Archiwum
- Index
- Connelly Michael Harry Bosch Miasto kości
- Harrison_Harry_ _Stalowy_Szczur_i_piata_kolumna
- Harrison Harry Filmowy Wehikul Czasu
- Harrison Harry Planeta Smierci 03
- Harrison Harry Galaktyczne sny
- Harry Turtledove War Between the Provinces 03 Advance and Retreat
- Harry Turtledove Crosstime 01 Gunpowder Empire (v1.0)
- Harry Turtledove Enchanter Completed
- Harry Turtledove V
- Celmer Michelle Królewskie związki 02 Książę i sekretarka (Gorący Romans 893)
- zanotowane.pl
- doc.pisz.pl
- pdf.pisz.pl
- epicusfuror.xlx.pl
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sea, terra firma felt as if it were shifting under his feet. "Come on! Come
on! Come on!" his company commander shouted. "Form up, then head for the
market square. Once we're all there, the general will tell us everything we
need to know." Quintus had been in the army a long time. His bass rasp said
he'd seen and done everything. It also said nothing had been able to kill him
yet, and he didn't think anything he ran into ever would be able to.
The soldiers roared out a dirty marching song as they quick-timed it to the
square. Bearded locals in
long, funny-looking robes gaped at them as they went by. The locals muttered
to one another in their incomprehensible language. Even their writing looked
peculiar to Marcus: strange squiggles that could have said anything. He'd
heard the letters ran from right to left instead of from left to right. He
didn't know, and didn't much care; he couldn't have read them either way.
None of the locals did anything more than murmur. Nobody shouted an insult in
a language the soldiers could understand. Nobody threw a stone or tried to mix
it up with the troops, either. Keeping a low profile was sensible of the
locals. You didn't want to mix it up with people with body armor and the
finest weapons and training in the world, not if you wanted to go on breathing
you didn't.
Marcus had heard that some of the locals didn't care whether they lived or
died, as long as they could take out their enemies as they went. He'd heard
it, but he didn't believe it. You could say that, but meaning it once you got
out on the battlefield was a different story.
That fierce sun beat down. He took a swig from his canteen, which held a mix
of water and wine. When he got to the market square, he wondered if it would
be big enough to hold all his buddies. He shrugged, and his body armor
clattered about him. That wasn't his worry. He took his place, his company
took its, and more and more units took theirs.
The general strode forward and stood on the rostrum. "Men, we are going to
disarm and pacify this country," he said, pitching his voice to carry. He knew
his business; he had no trouble making himself heard all over the square. He
went on, "The fanatics here have given us too much trouble for too long.
We are going to root them out this time. They don't respect Western values.
They've made that very plain. They think their god and this so-called Son of
God count for more, and they can do whatever they please as long as it fits in
with their religion. They think they'll get a happy afterlife on account of
it. What
I
think is, they'll change their way of thinking pretty quick if we send enough
of 'em to the afterlife. So that's what we're going to do. Have you got it?"
"Yes, sir!" Marcus shouted along with the thousands of other young men who'd
come from the West to restore order to this miserable place that kept flouting
the authority of the strongest nation in the world.
"Are those wild-eyed maniacs going to stop us?" the general inquired.
"No, sir!" Again, the shout from Marcus and his comrades filled the square and
echoed from the walls.
"All right, then." The general made his smile extra broad, so all the soldiers
could see it. "These people are going to find out they don't know who they're
messing with. Isn't that right?" The roar of agreement that went up then
dwarfed the other two.
Word soon reached the hillmen that the Western soldiers were coming after
them. The rebels had spies and sympathizers everywhere. One of the invaders
couldn't step off the road and squat behind a bush without their knowing about
it right away. But knowing about it and knowing what to do about it were two
different things.
One of the rebel chieftain's most trusted counselors was a man they called the
Rock. "We ought to just disappear for a while," he said as the rebels leaders
squatted around a campfire. "Take off our helmets, throw away our weapons,
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vanish into the countryside. All they'll see when they get here is a bunch of
farmers digging up weeds and trimming vines and pruning olive trees. How can
they fight a war if there's nobody to fight?"
Several others from among the twelve nodded. The Rock was a practical man, a
reasonable man. He'd given practical, reasonable advice.
But, as their chieftain saw it, they were not in a practical, reasonable
situation. They were in a war.
When men went to war, they threw practicality and reason on the rubbish heap
first thing. Shaking his head, the chieftain said, "I told you before I come
not to send peace, but a sword. He that finds his life shall lose it: and he
that loses his life for my sake shall find it."
The Rock exhaled heavily. "I am not sure this is a good idea. I am far from
sure it's a good idea."
"Is it not lawful for me to do what I want with my own?" the chieftain
demanded, growing angry in his turn. "You will hear of wars and rumors of
wars see that you are not troubled, for all these things must happen. And, I
remind you again, he that is not with me is against me." He fixed the Rock
with a stare of messianic intensity.
Against that stare, even the stalwart Rock had no defense. He bowed his head,
murmuring, "Your will be done."
His will was done. The hillmen gathered. To the Son of God, their numbers
seemed as far beyond counting as the grains of sand by the sea. "Though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil," they sang,
"for you are with me." The Son of God inclined his head. The hillmen marched.
Some of Marcus' buddies grumbled as they moved toward battle. He didn't mind
getting there. Most of the time, he just stopped thinking about anything in
particular and let his feet do the work. That way, the miles unreeled behind
him, and he hardly even noticed they were gone.
Every so often, he had to cough. So many men and animals and vehicles on the
move kicked up an ungodly amount of dust. He couldn't keep it out of his eyes,
either. It was just one of the things you had to put up with.
Mobile troops and scouts went ahead to make sure the main body of the army
didn't run into any nasty surprises. Then came a division to back them up in
case they found trouble, the vehicles and the artillery, the high command and
the rest of the supply train, the main body of the army, and the rear
guards more mobile forces, also stiffened by heavy infantry.
Trouble didn't take long to come. The locals thought they could shoot at the
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