The Crossover
Authors: Larry Kollar
THE CROSSOVER
by
Larry Kollar
Copyright © 2013 Larry Kollar
All rights reserved.
Other Books by Larry Kollar
White Pickups
(Book 1 of the Truckalypse)
Xenocide
Accidental Sorcerers
(Accidental Sorcerers, Book 1)
Pickups and Pestilence
(Book 2 of the Truckalypse) (April 2013)
Water and Chaos
(Accidental Sorcerers, Book 2) (Summer 2013)
Acknowledgements
No author works alone, and I’m no exception.
I learn something new with every new project. This time, the big lesson was that you have to be careful about making the reader feel what the characters are feeling. I blogged the beginning of Chapter 2 as a #FridayFlash (titled “Far from Home”), and got a ton of negative feedback, because the readers were feeling the sensory overload of the characters. Whoops! So if I was wearing a hat, I’d doff it for those of you who commented on that piece.
Closer to home, no pun intended, thanks to my wife Margaret and my grandson Mason for adjusting the work-writing-life balance, even when I really didn’t want it adjusted. Beta readers, Craig W.F. Smith and Angela Kulig, pointed at several things that needed fixing. And once again, Angela found the artwork that became the cover.
And, as always, thank
you
, the readers, reviewers, and bloggers who help to spread the word!
— “FAR Manor”
January 2013
Chapter 1 – At Tirfa-Wold
If the sun shone anywhere this morning, it was east of the Avenger Flotilla. Clouds overspread the sky above, but the morning sun cut through a line of open sky along the horizon, turning the sails golden. A stiff northwest wind moved the three ships quickly through the choppy water along the northern coast.
At the first glimpse of sunlight, the lookout on the flagship
Holy Crusade
winded a horn; in response, crew and soldiers filed through the hatches onto the deck of each ship. The soldiers’ uniforms sported the emblem of Ak’koyr: the seven Rounds rising to Heaven, with the sun beneath. But among those on the third ship,
Hand of the Divine
, were six men wearing no uniform. These were impressees from Roth’s Keep, brought aboard with some cost to the press gang. They milled around the deck, trying to find a place away from the others.
“Close to shore,” one whispered. “Prob’ly due north of Roth’s Keep too. We could jump overboard and swim for it.”
“This wind put us a good ways east by now, Endrik. It would be two weeks’ march at a minimum,” said the tallest one, chewing his long black mustache. “If someone left us a cache of gear and food, we might make it.”
“So you think we ought to just ride along, Lodrán?”
“I don’t have any better ideas at the moment.” Lodrán shrugged. “And neither do you.”
“Face—
home
!” an officer bellowed. “Salute!”
All on board turned to face the same direction—toward Ak’koyr, as best they knew. They put palms to their heads and bowed, except the impressees. These, after ensuring nobody was watching, chose to tap their foreheads with one finger—a salute to an inferior, and thus a calculated insult. Hundreds of voices sang out, ringing over the waves:
Hail, Ak’koyr, hail!
Lifting Camac’s holy light.
Thy banner shall prevail
Against all forces of the night!
Hail, Ak’koyr, hail!
Far away, yet we hold dear
As evildoers assail
Our home and all that remains pure!
With great glad hearts we sing to thee
We shall return thy victory—
Hail! Ak’koyr, hail!
Endrik, who sang for his supper when no one needed his other talents, had altered the words to the anthem for his friends’ amusement. And so the impressees sang (not loudly):
Fail, Ak’koyr, fail!
On Camac’s shores a great blight.
Poor manners we detail,
Against your arrogance we fight!
Fail, Ak’koyr, fail!
Far away, yet all too near
Your evil has assailed
Our home and all that remains pure!
With angered hearts we sing to thee
For we are but your impressees—
Fail! Ak’koyr, fail!
After the morning devotion, breakfast was served. A light drizzle greeted the impressees as they returned to the deck with their meals. They lifted hoods, or donned broad-brimmed hats, and otherwise ignored it. Dampness on shipboard was nothing new, and the deck offered as much privacy as could be found. Still, they spoke in lowered voices.
“Have you overheard anything, Lodrán?” Endrik asked.
“Only what we hoped to find,” said Lodrán. “We’re bound for Tirfa-Wold.”
“The sea caves?” asked another. “The Wolds only use ‘em during the summer, I’m told. What’s there?”
“Something to do with that raid on Mostil. You heard about that, right?” The others nodded. “The raiders are from Ryddast, using the caves as a base. They’ve mostly harried the Northern Reach, and some of the ship traffic going through the Straits, but nobody expected them to come into the Gulf itself. The Wolds won’t arrive for two months, so the Easterners have plenty of time before they’ll have to scuttle back home.”
“We’ll be there this afternoon, if this wind stays up,” one of the others said. “I hope they don’t intend a frontal attack, I’ve heard it’s a natural fortress.”
“Ak’koyr?” Endrik turned and spat over the railing. “When have their tactics involved anything but brute force?”
• • •
The flotilla rushed east, strong winds pushing the ships through intermittent spits of rain. The line of clear sky to the east grew higher through the day. Lodrán and his fellow impressees kept watch on deck as long as possible, staying out of reach of orders.
“Hoy, look,” said one impressee, pointing up and ahead. “A rainbow.”
