
represented.

``He says there are three milling around about twenty meters down the
street,'' Ahman whispered into Strong's ear. She had no idea how Fernwall's
street stiffs managed to pack so much information into the few vague gestures
the sailor across the street signed back, but she was glad they all had the
skill and wished she did. The SAS had their own sign language, but it was no
where near as sophisticated as what the kids living in the streets had
contrived.

``Three best archers,'' Strong whispered back, looking over her team.
``Okay ...  Harris, Forbes, and Spinner. Tell Kester to call it. Slow and
sure. Sudden kills.''

Ahman nodded and began to sign to the other team members. The three archers
nodded and disappeared into the building behind them. Across the street Seaman
Kester gave Ahman and his team leader a thumbs up.

They all waited.

Several minutes later Kester made several gestures, waited, gestured again,
then turned to look back down the streets, one arm raised.

Wait ...  Wait ...  Wait ...  Kester's arm dropped. The dampened
sound of the crossbows sounded. Kester gave a thumbs up, turned and grinned.

Brenda began to breathe again, then signaled Kester and Tsarnas, her other
volunteer point, to cross the intersection and begin scoping out the next
block. It was one sign that seemed universal--like thumbs up. Kester worked
one side of the street, Tsarnas the other, checking out each window, each
doorway; slow painstaking work, but nobody on Strong's team liked the potential
alternatives.

But what really frustrated them all was that they weren't really headed out of
here. They were headed to a rendezvous that might not even take place.
Precious time they could have more profitably been used to escape across the
barricade the orcs were hastily assembling. But the chain of command was the
chain of command, or so Crewman Strong insisted. She'd finally had nailed them
all when she asked how they'd feel if everyone else bugged and left
them behind. ``We're a crew--shipmates,'' she'd told them. ``We live
together, die together, and fight together.''

And that had been that.

* * *

Things were not going well for the team Tasha McKinnis had joined at all.
Their position had been near the eastern wall of the city, within easy range
of the high-powered ballista on the ramparts. A good portion of Mate Wright's
attention had been forced onto disabling those weapons, and that had been no
easy task.

By the time McKinnis had gotten to him the job had been done, but half of his
team was either dead or wounded, some horribly so, McKinnis saw. They wouldn't
live to see professional medical attention. Of that she was sure.

On hearing her report Wright had sent the diminuitive Mouse out to inform the
other teams it was time to leave and then, like everyone else, had given
orders to pack up. Unlike everyone else, Wright's problems were complicated by
having three severely wounded troops, all of whom had been burned. Getting
them out without jeopardizing everyone else was going to be tricky at best.
Nevertheless, like every soldier with a heart, Wright ordered it to be done
over what McKinnis felt were the heartless, but probably accurate, objections
of a couple sailors.

``Are they right?'' She demanded while she watched the others strap down their
backpacks.

``Likely,'' Wright murmured, hoisting his own pack onto his shoulders. ``If
your information is accurate, I'll give us all fifty percent odds on making
it.''

``What do you mean?''

``I mean, if half of us live to get to the ship (assuming that young buck
captain has managed to secure it), we'll be lucky. Packing three badly wounded
men out don't make it any easier. But,'' he grinned at her, ``nobody ever paid
a Marine to do the easy.''

She wasn't sure why, but that made her feel better--or at least braver.

``You sure we wanna do this, Mate?'' A little hook nosed weasel of a Seaman
asked. He'd been looking over the roof-top down at the street. McKinnis didn't
know his name.

``I ain't sure of dog-shit. Why?''

``Cuz there's about twenty orcs milling around down there right now and I see
two more bunches on the way.''

Wright went to look over the opposite wall. ``Clear over here,'' he said after
a minute.

``Yeah. Think it'll stay that way long enough for us to get to the ground?''
Weasel Face asked.

``Why go all the way to the street?'' McKinnis asked.

``Where else would we go?'' Weasel Face sneered. He obviously had a thing
against her, though she had no idea what. The Mate arched an eyebrow at her.

``Through the window,'' she shrugged. ``We'd be out of sight and could choose
our exit. We'd also be in a position to take good shots at their troops if we
had to and have a defensible position to do it from.''

Wright chuckled. ``You ever think about becoming a Marine, McKinnis? You think
like one. Let's do it. Crabes, Thornton, grab that line and bring it here!
This side.''

McKinnis shook her head and sighed. Men could think so linearly
sometimes. `If the mountain don't move, shovel it out of the way'. Why
do they never think about going around?

