Plan B
By Tom Tinney
@2014 Tom Tinney and PiR8 Productions
Any resemblance to person Living, Dead or Undead is PURELY coincidental.
(Note: You really should read chapter two first: Chapter 2: With the Greatest of Ease
“Oh, now she’s just showing off,” John said, looking through his brass and leather MKIII Sig Telescope, its four sections allowing him to survey the interceding distance. He watched as Ban-Draoidhae Margreet walked calmly to the trench, arm in arm with Oberleutnant Günther Schubert, her constant escort. John had met the young officer at their last meeting before things had gotten out of hand.
“Yes, she does have a certain confident flare, does she not?” Jarlath replied, looking over the top of the earthen works through the field glasses he’d pulled from his belt.
John lowered his glass and smiled when he looked at his companion. Jarlath had been raised in a realm where mana permeated everything, even their very bodies. When they wanted or needed something, they simply conjured it out of thin air or by altering an existing manifestation. Even the youngest Sidhe could create simple constructs. The more experienced ones could create masterpieces.
Jarlath, during his time on mana-poor Earth, became fascinated with devices and contraptions made by human beings. He marveled at the way the species overcame their limitations, and fulfilled their desires, through invention, machination, and innovation. Jarlath could’ve conjured a mana-tube, then a lens, and created the telescopic properties needed to observe Margreet from a distance, instead, he opted for the standard issue British Mk 1-111 6 x 30 binoculars.
Taking note of Jarlath’s observation, John’s follow on reply was, “Yes, she just about flared us out of existence.”
He tapped his friend and travelling companion on the shoulder. “Let’s go see if Nickola is here.”
“As you wish, con-seth betrouad,” Jarlath replied.
“Stop it,” John shot back. “I want to keep my head clear. No thinking about that, or your lovely sister, right now.”
“Yes, of course, as you wish, brother,” Jarlath said, smiling slyly, turning to look at John with intensity. “But your fate is sealed. Yours and hers. We’ll help Nikola end this, then you and I will return to Ruitheanas-Sidhe, where Bhean Eilís, my sister and your love, awaits. My oath will be fulfilled and there’ll be an accounting.”
“Yes, as I agreed,” John said, sliding into the narrow channel of intersecting trenches that both sides of the conflict called home and from which the battles they waged would continue.
They walked on without talking, bullets whirring over their heads and explosions going off near and far.
Betrouad. The Sidhe word for pending nuptials. An understanding between two people to spend an eternity together. Betrothed. The words so close. John always wondered about the Gaelic-Sidhe crossover. The Sidhe claimed they’d never been to Earth before, but John wasn’t sure how true that was. It had been a short ten years since legendary creatures returned with him from another realm, to walk the Earth, thanks to Nikola Tesla. Maybe it had happened before. Maybe there had been another bridge between the worlds, not one that had sprung from the mind of a genius.
John smirked. He made of habit of getting introspective whenever Jarlath brought up his exotically beautiful sister, Eilís. She was beautiful, exciting, and Sidhe. Her long, straight, blonde hair hung to her breast level, bangs cut short framing her oval elven face. Her blue eyes sparkled over her rounded and slightly downturned nose. Underneath was a pair of full lips to compliment her broad mouth and proportioned firm chin. When she smiled, he got lost in her features, his eyes dancing between each one to drink in their unique appeal. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room, no matter the realm. The only thing that distinctly set her apart from human women were her Sidhe ears, delicately pointed, that peaked out splitting her straight hair aside.
While she was enchanting, she was also willful. After his long convalescence under her care, and without asking John, she’d declared them betrouad. There was no escaping that, not even for a Draoidhae. Not that he really wanted to escape her.
The amulet she had given him put pressure on his chest. When John was being sullen and his mood went dark, it would remind him of its presence.
The ground rocked with additional explosions and machine gun fire poured out, tracers blazing a deadly arc across the tops of the trenches.
Most of the troopers that were sequestered in the trenches smiled at them as they passed, knowing their presence would shorten the war. The Allied Draoidhae gave them hope, even though he was skeptical about what he and Nikola would do to hasten and end to the insanity of the all-encompassing war.
John nodded his head with an assuring look toward the people that waved or acknowledged him. He’d salute the ones that saluted him, even though he held no official rank in any serving human army. He was human, but he was also Draoidhae.
Unlike Margreet, Georg, Nikola, or the other nine, he could not conjure or make mana-constructs. He healed remarkably fast and his strength was multiplied, as theirs had. He was probably going to live a very long time, like them. But he was different. His transition hadn’t been as simple. He’d nearly died, while the others had found the experience exhilarating, suffering no ill effects. Due to the mana and their fortuitous journey to Ruitheanas-Sidhe through Nikola’s machine, they were now Draoidhae. A sort of Mana-infused wizard.
