Refuge: Book 5: Angels & Demons Page 7
"I think the colonel has made an excellent suggestion," said another man, his long legs carrying him up the hill.
The prince turned and quickly bowed to the man. Ismael Levine was said to be an ancient member of an ancient people, one of the immortals, younger than some elves, older than most.
"Welcome, Brigadier," said Delgado, reaching out a hand.
"General, Colonel, Prince," said the utterly cultured man to each in turn, shaking all of their hands.
The prince wasn't sure why this man wasn't the leader of them all, even above the other immortal the Ellala had said was the prophesied savior. He had more intelligence, and most importantly, more wisdom than the shorter lived of his people. However, it was not up to him to decide how these people did things. He looked again at the fort through his telescope, wondering what the newcomer humans were going do, and highly anticipating seeing it for himself.
Chapter Six
"It would be so much easier if you were to convert to the life gods of this world," said the beautiful priestess who was looking over his leg.
"But then I would be the prey of the night terrors that hunt here," said the dark-skinned American, frowning, and grimacing as she ran her fingers over the wound.
"Well, Sergeant James Whitaker," said the priestess, whose own nametag identified her as Captain Beate Terbourg.
So, a German then, he thought. She was a pretty little thing, and had obviously been blessed by the local gods to become a healer in such a short time.
"Bubbuh, ma'am."
"What?"
"I go by Bubbuh, ma'am. What my people used to call me back in Alabama. And since I'm immune to magic, just what do you think you can do for me that simple time won't?"
"I was in training to be a nurse before I came over," she said, pulling a vial of some brownish liquid from her medical bag. "I jumped at the chance to become a healer. Who wouldn't want to be able to say the words and feel the power flowing through the hands, and watch even the most grievous of wounds close up and turn to healthy pink flesh?"
"And your soul?"
"If I do everything right, I will end up in a heaven, the one of the healing God Yanon. As long as I avoid those night hunters of yours."
"Not a chance I'm willing to take," said the big sergeant, shaking his head. "Not one my daddy would have approved of either."
"Your German is very good," she said, sticking a brush into the vial, and then removing it.
"I studied it in college, ma'am. Then I was assigned to Germany, and it just seemed to flow out of me." He turned a jaundiced eye to the dripping brush. "And just what the he, I mean heck, is that?"
"It's an herbal mixture made up by the elves. For healing when a priest is not near. Not quite as potent as magic, but its medicinal properties are nothing short of miraculous." The captain smeared the foul smelling paste onto the wound on the shin of the calf, making sure to cover the entire area.
"That feels, wonderful," he said as the warmth of the paste began to infuse his leg. It wasn't the miracle of magic, which would close the wound immediately, but it had to be the next best thing. There was now no pain, not even from the deep cut into the underlying bone.
"There won't be any infection," said Beate, smiling. "It has miraculous antibiotic and analgesic properties. And it will speed the healing process. In a couple of days, you should notice the wound completely scabbed over. A couple of days later there will be a scar, and you should be able to walk normally."
"Thank you," said Bubbuh, patting the priestess on the shoulder. "You are a good woman. But I still fear for your soul."
"I know you do, sergeant. But it's a risk I'm willing to take. Now, I have to go. There are other people I need to see, and I think I can get a dozen or so of them back on their feet before I exhaust my energy for the day." She stood up and started to walk from the tent, turning at the last moment. "Just make sure you don't get stuck with another sharp object, Bubbuh."
The sergeant laughed as she went through the flap. That's the trick of it, he thought. On either world, not getting in the way of things meant to pierce your hide was the trick to coming out of combat whole.
* * *
Dieter and his new protege, Humphrey, sat on the grass and drank beer out of the cups that had been part of their mess kits. Dinner had been excellent, even if it had been served from a large field kitchen. It had included large steaks, lots of fresh bread, and fresh vegetables bought from what local farmers could be found in the area. Now they had beer. Good beer, brewed back in the Refuge valley and brought by wagon here in great barrels.
"You know this means we're going into battle," said Humphrey. "And it's going to be a bad one, you know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean, private," said Dieter after smacking his lips with the taste of the beer on them. They were giving the troops some rest and relaxation before committing them to battle. A good meal and some alcohol, such as was custom in most naval forces if not all land forces. The German army always provided the troops with beer, and if the Americans hadn't traditionally, their soldiers were just as hard drinking.
Now, if only we had some women, he thought, looking around. Unfortunately, female companionship had not been provided. There were some human and elfin women in the camp. The humans were all officers, priests, mages or such, that wouldn’t appreciate the sexual approach of an enlisted soldier. And the elf women all seemed to feel that most human males were beneath them, short lived and ugly. Some still might try to force themselves on the females, but anyone who did would face court martial, if they survived, which wasn't a given.
"Looks like the band is starting to warm up," said Humphrey, holding up his cup to attract the attention of one of the mess soldiers who were carrying jugs around to serve the combat soldiers.
