Woodwind, active in the defense of Dead Hand Ridge, watches from the fortress ramparts as the Azgaril mount yet another attack.

    For the first few days, the southerner employed his calculating skills to assist rocket crews in figuring ballistic attack solutions against known Azgaril artillery positions. Counter battery fire, coordinated with other Tamarian bases, initially stunned the enemy and prevented large-scale bombardment of the Tamarian fortress at Dead Hand Ridge. This allowed its defenders to repel several direct assaults.

    But the Azgaril responded by bringing more guns forward. Their commanders, evaluating Tamarian fire tactics, spread the cannon and mortar batteries apart so that a single rocket warhead could not destroy more than one gun crew. They also began moving their guns to different positions after firing several rounds. In this way, their weapons became much more difficult to destroy. Within a few days, the Tamarian supply of heavy rockets dwindled, and with it went the only effective response to the enemy artillery they could muster.

    As unchallenged mortar shells screeched overhead, gradually pounding the proud concrete fortress into rubble, Woodwind feared for his life and prayed almost continually. Combined stresses, ranging from his inability to directly understand his Tamarian hosts to lack of sleep and the horrifying reality that unless they were relieved and resupplied soon, the base would certainly fall, made his prayers uncharacteristically desperate, and as intimate as Brenna's had ever been.

    From a firing port one floor above ground level, Woodwind's view of the unfolding battle stretched eastward toward the horizon. Aided by a borrowed field lens, the southerner observed long lines of enemy infantry marching purposely toward the front. Thousands of horses, supply carts, cassions and cannon tubes converged, intending to deliver the crushing might of the invader's army into a massive, overwhelming locus against this tiny, crumbling firebase. It seemed only a matter of time before its intrepid defenders lost their struggle to deny the enemy any further conquest of Tamarian territory.

    Although he could not comprehend their speech, Woodwind well understood the universal language of fear--sensing in their nervous tension, harsh voices and petty conflicts a genuine anxiety that all men experience whenever they anticipate an imminent, violent death. Memories of friends and acquaintances, resurrected in facial expressions that had also infected the Illithian defenders of Shirak, underscored the gravity of the circumstance every Tamarian soldier in Woodwind's vicinity faced. Surrounded, with no hope of escape, each man contemplated death in his individual manner, and though their reactions to it ranged from serenity to near-insanity and terror, each response reflected an intelligent effort to come to terms with the grim consequence of combat.

    They were also very tired. The constant rain of explosions jarred every nerve, preventing needed rest--aggravating the desperation displayed by men too long confined until tempers erupted under the strain. Only the cool-headed leadership of experienced officers prevented outbreaks of destructive foolishness among young soldiers tasting their first, bitter draught of war.

    Covered under the relentless crush of artillery fire, the next enemy charge commenced. Woodwind watched the adversary line up beyond the glacis, just out of rifle range, fix bayonets and spread out until each man stood about three feet away from his neighbor. The southerner heard his Tamarian allies prepare to repel the attack, their weapons aimed at discreet points upon the killing ground in such a way that all an individual soldier had to do was fire his gun directly ahead at anything entering his restricted field of vision.

    This time, however, the Azgaril did not merely mass their troops and send them headlong to their slaughter. In between the advancing ranks of infantry charged long streams of fleet-footed cavalry, dashing forward to blunt the Tamarian defense before it could mount an effective challenge.

    Woodwind set the field lens down, realizing that the daring cavalry attack would reach the fortress walls. He could almost feel the thunder of many thousands of hooves as the final artillery shells slammed into the concrete overhead. Then, as if announcing the demise of all resistance, a large section of the third floor, along with the exterior of the second, gave way and slid into the defensive trench that circled the stronghold, killing every soldier within ten feet on the third level and burying many more below.

    A huge cloud of dust swirled in the incessant wind. The sudden appearance of daylight and exposure to extreme cold announced, as the rubble settled, that the troops in Woodwind's area would face the enemy unprotected. Worse yet, the debris from the stricken wall created a crude sort of ramp leading up to the second floor.

    No matter how desperate their defense, the Tamarian warriors could not fire fast enough to stop the cavalry charge. Thousands upon thousands of horses flooded across the glacis, and where their stricken bodies fell victim to gun and rocket fire, others followed and pressed onward in an unstoppable, equine tide.

    The officer who'd been standing next to Woodwind fell dead on the tiled floor, struck in the face by a musket ball. With his demise, genuine panic rippled through the young soldiers nearby. Woodwind witnessed an instant, deadly shift in morale, and knowing the danger this wrought, muttered the most sincere prayer of his life. "God help us!" he breathed. "We can’t stop them!"

Second Thoughts