This is a far different Fielder than the panicky popinjay who met me down on Broadax's world, thought Melville as he watched his first officer at work. I'm learning more about him, but mostly he has grown . . . we've all grown.

The main enemy attack wasn't antic.i.p.ated for about a week, which would be just enough time to make the men highly proficient with their new weapons. Melville intended to partic.i.p.ate in most of the training, and Petreckski would help instruct when Fielder was needed with the ship. But Melville had another task to partic.i.p.ate in. The Stolsh defenders had a special scheme to delay the enemy, a plan to buy that week. These tall, gaunt, dour amphibians came from an ancient race of mighty warriors, and they were grimly determined to make their invader pay dearly.

They'd invited Melville to be there at a "roasting" for the Guldur invaders. How could he refuse?

Rich and poor, lord and boor,

Hark to the blast of War!

Tinker and tailor and millionaire,

Actor in triumph and priest in prayer,

Comrades now in the h.e.l.l out there,

Sweep to the fire of War!

The Guldur forces rushed the walls of the lower city in a great, vast wave. Limited by what they could transport in two-s.p.a.ce, they had only muzzle-loading cannon and rifles. The Stolsh, limited by complacency and the kind of cultural technophobia a.s.sociated with most low-tech worlds, had little better. There were some breechloading repeaters used by civilians. It wasn't illegal, just frowned upon. But the Stolsh army was pretty much limited to muzzle-loaders. The result was essentially a battle straight out of the Hundred Years War or the Napoleonic Era on Old Earth.

The scattered cannon on the low, thin battlements of Ee hammered the advancing troops, bringing the attacker's rage to a fever pitch, while expert marksmen on the walls killed their leaders. Just as they reached the walls, just as they were ready to close in honorable combat, the cowardly defenders fled.

From atop the walls the Guldur could see Stolsh women and children in the remote distance, far down the avenues, fleeing from their righteous wrath. All that stood in the way was a handful of defenders manning a feeble barricade in the street. Again a volley of snipers on the rooftops dropped their leaders.

Westminster and Valandil kneel on the roof of a carefully selected building. Before the rangers open fire, Westminster looks out at the approaching enemy horde and mutters those fighting words feared and dreaded across the galaxy, "Y'all ain't from around here. Are ya?"

A group of Stolsh volunteers were reloading their weapons, feeding loaded rifles to the two buckskin-clad rangers as fast as they could fire accurately. Which was very fast.

The rangers were the last of the crew to acquire monkeys, as though the little creatures were intimidated by them. These monkeys were quiet, taciturn creatures, much like the rangers themselves. They stayed low and hidden most of the time, giving quiet encouragement while keeping an eagle eye out for bullets to block.

Other teams of Stolsh sharpshooters were performing similar tasks, but none was half as effective as the two elite Westerness warriors. The enemy was evil. What they would do to the innocent Stolsh noncombatants was horrible, it was vile. And so the two rangers found nothing but satisfaction and pleasure in killing the enemy. But they knew, from their contact with the Guldur crew members on board the Fang, that the real evil was the nasty little Goblan "tick." And, most of all, the odious leaders and the repugnant system that perverted the average "doggies" into these packs of ravenous beasts.

Thus the rangers took particular joy in killing the leaders. All snipers, throughout history, have found it easier to kill leaders. For one thing, killing the leaders had a much greater impact on the enemy's effectiveness. But there was more to this than the physical, tangible, objective aspect of reducing the enemy's fighting power in the most effective way. There was also the fact that, to the degree that they liked to kill anyone, most snipers liked killing leaders.

In most cases the average soldiers weren't too different from each other. It was often hard to get excited about killing them. But the leaders. Ah, the leaders who were sending those poor schmucks to kill you. Killing them was a different matter entirely. This was something a fellow could sink his teeth into. It was almost as good as killing their d.a.m.ned politicians who started this d.a.m.ned war in the first place.

It was this process of seeking out leaders, the idea of "common" soldiers knocking the muckety-muck nabob off of his pedestal. This was what, at least in part, appealed to the sniper. And offended their leaders. The idea of contributing to a brand of warfare where leaders were intentionally sought out and killed (nay, murdered!), by lowly, vulgar, baseborn soldiers, was offensive to a certain breed of military commander. Common, peon, p.a.w.n soldiers could die by the thousands and that was okay. But a kind of war where people systematically tried to kill them, the leaders, from a distance, where you couldn't even fight back? Well, that was something that it was best not to get started!

