From the Heart of Darkness by David Drake Page B

the books lining the cold library of the Grange. Inward, because her outward body was that of an ugly duckling whom everyone knew had no chance of becoming a swan. And from her dreams and a few of the very oldest books had come hints of what it is that nibbles at the minds of all men in the darkness. Her father could not answer or even understand her question, nor could the Vicar. She had grown from a persistent child into an iron-willed woman who lavished on her fancy energies which her relatives felt would have been better spent on the Church … or, perhaps, on breeding spaniels.
    And as she had grown, she had met others who felt and knew what she did.
    She looked around again. “Captain,” she said simply, “I have been studying certain—myths—for most of my life. I’ve come to believe that some of them contain truths or hints of truths. There are powers in the universe. When you know the truth of those powers, you have the choice of joining them and working to bring about their coming—for they are unstoppable—or you can fight, knowing there is no ultimate hope for your cause and going ahead anyway. Mine was the second choice.” Drawing herself even more rigidly straight, she added, “Someone has always been willing to stand between mankind and Chaos. As long as there have been men.”
    De Vriny snickered audibly. Trouville gave him a dreadful scowl and said to Dame Alice, “And you are searching for the god these rebels pray to?”
    â€œYes. The one they call Ahtu.”
    From the score of firelit glades around them came the thunk- thunk -THUNK of axe and wedge, then the booming native laughter.
    â€œOsterman and de Vriny should have their men in position by now,” said the Colonel, pattering his fingertips on the bridge rail as he scanned the wooded shore line. “It’s about time for me to land, too.”
    â€œUs to land,” Dame Alice said. She squinted, straining forward to see the village the Belgian force was preparing to assault. “Where are the huts?” she finally asked.
    â€œOh, they’re set back from the shore some hundreds of meters,” Trouville explained off-handedly. “The trees hide them, but the fish weirs—” he pointed out the lines of upright sticks rippling foam tracks down the current—“are a good enough guide. We’ve stayed anchored here in the stream so that the villagers would be watching us while the forces from the canoes downriver surrounded them.”
    Muffled but unmistakable, a shot thudded in the forest. A volley followed, drawing with it faint screams.
    â€œBring us in,” ordered the Colonel, tugging at the left half of his moustache in his only sign of nervousness.
    The Archiduchesse grated as her bow nuzzled into the trees, but there was no time now for delicacy. Forest Guards streamed past the Hotchkiss and down the gangplank into the jungle. The gunner was crouched behind the metal shield that protected him only from the front. Tree boles and their shadows now encircled him on three sides.
    â€œI suppose it will be safe enough on the shore,” said Trouville, adjusting his harness as if for parade instead of battle. “You can accompany me if you wish—and if you stay close by.”
    â€œAll right,” said Dame Alice as if she would not have come without his permission. Her hand clutched not a pistol but an old black-bound book. “If we’re where you think, though, you’ll need me very badly before you’re through here. Especially if it takes till sunset.” She swung down the companionway behind Trouville. Last of all from the bridge came Sparrow, grimy and small and deadly as a shark.
    The track that wound among the trunks was a narrow line hammered into the loam by horny feet. It differed from a game trail only in that shoulders had cleared the foliage to greater height. The Baengas strode it with some