Blood Ties by Peter David Page A

at a glance whether the wound was going to be fatal or not. In Russell’s case, I was reasonably sure that he would be able to pull through, assuming that he was attended to quickly.
    As for me, I had my own problems to deal with.
    The battle raged for much of the day. The assailants of Blackholm were not given to grand strategies. They were trying to overwhelm through sheer force of arms and unrelenting determination. They crashed up against the wall, obviously hoping to overwhelm it in the same manner that rising floodwaters overcome piles of sandbags. The question was, were we—the town’s defenders—sufficient proof against the would-be waters?
    The answer, as it turned out, was yes. After a time, the battlefield was so strewn with bodies that it was making it difficult for the surviving soldiers to cover the ground. They were so busy dodging or stepping over their fallen comrades that they made easier targets of themselves, and we did not hesitate to take advantage of that lack of maneuverability.
    Long into the afternoon, I found myself waiting for another target I could pick off. It had been a while since they’d last presented me with an opportunity, and my trigger finger was squeezing spasmodically even though it wasn’t actually wrapped around anything. That was probably good because I didn’t want to be wasting ammunition with accidental shots.
    â€œI think they’ve gone!” came a voice from a distance away. It was one of the other soldiers, crouched at his station in the same manner as I was. He was looking to me questioningly.
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “Or maybe that’s what they want us to think?”
    â€œHow do we find out?”
    â€œOnly one way,” I said and, taking a deep breath, I stood straight up. I studied the terrain, searching for some sign, any sign of movement. I was more or less risking my neck on two principles: that I would be able to spot the movement of any assailant before he could draw a bead on me and that they weren’t particularly good shots to begin with.
    There I was, a perfect target, waiting for them to take their shot. They had no reason not to. We were going to be posting sentries anyway, even if we believed the battle to be over, so there was no real reason for them to think that they could catch us unawares. So why not seize the opportunity to dispatch a man who had not only killed a considerable number of them but actually had the temerity to leap down to the battlefield, recover one of his own allies, and scale back to safety, scarcely mussing his hair as he did so?
    Long minutes stretched past. There was not so much as a rustling of the leaves in the nearby forest.
    â€œShoot him, you idjits!” came the irritated voice of the gnome from wherever he was currently secreting himself. “Do you need an engraved invitation, like this is some sort of cotillion? What are you, a bunch of girls or something? You must be, because you sure shoot like them! He’s standing right there! Maybe you’re so overwhelmed by his presence that your hands are shaking too much! Here’s a thought. Why not take those shaking hands and shove them down into your privates because that’s the only way you’ll be getting any excitement down there!”
    He went on like that for some time. I hate to admit it, but I was actually grinning. If I wasn’t the target of his diatribes, he could be rather amusing to listen to.
    With all of that, the air still remained silent of anything save the gnome’s insults and the occasional laughter from the other defenders of Blackholm, who were clearly finding the gnome as entertaining as I was.
    Finally, the gnome became aware that we were enjoying his comedy stylings. “Shut up! Stop laughing, you clucking chickens!” he snarled, but by that point we were so merry that even the insults he hurled at us simply generated more laughter. Angry that he wasn’t getting