They'd just gotten the wounded into the building when Mouse returned with
Crewman Strong's message. ``Shit!'' Was all Wright said out loud, then turned
and ordered everyone to hurry it right along.

Once in the streets, McKinnis volunteered for point and scouted ahead. Once
they got away from what was evidently a main thoroughfare, things quieted down.
She made two kills as they made their way to the rendezvous point, but
thankfully, other than that things were pretty quiet. A comment she passed on
to Wright.

``They won't stay that way, Marine!'' He growled.

``I'm not a Marine,'' she reminded him. ``And why do you say that?''

``Why do I say you're a Marine? Because you think like one and you work like
one, that's why.''

``No, Mate! Why do you say things won't stay quiet?''

He chuckled mirthlessly and looked around. ``Because, Sailor there are
six twenty man teams converging on this building. My five year old son could
figure out what that's about.''

She had to admit, he had a point. ``Actually, there are what's left of
six twenty man teams converging on this building. From what I've seen, I'll be
surprised if half the hundred and twenty show up.''

He grunted agreement. ``Let's get topside and look around. If nothing else, it
should give us a good view of what the enemy has set up against us.'' He headed
through a broken doorway. ``And leave the wounded in the building with a
guard. No point in hoisting them up to the roof just to bring them down
again.''

``May I suggest something?'' McKinnis asked, following him up the stairs.

``If I said no would it matter?'' Wright chuckled. ``Shoot.''

``Find a safehouse for the wounded. Close, but not obvious. If we break
through, we can get to them, if not, they might be able to hole up until the
Allied assault.''

``The Allied what?'' Wright stopped and looked at her.

``Something the Captain the officers were talking about,'' she
explained. ``They think this place is being watched and that a major assault
will be started after our attack. If they're right, some of the
whatcha-call-its--''

``SAS troops.''

``Yeah, them, are probably already headed inland to report what we've done.''

Ten more sailors entered the room behind them. Wright opened the window and
looked out. A crossbow bolt appeared in his chest and threw him back into the
middle of the room.

McKinnis seemed to teleport to his side.

``Shit!'' He gasped. ``Daddy ain't commin' home, lil' Johnny.'' Tears welled
up in the big Marine's eyes.

``Come-on, Mate, you'll make it,'' McKinnis urged him. ``Just gotta get you to
that safe house, that's all.'' She didn't believe it. Tears welled up in her
eyes too.

Neither did he. ``Don't lie, Marine. It ain't becoming. This thing's ... 
torn my heart up. I'm ...  already dead. McKinnis!''

``Yes?'' Other troops in the room gathered around their dying leader. Blood
seeped out around his light armor and began pool on the floor.

``You're in command ...  till Strong ...  gets ...  he-r-e ... ''
His strength was fading fast.

``Aye, Mate,'' McKinnis choked out. Her tears mingled with his blood on the
floor. ``I'll ...  I'll get the team outta here.''

``G-o-o-d gi-r-l ... '' The last was barely audible. His eyes glazed
and he went still.

Silence seemed to descend over the room like a cloak. Only Tasha McKinnis'
sobs dared intrude. The sounds of battle seemed distant, remote. Nobody
moved. The moment of silent respect for their faller leader came more
naturally than breath.

Then it was over as a trooper left on the street burst into the room.
``Where's the Mate?'' He demanded. Several sailors stepped aside. ``Oh.'' He
said quietly. Then he seemed to gather himself. ``Whose next in command? We've
got a problem.''

``The Mate put McKinnis in command till Crewman Strong gets here,'' said
another quietly.

``Yeah?'' The new troop obviously didn't seem to think much of that
decision. ``Well, apparently the orcs has figured out we're here cuz they're
headed this way right now. About twenty of them.''

McKinnis stood up and dried her eyes, though her chest still heaved
involuntarily. So much death and destruction. But a new emotion was mounting
inside her as well. Hatred. Hatred for the war, hatred for those who were
responsible for it, and a burning desire to this finish before she died.
``That all?'' She sniffed.

``Fuckin'a that's enough, cunt!'' The trooper snapped. ``If you're in
charge ... ''

``That will do!'' McKinnis snapped. ``Unless you want to join the Mate here on
the floor with your guts in a pile.''

The trooper made a sneer, but opted to keep his mouth shut.