In this case the Stolsh leadership was able to bend far enough to accept the killing of the enemy's mid-level leaders. After all, things had deteriorated quite a bit! The Stolsh might have grudgingly tolerated it, but the rangers took great delight in it. An old saying put it like this, "Fighting with a ranger is like wrestling with a pig. Everyone gets dirty, but the pig likes it!"

For those who have never partic.i.p.ated in long-range marksmanship, it's difficult to communicate the intense satisfaction that can come from that endeavor. Perhaps the golfer, striving for a lifetime to achieve a hole-in-one, can understand what it would be like if he could make every shot a hole-in-one. Even on a par five. And the result of the endeavor isn't to put some stupid ball in some silly hole in some sad little game. This game is real. In this game, if you're good, at the moment of truth you can slay a wicked foe and save the lives of your friends. And if, at the moment of truth, you fail . . . you might die. Your friends and family might die. And in the end, your nation may fall.

Josiah Westminster spends a half second scanning the battlefield, picking out the most obnoxious, offensive, insistent pack master whipping his beasts into a frenzy. The ranger chuckles to himself. When he was a boy, "He needed killing," was considered to be a valid defense in a murder trial. Well, here was an ol' boy who just needed killing.

He puts the front sight on the target, sighs, and strokes the trigger. "_____!" As always, when hunting men or beasts, he did not hear his shot. Ahh! The power, the G.o.dlike power to smite the enemy from afar. The satisfaction, the intense satisfaction as he watches Mr. Bloodl.u.s.t R. Frenzy lose interest, gurgle blood, and fall. "Hooah!" says the ranger with satisfaction, then in the blink of an eye he picks another target, brings the front sight intensely into focus, sighs, and strokes the trigger for the other barrel. "_____!" and another leader drops his whip, looks confused, and crumples to the ground. He switches rifles and does it again, and again.

p.i.s.s on golf, thinks Josiah. "_____!" p.i.s.s on basketball. Even baseball and football. "_____!" Those are pathetic little games for dismal little men. Fresh rifle and . . . "_____!" Sad, pale replacements for the real game. "_____!" The game our ancestors played with stones and arrows, with bullets and lives. Fresh rifle. Success in this game meant your children wouldn't starve and you could put meat on your family's table. "_____!" Success in this game meant no foe would lightly come to claim your land and defile your family. "_____!" Success in this game meant the difference between life and death. Fresh rifle. p.i.s.s on golf. "_____!" This is a man's game. "_____!"

Now comes the tricky part. Deciding when to fall back to the next position. For the rangers the temptation to stay and kill, and kill, and kill . . . is intense. For the Stolsh helpers and loaders with them there is another temptation: the desire to pull back too soon, before all the juice has been squeezed out of this position. The perfect balance is what a true professional seeks.

The tactical situation is just right when Westminster, Valandil and their helpers pull back. The enemy catch only a brief, fleeting glimpse of buckskin as the foe that has been tormenting them pulls back.

Trotting over the rooftops, across narrow bridges (bridges pulled down after they pa.s.s), scrambling up ropes hanging from walls (ropes which are then cut), they fall back to the next position. Westminster looks at Valandil and grins. "I love this job," he says and his Sylvan comrade smiles back.

"Too bad the dog can't be here," he says to his companion, "she'd love this." They both drop to one knee and scan their sectors for the most deserving leader from amongst the abundant, target-rich array set before them. Ahh, life is good, he thinks, as he strokes the trigger . . .

With a roar, the Guldur headed down into the avenues, squeezing into the streets, packing together in a great raging ma.s.s of bloodl.u.s.t and rage. Then the carefully primed explosive charges in the surrounding buildings blasted out from every window and door, just as the cannons on the barricades fired grapeshot at point-blank range. Nails, screws, and old hinges, lined with high explosive, and set carefully where an inside wall reinforced an outside one. They wanted the city? They got it. Metal bits first. At very high velocity.

Horse-drawn limbers stood by behind each cannon. As soon as the ambush with field-expedient claymore mines was detonated, the cannons fired one last volley of grape, hooked to the limbers, and galloped back to the next barricade.

The sappers who blew the charges slipped off through a series of mouse holes cut through the walls, along prepared routes, back to the barricades. For a little while, on that street, all that was left of the enemy's bloodl.u.s.t was . . . blood. And still the snipers picked off their officers like a cook might flick the weevils from his flour.

Finally the unstoppable, irresistible ma.s.s crawled over the bodies of their dead and dying comrades and reached the hated barricades. Only to find them empty.