“We’ve been chasing it for a hour,” Endrik laughed. “You just now—”
“Fortress ho!” a lookout on the
Holy Crusade
bawled. Rounding a point, they saw several makeshift docks jutting from a narrow, rocky beach; a half-dozen fastboats floated alongside the docks.
Captains screamed, “Full on! Keep those fastboats in port!” Subordinates bellowed orders to their subordinates. The impressees complied as little as possible without visibly hindering the other crew.
But the docks seemed deserted.
“Look at that!” Endrik gasped, pointing at the hillside. Tirfa-Wold—or loosely, “Wolds’ summer dwelling”—was a high cliff, terraced with switchbacking, climbing pathways and studded with black holes—caves cut into the ancient rock.
“Wolds built that?” a nearby soldier gasped.
“Who knows?” Lodrán shrugged. “It could be natural. Or they might have dug it out over centuries.”
The soldier shook his head. Lodrán tried to gauge the size of the cave mouths.
Damned tight
, he decided.
Endrik spat. “I thought Easterners liked a bit more comfort—”
“Spears.” Lodrán looked toward the hatches. “We need to get to the weapons cache.”
“Ain’t a problem,” said the soldier. “Not locked, not guarded. The one thing they do right around here. You never know when we’ll need ‘em.”
“Good. Let’s go, folk. This is important.”
The six impressees slipped through the soldiers and sailors, now massing on deck. No one paid them any mind. Lodrán glanced at the foredeck. Gathered there were the Cream of Ak’koyr, warriors proven in both battle and loyalty. But like their rulers, they valued force far beyond thought. The heavy armor they wore—even some iron!—left Lodrán wondering how well they would fight after climbing those steep switchbacks. As he watched, one unsheathed a gigantic sword, longer than Lodrán was tall, and began limbering up as his fellows gave him plenty of room.
“You could watch that any time,” Endrik whispered, nudging him.
“After today? Not likely.” Lodrán turned and followed.
“What do you mean?”
Lodrán shook his head and held up a raised finger: The Hand That Begs Silence.
The weapons cache was well-stocked. “Perfect,” Lodrán whispered, picking a leather vest with bronze rings sewn over the front. “Spears and crossbows, and light armor, are what we want here.”
“Why?”
“The Cream of Ak’koyr is going in first, of course. In open fields and city streets, they’re near-invincible. But on those switchbacks, in those caves, they’ll be fish in The Godforsaken. No room to swing those huge swords, when the caves are narrower than a reach.” Lodrán looked up through the deck. “Do you think we should warn them?” Derisive snorts. “I thought not.
“You heard the plan: after the Cream beats the Easterners into submission, the common soldiers will be sent in to loot the place and deal with any remaining resistance. We’re to aid the wounded and carry large burdens.” He chuckled. “What will likely happen is that the Cream will find themselves unable to attack and too tired to defend. The secondaries will have a real battle, and we’ll be in the thick of it. Short swords might be of use, especially if those caves open into chambers.” He looked around. “No throwing knives. Pity. We’ll have to make do with crossbows.”
“What if it’s just narrow at the entrance?” one of them asked.
“There will be wide places—even chambers—and even narrower stretches, I’m thinking. The Easterners will try to fight the metal monsters in the tight places.”
Thumping noises echoed through the hold. “They’re dropping anchor,” said Endrik. “Let’s get what we came for and make ourselves visible.”
They came topside, just in time to see the first of the Cream of Ak’koyr depart from the
Holy Crusade
, on flat-bottomed landing craft. The elite warriors stood on board at parade rest, watching but not seeing the field of battle, ignoring the common soldiers rowing and poling them to shore.
Soon,
Word of Truth
and
Hand of the Divine
would disgorge their own heavy troops. A little later, nearly fifty of the best soldiers in known civilization would be in deep trouble. None of them seemed to understand that their great strength would be their weakness here.
Lodrán and his friends reported to their Striker. He looked at their armaments, and shrugged. Then he looked at the forbidding cliff, riddled with caves. He looked between the impressees’ kit and the caves several times, then began whispering to his other men. One by one, they went below and returned with their own spears and crossbows. “The Striker thinks you got the right idea,” one of the soldiers whispered to Endrik. “Good thing we’re the last ones ashore, we have time to make some adjustments!”
The Cream stood in formation before Tirfa-Wold. Still no activity from the Easterners. Finally, one wearing the silver-plumed helmet of a Captain shouted an order, and they marched under a leaden sky. No soldiers or arrows poured out of cave mouths. No battle-cries or any other sounds. The Captain stood alone on shore, arms folded. Above, the rainbow seemed to touch down beyond the cliff’s edge.
“Looks like they ran home,” a sailor grinned. “No glory for the Cream this day, I say. Well, that’s all to the good.”
“I’d say you’re right,” Endrik muttered. The impressees, and several others, nodded agreement.
Minutes dragged by. They watched the caves, but saw and heard nothing. Finally, the order was given and the first strike boarded the landing craft and went ashore. They saw the Striker salute the Captain, then point to the caves. After a moment, the Captain nodded and the Striker led five soldiers into one of the caves.
A few minutes later, one soldier pelted down the switchbacks. He rushed to the Captain, saluted, and made wild gestures. The two of them boarded a landing boat, and returned to the
Holy Crusade
. Soon, the landing craft were busy ferrying soldiers ashore. Rumors spread to the other ships before confirmation was brought: the Cream were taking unexpectedly heavy losses; reinforcements were needed immediately.