Jerry and Taj were hard at it in the programmers’ workroom when Bal-Simba sought them out. The giant black wizard looked as grim as Jerry had ever seen him.
“There is a new factor we must consider in our planning,” he said without preamble. “The enemy has a weapon we were not expecting.”
Jerry’s first impulse was to say something like “what else is new?”, but the look on Bal-Simba’s face stopped him. “What?”
“Animated corpses. Our enemy wakes the dead.”
“Zombies?”
“Dragons and riders alike.” The distaste was plain on Bal-Simba’s face. “Such—things—are not unknown. But not even the Dark League meddled with them overmuch.”
Jerry bit his lip. “We haven’t either, except in movies.”
“No one in the North has experience with them,” Bal-Simba went on. There are tales, however. They all agree they are difficult to create and harder still to control. Nor do they make satisfactory servants. They are merely puppets dancing on strings.”
“Maybe this guy’s found another way to make them work,” Taj suggested.
“So it would seem. A strong patrol of dragon cavalry engaged a flight of the Enemy’s this afternoon and we lost six riders and as many dragons.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in what might have been an attempt at a smile. “Our riders were using death arrows.”
“And you can’t kill a zombie,” Taj said, “So how do you stop them?”
“The body must be destroyed so as to render it useless to the animating intelligence. We were finally able to do so, but at a cost far too high. Such things are very hard to stop.”
Jerry and Taj looked at each other.
“If you will excuse me, My Lords, I must call upon the families of the riders we have lost. Should you require further information Arianne will be able to assist you.” With that he turned and left the workroom.
TWENTY-ONE – STAND TO YOUR GLASSES
The wing gathered in the tavern that night, but no one was drinking.
Off in the corner three squadron leaders sat with their heads together, talking in low tones. Occasionally one of them would make the hand motions which are the universal language of fliers. Some of the others gathered in twos and threes to talk quietly as well. Most of the riders just sat. Occasionally there would be an outburst of wrath and the sound of a mug shattering as it was thrown against a wall. Dragon Leader stood alone by the bar, sunk in a brown study.
You could have heard a pin drop when Charlie walked through the door.
Seemingly oblivious to the mood of the place he bellied up to his accustomed spot at the bar.
“Heard you boys had a little scrap today,” the old pilot said. “How many did you lose?”
“Six,” the man at the bar said shortly.
Charlie gave a low whistle. ‘Tough. Really tough. But I’ve seen worse, believe me. One time in Korea we were still flying P-5ls, we got jumped by a bunch of Migs and lost half our squadron.”
Still no one said anything.
“Aw, hell. Come on boys, the drinks are on me. Bar-keep, set ’em up!”
No one moved. No one said a word.
“My Lord.”
Charlie turned and found Dragon Leader standing too close behind him. This is not the time or place for you,” he said quietly. “It would be best if you go somewhere else.”
Charlie opened his mouth, perhaps to apologize, and Dragon Leader moved even closer. “Now,” he said.
Charlie closed his mouth and left.
Karin was late getting home that evening and for some reason that troubled Mick. She had been working with Stigi as she did every day. Since the first time Mick had stayed away from the aerie.
He had heard about the battle and the losses, of course, and he expected she’d spend some time with her squadron mates in the complex, wordless process of pilots’ grieving for those fallen. But it was very late indeed when she finally returned to their quarters.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said and took her in his arms, only to feel her tense.
“Mick, we need to talk”
Uh-oh, thought Gilligan, who had been married long enough to know what that meant.