``Now,'' McKinnis went on, forcing her emotions to cooperate. ``You, and you,
each take squads.'' She jabbed a finger at the three senior seamen. ``You on
the first floor; you on the second. I'll stay up here on the third. Ambush,
sailors. Make them think, then when they do, punish 'em and bug into another
room. Got it?''

The crew grinned at her. They were all thieves. This they
understood.

. . .

Captain Terrel and Seaman Dexter entered the battle deck at the same time.
``Fire's out,'' Dexter murmured to Chief Westman.

Commander Finway was right behind his captain. ``I've set some of the lads to
cleanin' up quick in case we need the fire gear again.''

``Sir,'' Dexter interrupted. ``There's a couple dozen orcs headed this way from
that man'o-war.'' He jabbed his finger aft. ``I guess they got their fire
under control.''

Terrel looked around at the number of effectives he had left. Most, he
concluded thankfully. ``Here.'' He picked up a couple of firebombs from a
nearby stack and handed them to the sailor. ``And you and you,'' he pointed
out a couple more. ``Grab two and come with me. Keep your head down below the
bulwarks.'' He headed for the main ladder.

Ducking low he worked his way aft to the quarter-deck, keeping carefully below
the bulwarks as he climbed the ladder. The three sailors joined him.

``Whatta ya want us to do?'' One asked.

``Wait till they get close enough,'' Terrel whispered, ``And then we're going
to lob these at them--port, starboard, near, far,'' he pointed at each sailor
in turn. ``What we don't get with the first throw we'll clean up with the
second. Ready?''

Everyone nodded. ``On my mark, then.''

The orc sailors were less than a fifty meters away, and closing.

``Ready ... ''

Twenty-five meters.

``Ready ... ''

Twelve meters.

``Ready ... '' Terrel readied his own firebomb. ``Now!''

All four threw. The orcs cried out. Some turned to run, but too late. The
bombs exploded with a loud bar-humph! and the air was suddenly filled
with the roar of fire and bawling of orcs burning to death. Some ran for the
water, others ran back up the waterfront street. Some rolled around in
agony. For none would there be any escape save final death.

``Hold fire!'' Terrel ordered quietly, then lobbed his second firebomb to the
right of the existing flame to thicken the wall of fire that protected his
ship from assault by land. ``Alright! You three stay and watch. Use those
bombs carefully as needed.'' He ran back down to the main hatchway. ``All
hands on deck!'' He roared below.

A few heartbeats later sailors came boiling up onto the deck. ``Aye Cap'n!''
Commander Finway came over, followed closely by Ensign West and Chief
Westman.

``We're going to warp the ship around and put the stern against the dock,'' he
announced. ``Chief, take a sailor or two and run the warping line. Loop it
around one of the piles aft. No one leaves the ship.''

``Aye sir! You and you, come with me!'' The Chief went off to obey orders.

``XO, you and I are going to supervise the slacking and taking up of the other
lines.''

``Aye,'' Finway replied thoughtfully, scratching at his unshaven scruff.
``We'll likely need a longer line on the bow. But if ya don't mind my askin'
Cap'n, why we doin' this, lad?''

Terrel nodded in the direction of the burning orcs. ``We've just advertised
that the enemy is aboard this ship. More company will be coming, Commander,
and our best defense are the heavies below-decks. If we bring the ship around
we can bring the aft batteries to bear on the docks. Nobody'll get
close to this ship without permission.''

``Aye,'' Finway said dubiously. ``But lad, none'o these kids knows his ass
from his hat about them things.''

``So start thinking about how to teach them quick. Real quick; because
I doubt we'll get out of here without a fight.'' As if to emphasize the point,
they heard shouts from the smoking ship tied to the next pier. ``See what I
mean?'' Terrel chuckled.

So did Finway, who began barking orders to nearby crew.

The basic handling of lines was no problem for the crew. Even warping a ship
wasn't foreign, being a basic part of maneuvering in port. But normal warping
used warping piles set at strategic locations in the port. What they were now
attempting to do, while technically feasible, was not part of the normal
training process, and nobody aboard save for Wil, Isac, and Harry had been at
sea long enough to know how to apply basic ship handling knowledge to unusual
circumstances with any degree of certainty. In short, the inexperienced
sailors became little more than their hands.

``Aye lad, aye!'' Isac was heard instructing one young Seaman. ``Yah toss the
messenger around the piling ...There ya go. Rove the other end through
the howse-hole. Now bend yer messenger to howse--no, no, lad! Rove the end
under there. That's it.''