On every street coming into Ee, the situation was the same. At great cost of blood and lives they reached the barricades, only to find them empty, with yet another barricade waiting for them a few blocks farther down the street. And always there were the hated snipers, picking off the leaders like lint off a sweater.

In one case the Stolsh gunners were a little too good at killing the advancing foe. They fired one volley too many, and when it was time to pull back, they were too slow and were overwhelmed by the enraged Guldur and torn to ribbons. A reserve element was immediately moved up to the next set of barricades, filling the gap left by these losses.

That one success only fed the enemy's bloodl.u.s.t. The fury, the wrath, the rage of the attacking Guldur was a thing to behold. There was no controlling them. Far in the distance they could see the remnants of the fleeing Stolsh civilians, their rightful prey, crossing the bridges into the upper city of Ai. They yearned to gratify their l.u.s.t upon those bodies, then satisfy their hunger with their flesh, and slake their thirst with their blood. They charged the barricades and death exploded yet again, from every doorway and window, and the buildings collapsed down upon them.

And still, still the snipers, the thrice-d.a.m.ned snipers, picked off their officers like a fussy child might flick the seeds from a bun.

Valandil and Westminster grin. Happy, contented grins. Like wolves, as they lope back to the next position, their monkeys looking back over their shoulders, ready to block any stray bullets. The right side of their faces are blackened with the gunpowder of hundreds of shots. Hundreds of dead enemy leaders. Their business is killing, and business is good.

Finally, after fighting their way over an endless series of barricades on every street that led directly toward the bridges; finally, after fighting through a living h.e.l.l of death and destruction; finally, the attackers reached the bridges and swarmed onto them in great, living, raging ma.s.ses.

Then the bridges were blown, and the attacking ma.s.ses burst into the sky. Hundreds of Guldur and Goblan became spinning pinwheels, artfully pirouetting up into the air with balletic grace.

Those immediately behind the luckless attackers on the bridges were suddenly faced with a huge gap in the bridge. But that wasn't their major problem. Their major problem was the thousands of other attackers behind them, propelling them into the waters of the River Grottem. Untold thousands were pushed into the river by the enraged ma.s.ses behind them.

The river. Sewer and morgue, serving from womb to tomb, hastening the journey helpfully whenever possible. The reeking, stinking river opened its loving arms and embraced an army. All without blinking. All in a day's work. Their pa.s.sing was marked only by an occasional bubble, rumbling to the surface like the echoes of beans in a bathtub.

An army without leaders is a mob. A mob dies easy. Like sheep. Like cattle driven off a cliff. It might not have worked with another species, but the Guldur's mindless bloodl.u.s.t made them vulnerable to this approach.

There were too few leaders to stop the enraged attackers from pushing thousands of their comrades into the tender mercies of the River Grottem. And when the attacking mob tired of that, there were still too few leaders to stop the mindless rampage. They spread out into every side street. Into every building. Atop every roof. Into every bas.e.m.e.nt. They sought vengeance. Blood. Flesh to slake their l.u.s.ts.

All they found was fire.

Westminster and Valandil lope across the bridge, two of the last few defenders to cross the bridge before it's blown. They run with the same tireless stride that carried them across the rooftops, on carefully preplanned and prepared routes, stopping constantly to pick off the enemy leaders. Many Stolsh snipers hunted the rooftops of Ee this day, but the survivors all speak in awe of the fearsome toll taken by the two rangers.

When the bridge is blown behind them they don't even look back, they simply continue to trot up the slope, the monkeys on their backs batting aside a few bits of falling debris. Halfway up the steep road that climbs up to the battlements of the upper city, Gunny Von Rito waits with a BAR slung over his shoulder. Beside him is Cinder, with a monkey on her back. They have been standing by to cover their friends' retreat if need be. Cinder barks and shimmies with doggy joy upon seeing the returning rangers, while her monkey hops joyfully up and down on her back. They both drop to one knee next to her, turning now to look back while their monkeys scamper onto Cinder's back, to greet each other.

"Everything go okay?" asks Von Rito.

"Hooah!" replies Westminster with a calm, satisfied smile. "It's been a good day."

The Westerness consul, the Honorable Milton Carpetwright, dressed in an elegant black suit, is standing by Gunny Von Rito. His squad of consulate marines are with him as bodyguards. A black bug in the midst of a red blossom, he strides forward to shake the rangers' hands.

"A tremendous job!" he gushes. "Our allies are all talking about you. Our contribution may be small, but you have definitely brought credit upon us. Tell me, what's your secret, how did you get to be so good?"