Dieter looked up at the small stage that had been set up on one side of the camp. Eight thousand soldiers were their audience, not the largest this band had ever played before. Dieter had seen the Tarantulas in concert in Frankfurt, when sixty thousand people had crammed into a soccer stadium. There they were simply entertainment. Here, he knew, they were so much more. Even the couple of hundred sentries guarding the camp would catch the magical vibe of their music. Then the drummer launched into the opening rhythm of one of their most popular songs, and every voice faded while every eye turned their way.
* * *
"Everyone ready?" asked Warrant Officer Third Dirk Winslow, holding his guitar at the ready. They had all gone through the tune-up, and they could feel the anticipation of this crowd, waiting for their magic. On Earth that would be just a word. Here it was a reality.
Dirk had been considered one of the hottest guitarists in the world, a combination of the raw energy of a Jimmy Hendrix and the technical mastery of Steve Howe. He had been in Germany with his German born band when the disastrous war had broken out. He could just as easily have been in America with his American father, a former black soldier who had married his native sweetheart in Germany. He had been given warrant status, since he was not really in the chain of command, and was really more of a specialist, since he and the other bards of the band didn't have the overt power of the mages or priests. However, their bardic magic was even more powerful than that of most of the magic users when they combined their talents and used their instruments.
"Ready," said Warrant Officer Second Peter Steiner, the drummer, hitting one of his symbols in a staccato rhythm.
"Ready," said Warrant Officer Second Wolfgang Schrenker, bass in hand, nodding over at his brother Reinhold, who was holding his electric guitar in an easy grip.
"One," shouted out Dirk, who was also the singer, though they didn't always have vocals within their songs. "Two." He could feel the energy building up in his finger, his hands, all the way up his arms to his shoulders. "Three," he yelled, and launched into the opening riff of one of their most popular songs from their last Earth album.
The power flowed through the instruments and into the magical amplifiers the dwarv
es had made them. They weren't quite the same as the Marshal's they used on Earth, but close enough, and the music flowed out over the crowd, its magic complexities taking hold.
Bardic magic was an unusual specialty on a world that was restricted to lutes, simple drums and some wind instruments. Some of those bards were good, but none were of the class of the four members of the Tarantulas, who were at the top of their game in the rock world. Steiner worked his drums with fast and complicated rhythms, the Schrenker brothers formed a counter that blended in perfectly, their fingers flying over their strings, while Dirk belted out the words to the song. A ballad about men giving their all for their people. One that had been intended to tell the story of the tribesmen of Hermann, the hero of Germany who had defeated the Roman legions thousands of years before. The song fit in perfectly for the soldiers of this world of muscle-powered weapons and brutal death.
Dirk launched into the first of his guitar solos, though solo didn't really fit, not completely. It was a masterpiece of guitar, fitting in with the general tone of the composition. It allowed the other two guitarists to follow, while he weaved an improvisational overtone that took it to the next level.
Far beyond the music was the power that moved the souls of men, then revitalized and invigorated them. The song went on for twenty minutes. One of the Tarantulas' signatures was the long and complicated song, and this they delivered. But all good things had to end, and so did the song. After less than three seconds, while the crowd erupted into joyous screams, Dirk launched into the next song.
And the next, for over an hour the magical power flowed out, but also flowed into the musicians, and they could have played all night. However, that was not in their orders. They were to play for an hour, and they had already gone over that time. Then they were to break it down and allow the men who were likely to be facing death on the morrow to get their rest. The power of the music would give them a restful sleep, devoid of nightmares and anxiety. The greatest miracle they could work for the force. They would now move to another location and give another concert for yet another group that were less likely to be facing death the next day. But they might, being the reserve force, and they would also gain the benefit of the magic of the bards.
* * *
Dieter stared at the band in open-mouthed rapture. He had seen the band several times on Earth, but they had been nothing like this. He could feel the energy flowing through him, invigorating him, taking away all of his worries and cares. The song ended, and he opened his mouth to scream his delight, when they launched into another with their typical style.
The sergeant downed his beer and held up his glass to show that he wanted more, and it was filled by one of the men carrying a large pitcher. He took another deep drink and let himself flow into the music.
But, we're supposed to be immune to magic, he thought, not really understanding the effect. Unless it was something that, because it worked on the mind, unlocked what was already in the body, and didn't infuse one with the energy of a spell. He didn't know why it worked, but it certainly did, and he was willing to accept the blessing of his God to allow him to experience this wonder.
"Bubbuh," he yelled out as the man plopped to the ground next to him, a large mug of beer splashing liquid onto the ground. "How are you?"
"Good as gold, my brother," said the American, moving his head with the music. "And my boy Dirk is still amazing."
"Your boy?" asked Humphrey, shaking his head. "Just because he's half black?"
"His daddy and mine were good friends, rookie," said the American sergeant, punching the private in the arm. "I actually met him before he became famous."
Dieter looked over at his friend for a moment with new respect in his eyes. He had always dreamed of meeting the members of this band, and here his friend had known him before he broke out on the world scene.
"Will you be joining us for tomorrow's festivities?" asked Dieter, yelling over the music.
"Oh, yeah. I'll be there. Right along with you, facing those scary bastards."
