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A.R.Yngve

DARC AGES Book Three
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Chapter 43


Was it evening or afternoon?

Darc had lost track of time, and the dark, gray skies weren't much of a help. He, Meijji, Mechao and Mechao's sons had been let inside the rock mansion. The main portal was bolted and barricaded with heavy concrete beams. Lucijja and Faluti had posted armed villagers at all the front windows, just in time to see Tharlos's remaining army approach the path leading up to the entrance.

The rooms and catacombs of the mansion were crammed with people: more than two thousand frightened women, children and men. Several thousands more were in hiding across the archipelago, waiting for the battle to end. As Darc sat resting by a window, rifle and shield by his feet, Faluti went over to him with a wine sack. He took several gulps, relishing every drop.

"Thank you," he wheezed.

"You ought to let me examine that arm of yours," said Faluti, fingering at the bloody bandage around Darc's upper arm.

It surprised him that he did not even think of how much it ought to hurt, and he said: "Thanks, but no -- I've got some of Mechao's medicine. I'll be fine."

He mustered a brave grin at the chubby, grimy, black woman. She wore a captured enemy helmet and a homemade chest plate, blackened with soot and burns. Faluti grinned back, flashing her gold tooth -- even it was sooted.

"How is our side doing, Faluti?"

She shook her head sadly, yet she was grinning.

"You see me smile now, but I'll cry when this is over."

The rattle of the approaching enemy grew more audible, as their boots and robot limbs treaded onto volcanic rock.

Darc began to speak: "Faluti, I'm sorry for all this --"

"Now you be quiet, paleface!" she snapped. "Have the priests read a mass for your soul, and be done with it."

"I never was a strong believer, Faluti."

"Then at least behave like you believed!" she said -- and added, in a voice that almost broke: "Because there's a lot of people here who still believe in you. I wish to be one of them, until the end of this day."

Darc -- or if it was David Archibald -- blinked, rose groaning to his feet, and looked at the people's army surrounding him. He wished Dohan had been present -- Darc was hopelessly inadequate in military matters.

But nevertheless he opened his mouth, and addressed them in a harsh, loud voice: "Listen to me! I have not traveled through nine centuries just to end like this! We can still win this battle! I have called for support through the radio, and Sir Dohan's friends will come to our rescue! Stay calm, aim carefully, and fire as soon as you see the enemy --"

The enemy's war robots fired, all at once. The long hall was suddenly filled with flickering green lines, hitting the ceiling and the window edges. Plaster and rock splinters rained down, and Darc took cover. The fifty armed villagers took position, aimed, and fired at the enemy. Several enemy soldiers fell screaming, holding onto their legs and faces. But the undaunted robots fired another round. One male and three female villagers were hit by hot splinter and laser light; screaming, they crumpled. One of them was dead as she hit the floor.

Then --



A crackling thunder from the sky drowned out the screams and the distant rumbling volcano. An overdue rainstorm, mixed with volcanic ash and fueled by its heat, fell over the islands. Mechao's mutated beasts scurried into hiding, leaving Lord Tharlos's allies alone. And the rain hammered down on them.

Almost simultaneously, Tharlos's spider robots began to malfunction. Polluted water seeped into their joints and seams, causing massive short-circuiting. Shock and terror choked Tharlos's throat -- he could only watch, as his once so terrifying servants turned into sputtering, limp-legged jokes.

It could have been a great opportunity for Darc's side -- if only the rain was not making their laser-weapons useless. Tharlos's battle armor, well insulated and built to withstand moist, was unaffected. He waved his sword and rallied his men forward one more time. They were just a few steps away from the main portal, and they drew their swords. Darc glimpsed outside, and saw a new contingent of soldiers ascending the ridge -- all wearing blue and black. Lord Orbes and sons, no doubt.

Briefly -- in the objective sense -- Darc considered a last, desperate attempt to talk to the enemy. He knew nothing to say that could stop them. Dohan might be dead; Shara and Eye-Leg had not shown up; Mechao was down, and might not live through the day. With each breath, there was pain -- not his own but the pain of dead and injured people around him, heartbroken sobs and wails of people whose lives were suddenly ruptured, destroyed by the intruders. Could he give himself up? Yes, but it would not save the others.

Time seemed to slacken its pace, the seconds resembling minutes -- the rain appeared, to him, to slow down. How many times had he stared death in the eye this year? He had lost count. Had he finally grown tired of staying alive, ceased to fight and escape? No, not really. The drive that kept him going -- blind instinct, maybe -- was still beating in his veins. What attacked him from inside, was something else.

He felt tired of living through so much history.

To hell with trying to talk them over, he thought as the clamoring army moved closer. To hell with playing savior. They'll never change. Even if they manage to rebuild civilization as it was, it'll go the same way all over again. Build up, tear down. Two steps forward, one step backward. Nothing has changed.

But for the sake of the others present, Darc hid his melancholy. Selfishness, for all its practicality, had lost its meaning to him. He unclasped the alligator clips from his rifle batteries, and handed the clips to the next person waiting to recharge her weapon. Allowing himself one last searching look through the crowd for Shara, he approached the battered front windows again. As soon as the rain ceased, the enemy would resume firing. He aimed with one eye at the closest line of gleaming shield-walls.

At least, Darc noticed wryly, the rain was putting out the fires -–



The muddled, gray skies rumbled louder -- and louder still. Damn this rain, Darc thought. Get it over with, Goddess. I've waited 900 years too many for this moment. The rumble grew sharper, its pitch changing from a roar to a screech. Darc and the villagers looked up at the rainy sky. Then he saw them. A new fleet of jet aircraft came spiraling down toward the main island -- not as large and imposing as the fleet Tharlos had commanded, but fresh and new. A one-man scout craft swooped past Mechao's mansion -- it had the blue-red-black colors of Lord Damon's fleet. Darc was filled with glee. A goddamn miracle!

"A flag, a banner!" he heard himself shout to the others. "Bring me a banner! Hurry!"

A couple of blankets were quickly tied together; with a piece of coal, the besieged wrote "DOHAN DARC ALIVE" on it in large letters. They carefully held the makeshift banner out through the windows, so that the message was clearly legible.

The scout craft, having rounded the island, whizzed past the mansion once more. The pilot saw the banner, and responded: he ignited a signal flare. A trail of red smoke drew after the small ship as it went down to land. The main fleet spotted the signal. Lord Damon's ship went down first, followed by his troop carriers; further behind and on his flank, Lord Fache and his fleet came after.

As they descended through the pouring rain, the parked fleets of Orbes and Pasko were surrounded on the beach.