"Do you play golf?" asks Westminster with a lazy smile as he turns to shake the diplomat's extended hand.

"Why yes. Is it like golf you think?"

"p.i.s.s on golf," says the big, buckskin-clad ranger, laconically.

"Eh?"

"You asked me mah secret?" drawls the ranger. "The secret is, you just say, 'p.i.s.s on golf.' "

The diplomat turns without a word and trudges up the hill, his grinning bodyguards trailing behind him.

"Diplomats," snorts Von Rito. "A fully loaded BAR is the best diplomat I know."

The three humans, the dog, and their four monkey compatriots look across the river, watching with contented smiles as the fires begin. . . .

It began in the vats and oil stores in the Merchants Sector and all along the Street of Restaurants, progressing in a blazing series of explosions and fountains that cooked the invading Guldur in a great, malefic skillet. The lower city of Ee usually was a teeming anthill of citizens, but it had been turned over to the enemy after only token resistance. Now it was a great, swarming, seething ma.s.s of Guldur invaders, and they were burning, burning.

Sweet, enchanting odors mixed briefly with the burned pork and charred fur smell of incinerating humanoids, as the blazing inferno hit the Perfumers' Market. It was sadly anticlimactic when the firestorm hit the wh.o.r.e pits and brothels of the Court of a Thousand Delights and Perversions. This was partly compensated for when the flaming tide hit the storerooms of the Avenue of Pharmacopoeia, Apothecaries and Druggists. The fumes caused the invaders to have conversations with their G.o.ds. Necessarily short conversations. And then they went to meet them.

Sparks drifted like fireflies across the river, where the defenders waited to drown each ember. Smoke from the inferno could be seen from hundreds of miles away, a vast, wind-sculpted shroud for the invading army.

d.a.m.n. I wonder if their fire insurance covers that? thought Melville with a grim smile.

Standing atop the battlements in the damp, warm air, the allied commanders watched as their artillery fire plunged mercilessly down on the Guldur ma.s.ses clogging the gates as they struggled to escape the city. Earlier the same guns, hurling red-hot cannonb.a.l.l.s, preheated in furnaces and fired with precision into preselected locations, had started the fires.

The commanders' various staff officers were currently dispatched to help put out nearby fires caused by the swarm of glowing embers that came across the river. For Melville, his "staff" today consisted of Broadax and Hans, along with a squad of armed marines as bodyguards. All of whom were off fighting fires.

Melville stood atop the crenelated ramparts beside the Sylvan and Stolsh commanders, holding his puppy in his arms. If given positive exposure at a young age to things like water, gunshots, wire-mesh stairs, or combat, then a dog will have no fear of these things. If his dog was going to be a properly trained war dog, he needed to be exposed to guns, blood, death, gore, and killing at the youngest possible age.

Earlier, one of the elegant, foppish Sylvan staff officers had made an effort at polite conversation by asking the dog's name.

"His name is Boye," Melville replied with a polite smile. "As in, 'Here boy!' but with an 'e' on the end."

"I have not previously heard of such a name. Art thou making some clever historical allusion?"

"He's named after one of the most famous dogs in our history. 'Boye' was a trained war dog that belonged to Prince Rupert of the Rhine. This was during the English Civil War, pitting the 'roundheads' against the 'cavaliers.' The roundheads feared and hated the aristocratic cavalier's fierce war dogs, particular Prince Rupert's Boye. They celebrated when the dog was finally killed in battle. There is a famous nursery rhyme that was originally a poem, mocking the motley, ragtag, cavalier army.

"Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, The beggars are coming to town.

Some in rags and some in riches, And some in velvet gowns."

The Sylvan smiled in a polite but confused manner. "But is it not dangerous to have the puppy up here?"

Melville smiled sadly and replied simply, "He knew the job was dangerous when he took it." The bewildered Sylvan nodded and backed away. Then all the staff officers went to put out fires in the immediate vicinity.

Melville's dog looked at the death and suffering across the river with the kind of keen, contented pleasure that a hound would have as it watched a deer being gutted and field stripped. Melville and his monkey both echoed this look of remorseless satisfaction. As his fellow commanders gazed out in wonder and horror, Melville began to recite reflectively, quietly but clearly, "He said: 'Thou petty people, let me pa.s.s.

What canst thou do but bow to me and kneel?'

But sudden a dry land caught fire like gra.s.s,

And answer hurtled but from sh.e.l.l and steel.

"He looked for silence, but a thunder came