Yes, thought Dieter, a flash of worry running through him before the music blew it away. Then all of his worries were gone, and he knew he would sleep well this night.
* * *
General Zachary Taylor didn’t leave the valley much. Today he thought it important that he get a look at what was going on at the bank of one of the large rivers that flowed from the southern lake chain, the one they were calling the Grand Lakes, to the Northern Sea. Not that the river itself was of much interest, but there was a lot of effort going on there to make something they were hoping would benefit the war effort greatly.
So here he was, on the back of a gold dragon, sitting strapped in right behind the pilot, though she was really no more a pilot that a horseman was a driver. He kept telling himself that it was no worse than riding in a helicopter, but a chopper didn’t look back at one with a head of horns and a mouth that could eat you in one bite.
“We’ll get you there, sir,” yelled Major Jessica Stuart, the pilot. “Gallandralla hasn’t lost a rider yet. Well, except for her first rider, and he was killed in combat.”
“Thank you, Major. You’re such a comfort.”
There was nothing else for it. He was secured by six straps that were connected to the saddle. As long as the saddle remained on the beast, and it stayed in the air, he was safe. If it fell, he had whatever time there was to hit the quick releases on all six of the buckles, then parachute down. Taylor had never gone through airborne training. He was a tankhead all the way. But he was sure he could get to the ground with the chute. What condition he was in when he got there was the question of the hour. The trip by horse or wagon would take a day there and a day back, and he had too much work to miss that much time in his office.
He tried to relax and take in the sights. There was another dragon flying about fifty meters to the right, Stuart’s wingman. The day was bright and clear, and he could see for tens of kilometers. The valley was beautiful below, reminding him so much of the Shenandoah back in the Virginia he would never again see. The river running through the center sparkled in the sun, while fields of ripe grain waved in the breeze. To the west was the pastureland, with thousands of cattle and horses grazing placidly.
What it had that the Shenandoah didn’t were high mountains around the sides. There were only a half dozen passes granting entrance all the way around, and heavy fortifications had been erected in every one. The open end of the valley was also fortified with a double wall and a moat. The valley was as secure as could be, and the almost a million people who called it home had little to fear.
He looked down and to the side to see the plateau city his people had taken for their own, after clearing out the undesirable creatures that had lived there. They had repaired and refurbished the stone buildings, using dwarven stone and elfin provided timber. Most of the population didn’t live up there, preferring not to trudge up and down the steep ramp that granted access. Still, it was a vital craft and manufacturing center, and wagons rolled up and down the ramp all day every day. The sunlight reflected off the glass of the greenhouses that were going up. They would grow vegetables there even in the heart of winter, while the maze of caverns and tunnels were the perfect places to grow the variety of fungus the dwarves subsisted on.
Smoke rose from the other end of the valley, near the entrance. They were refining oil there, something that could be used for lubrication in the steam engines they were developing, and they were making plastics, at least the simpler ones.
What we need is a railroad, he thought, not for the first time. If only that damned god of the dwarves would see reason. You’d think he wants that evil bastard to win.
They swept over the falls that brought the river into the valley, then over the mountains that separated them from the next watershed over. Taylor was more than happy that he had worn a winter coverall and heavy gloves. It was cold as hell up here going over mountains that had to be five thousand meters above the sea level of this world
. The waters in the river came from the snow melt up here, but the peaks above the tree line were never without the frozen stuff.
The dragon flew at about a hundred and sixty kilometers an hour, one hundred miles an hour in American reckoning. Not as fast as a helicopter, but better than anything else other than the giant hawks they also used. A hawk was not a useful transport though. An hour’s flight outside the valley and they were on the other side of the range, looking down on a dense forest that ran hundreds of kilometers, unbroken except for the few roads that ran through from east to west.
Another fifty kilometers and they were over the great river the Germans called the Danube, since the Ellala name was so hard to pronounce. Right below on the near bank was the worksite.
“Great navigation, Major,” he yelled to the pilot.
“I do it all the time,” said the officer. “But I’ll be glad to get back into the action.”
Taylor nodded. They rotated their fliers back from the front, since they needed them for air defense and transportation back here. Nevertheless, most fliers wanted to be in the action, and he couldn’t blame them. Sometimes he wanted to get in the action himself, but that was no longer his job.
The dragon landed softly on the ground, then lowered itself on its legs until the people were only four meters off the ground. Stuart dropped the ladder, then helped her VIP passenger to the ground.
“Welcome, General Taylor,” said Ernst Grueber, walking into the landing area to greet his visitor. “Come to see my boats?”
There were a half a dozen dragons in the clearing, resting and eating. They were obligate carnivores, and used a lot of energy to fly, so there were cattle pens nearby to hold their rations.
“I’ve been hearing about them, Doctor Grueber. And I had to come out and see them myself.”
“Well, then. Follow me.”
They walked down to the river, where the alliance had been building war galleys and cargo ships for the last year. They were still building some of those, Ellala craftsmen shaping the wood and attaching them to several frames that were standing on the ground above the river.