Meanwhile, across the deck Harry was giving similar instructions. ``Don't play
with it, ya lame fool! Leave it be, it'll uncoil. Now work aft, outside all
the riggin, there ya go, there ya go.''

Wil stood at the stern, a coil of small line in his hands, one end of its
length in each hand. With a practiced throw he tossed the coils out over a
piling on the dock. The coils spread out like an unraveling spring forming a
huge U which dropped over the top of the piling. The sailor working Harry's
heavy line aft wordlessly handed his captain the end of the rope. Wil quickly
bent the messenger to the larger rope and began heaving it around the
piling. When the end of the big rope came back he undid his small line and
handed the rope end back to the sailor who laboriously headed forward tugging
more and more of the rope around the head of the tarred piling.

It soon became a race. Sailors began to boil down the brow of the large
warship to their rear armed with swords and bows. Harry personally bent his
long hawser to the deck cleat while Isac took turns around the windlass with
the other end.

``Harry, get below and man second battery, starboard side. You two, you got
nothing better to do? Go with him. Isac! Begin the warp.''

A volley of bolts thudded into the deck as the windlass began to turn.

``Ease off on the bow-line,'' Wil called. He was now walking up and down the
port side watching lines slack and come tight as the bow of the ship pulled
laboriously away from the quay. ``Ease off number one spring line, number two
take slack. Keep that line tight, sailor!''

``We're likely to lose men here Cap'n,'' Isac called. To punctuate the point,
another volley of bolts thudded around them and one sailor on the windlass
went down with a cry.

``Keep 'er coming round, Commander. Clear that aft battery and we're home
free.''

``The Chief's ready!'' A sailor sang out, poking his head up from the main
hatchway.

``Stand-by!'' Wil called. ``Loose that line! Keep it slack, dumb-ass. You!
Back there, take up that port-side stern-line! She's comin' away from the
dock.''

The orcs advanced another ten meters and another volley thudded into the
ship. Wil felt something slam into his shoulder and his left arm went numb.

``Another man down!'' Isac called.

``Battery clear!''

``Weapons free!'' Wil called. ``Fire at will!''

A port door slapped up against the side of the ship. A heartbeat latter the
whole ship shuddered as a resounding boom sounded beneath them. The
lead element of the orc advance disappeared in a sheet of flame. Seconds later
another slap and the ship shuddered and boomed again. A second round hammered
the would be assault, blocking their means of advance with a solid wall of
fire. Then a third round, and a fourth. Harry worked his way down the
waterfront quay, then started down the pier to which the warship was tied,
firing rhythmically, one round every five seconds or so. The beautiful thing
was, the warship couldn't fire back. Her ballista ports were blocked by the
pier.

. . .

``Looks like they need help,'' Fornseby whispered to Creman Wheeler. They were
tucked into the street adjacent to the building McKinnis was defending from
inside.

``So let's help 'em out,'' Wheeler murmured. ``won't be long before they start
hammering the hell outta that place with light artillery.''

Mouse rounded the corner at a dead run and skidded to a stop right in front of
him. ``Creman Strong's two blocks over. Nelson's back a block between us, the
other two teams are with him.''

``And Mate Wright's trapped in that building,'' Wheeler
observed. ``Great. Plan's working just perfectly, I see. Situation normal. I
was just about to give the Mate some help. You're here. What's the lady Marine
want us to do?''

``Topside,'' Mouse jerked his head toward the roof. ``Pound the hell out of
their position beyond the barricade.''

``Yeah? And what's she gonna do about the Mate?''

``Another team is dealing with that. Meanwhile she's gonna do some kinda SAS
thing to open up a hole we can all bug through. Be prepared to leave on a
moment's notice, she says.''

``Yeah,'' Wheeler replied. ``Alright lads. Topside. That building there, I
think. Should be lots of targets.''

. . .

``Alright troops,'' Strong addressed her team. ``Minor change of plans. Leave
the catapults, bring the bombs. We're gonna play SAS for a while.''

``Charming,'' Seaman Kester drawled. ``What the hell does that mean?''

``It means we're going to be thieves some-more, sailor,'' Strong
chuckled. ``And for that, we're not going to have time to set up catapults, so
we may as well leave 'em behind.''

``Suits me,'' Ahman grumbled. He was a Sudaani native, but came from Southern
Sudaan. This place had entirely too much humidity to suit