Twilight at the Well of Souls

those people of yours.”

“They’re religious fanatics,” she muttered cynically. “They love to die for the cause.” Still, she could not deny that, within her, she felt a great deal of admiration for the courage being shown there. And they were all volunteers.

A meter-long creature with a segmented body, dozens of legs, and six pairs of transparent wings came in with a buzz and dropped new photos at Asam’s feet. Their thorax-mounted cameras were providing him with the kind of intelligence the Olbornians could only wish for.

“They’re breaking,” he noted, a satisfied tone in his voice. “By God! They’re retreating!”

She smiled at him. “That means we’ve got them.” He shook his head violently. “Uh uh. They’ve just realized I caught on to their little game and they’re trying to draw us in while they get word to the flanks to change tactics. Whether we win or not will depend on whether there’s enough command organization down there to do what I ordered when they reach the trees.” He reached over and nodded to his signalman, who was standing with a limelight reflector facing the battle scene.

“Form the columns,” he snapped, and the message was sent. “Split ranks and form defensive perimeters.”

Not everybody below could be held back by iron discipline, of course. For them, too, it was their first battle, and seeing the enemy falling back was heady stuff to an already emotionally pumped-up force. The ranks behind, though, not having had to face the brunt of the assault, were more easily led, Dillians taking the lead, and a defense line was established across the open area through which more troops poured, some going forward but the bulk peeling off to right and left.

And suddenly the forest erupted with living bodies. Olbornians, yes, but not just Olbornians. The very ground seemed to come alive with hundreds upon hundreds of huge mouths all filled with infinite rows of sharp teeth.

Again the leading forces were taken by surprise and went down; the ones still rushing through the new line, though, formed reserves that peeled off to right and left to support their comrades under attack.

Mavra looked through her field glasses and shook her head. “It’s too far away,” she sighed. “What are they?”

“Well, the ones dropping from the trees are more Olbornians, of course—and I think I see a lot of well- prepared sniper nests up there, too. But they used the forest and the natural color of their allies to disguise the main force.”

“Allies?” she echoed, confused.

He nodded. “Giant lizards, with the biggest mouths and biggest bellies you’ve ever seen. They can lie absolutely motionless for days, but when they want to move, they move! I’ve seen Zhonzhorpians run on two legs at over twenty kilometers per hour—on all fours they can be almost twice as fast and climb a tree or a slick wall right after you.” He looked into the glasses again. “Ha! See? They forgot a machine gun isn’t a death-ray! It can put up a withering fire, but it can only fell what it hits, and it can’t hit everybody!” He turned to the signalman. “Make for all reserves to flank!”

Almost as the signal was transmitted, the remains of their fighting force, some thousand or so soldiers, crossed half a kilometer up and half a kilometer down from the battle and started to close.

Asam sighed and put down his glasses. He looked suddenly very old and very tired. “We got ’em,” he sighed. “We won. A lot o’ fightin’ yet to do, but it’s ours.”

She looked at him in some confusion. “I still don’t understand all this,” she told him.

He grabbed for a flask, uncapped it, and took a long pull. It was a lot stronger than ale, but he downed it like it was water.

He coughed slightly, wiped his mouth with his hand, and let the flask, which was on a chain around his waist, drop. He sighed and grinned.

“Allies,” he told her. “And who could they get? Not Alestol—they’re stuck in their hex. Not Palim, surely. That left Zhonzhorp, to the west. A high-tech hex. It’s where those excellent rifles and cannon were manufactured. The Zhonnies voted against us, too—as did most, o’ course—and they would also like to see the battle fought on somebody else’s territory. Keeps from messin’ up the landscape.”

The reserves were attacking, closing in now.

“The Olbornians will be comin’ back now to try and hit us, but it’ll do ’em no good. See? Right now some of our flying folk are givin’ it to ’em good, just beyond the trees there. When we combine, there’ll be little left in the way of an enemy in our area, and our combined force will push out at the Olbornians. That’ll be that. Better part of a day is all.”

“I’m still confused,” she persisted. “Why did you attack the way you did?”

He grinned. “Well, if we’d split up into three main bodies, there would’ve been maybe two, three thousand tops, to cross that open area. The pussy cats would be down to that number or so after the bombardment, so it’d be fairly even: their turf, our superior racial forms for this kind o’ thing. Most of us are harder to kill than them. Then, as the flankers came to the aid of our forward attackers, they’d be hit by the Zhonzhorpians. Again, equal numbers, but their turf, their surprise. Their three forces would be back to back to back, so to speak. If any carried, they could be hustled to some place in trouble. We’d be divided, an enemy force between any two of ours. They’d have held.”

She rushed to him, gave him a hug, and kissed him. “Oh, Asam! What would I have done without you?”

He looked down at her and smiled. “Found another sucker,” he said dryly.

She wasn’t sure whether or not he was kidding.

At the Bahabi-Ambreza Border

“The men are gettng pretty pissed off, sir,” the Hakazit general told him sourly. “I mean, it’s not what they signed on for. Hell, I don’t believe it myself! Close to nine hundred kilometers and we haven’t killed anybody yet!”

Marquoz shrugged. “What can I do? That whole Durbis army was set up to take us—force-ray projectors, helicopter gunships, and all—and when we marched over that hill, everybody decided they’d visit the seashore for their health. I’ll admit it’s been a damn sight easier than I expected—so far. You just tell ’em that going up the Isthmus isn’t going to be any picnic.”

“It better hadn’t be,” the general huffed. “Otherwise, they’ll do us both in and go on a rampage on general principles.”

Marquoz chuckled and turned back to the border. Children, he thought. Like little children always dreaming and playing at war. The glories of battle and all that. Inwardly, he was thankful that a force of fifteen thousand Hakazit troops marching in precision across a wide swath of countryside had scared the hell out of the locals. He would need this force later, he knew, and he wasn’t all that certain that, when their buddies were getting smashed into goo all around them, the romance might not be over.

He was, he decided, developing a whole religious faith around the absolutism of genetics, and he hoped it wasn’t a false deity.

Ambreza, he believed, would be another easy mark. They wanted him in Glathriel and would do almost anything to let him get there. Getting out would be the problem.

As with many other races and most of the hexes here, a white flag or cloth meant not to shoot. It was a logical choice. Quite simply, it was easier to see at a distance. He wondered uncomfortably at times, though, about what would happen if he ever met an army whose national flag was white.

Affixing the flag to a staff, he rumbled down the side of a hill to the party below who waited under a similar banner. It was getting to be very routine by now.

The Ambreza were enormous rodents that somewhat resembled overgrown beavers, complete to the buckteeth and large, paddlelike tail. They walked upright, though, on large hind legs, using their tails as added balance, and their look of extreme innocence was deceptive. Once this hex had been