“How far can you extend a mana-wall that can move with us?” John asked Jarlath.
“Depends on the size. And thickness. And obstacles ahead of us.”
“What about throwing up smaller permanent walls that can be triggered to dissipate?”
“This Earthen realm is so mana-poor, anything I create would pull and leave voids that would take time to refill, I believe. This no-man’s land has very little in the way of life, other than the men moving in and out. Mana remains sparser than it would be, in say, a forest or population center.”
“I understand that,” John said, stopping to look up and down excavated zig-zag of furrows that protected the armies from each other, the sides reinforced by wood or sand filled bags.
“I want to give the troops a little respite. Can you do something that is just thick enough to stop a mortar round and that would cover the width of the trench?”
“Yes, I can try,” Jarlath said, observing the trench and taking stock of its construction.
“Good, let me find the nearest officer and tell him what we’re going to do.”
John looked for the man with the most stripes and pointed at him.
“You, Sergeant, where is your CO or ranking officer?”
“He’s up the trough a stone’s throw, about three bends, sittin’ in a nice pretty mansion of a dugout, with warm tea, a phonograph and nay a care in the world. Why?”
John smiled. The Brits were never ones to hold back.
“Can you take me to him?”
“Aye,” the sergeant replied, looking John and Jarlath up and down. “You bet, Draoidhae. You an’ yeer friend follow me.”
“John. O’Neil,” John said, extending his hand. “Just call me John.”
“That’s nah goin’ to happen,” the Sergeant said, his look getting intense, the end curls of his handlebar mustache dropping as his face pursed. He leaned in toward John. “Ye may be human, or were from all I heard, but ye can’t get familiar wit’ the troops, laddie. Ye canna’ be their friend. Ye ‘ be muh friend. Ye canna’ come down to our level. I’m bein’ very serious. Ye need ta be bigger’ n’ life to them. Too many o’ them are pinnin’ their hopes ta ye and yeer lot. Nah familiarity. Ya’ll break their hopes and get someone killed. You get wha’ I’m sayin’, Bucko?”
John looked like a scolded child, but realized the soldier was right. He nodded and smirked in acceptance of what the sergeant had said.
“Very good sir,” the sergeant said, snapping to, “Follow me, Draoidhae John.”
The sergeant said the last of it loud enough for those around him to hear.
John must have had an uncomfortable look on his face, because Jarlath was smirking, again.
“Shut-up, brother,” John said to Jarlath.
“Nay a word,” Jarlath replied bowing, “Nay a word from these humble lips.”
They walked, jogged and ducked for five minutes before turning into a small slip trench that ended in a blanket covered opening. John and Jarlath followed the sergeant through.
“Platoon Sergeant Hamish Pike reporting, sir,” the sergeant said, snapping into a salute and stomping his right foot down.
“Yes, yes, sergeant, what is it now?” A raspy voice replied from behind the curtain.
“It’s about time for tea and lunch isn’t sitting well,” it continued. “If it’s another complaint about the supply situation, just give it to Wilson and have him forward it up the line.”
“Beggin’ yeer pardon, Captain Branson, sir, nah exactly, sir. I have brought guests that wish ta’ have a word with ye, sir,”
There was rustling behind the blanket, then it swept aside. The face that stared back at John looked angry, the uniform unkempt and disheveled at the same time. The bloodshot eyes focused and the look sharpened.
“Who’re you? Did you forget how to salute?” Captain Branson said, his breath heavy with the smell of alcohol.
John felt Jarlath’s hand restrain him before he could step forward. John spent some years serving in the merchant marine and understood the hierarchy of command. He also knew when someone was put in charge that shouldn’t be. Jarlath stepped to the side of John and removed his helmet. It took a few seconds for Captain Branson to focus on him. His eyes grew wide.
“You’re an elf,” Branson said.
“A Sidhe,” Jarlath replied. “But, since humans insist on using that description, yes, an elf. And this is Draoidhae John.”
The captain leaned back and shifted his gaze. As recognition came across his face, he went pale.
“Yes, Jo— Draoidhae John. Of course, what can I do for you?” Branson said as he stood rapidly. He sat back down almost as fast.
“Right now? You can sober up. After that, you can figure out how to get far enough away from me that I don’t have your commanding officer shoot you in the morning.”
“I— do you know who you are—?”
Branson’s face was red and he fumbled for his holster.
There was no sound of Jarlath’s blade leaving its sheath. It was silent, quick, and definitive. The blade now rested on John’s shoulder, the point aimed at Branson’s heart.
“You’ll remove your hand from your weapon or you’ll die,” Jarlath said. The cold steeliness of his voice matching the Sidhe weapon he held at the ready.
Branson shook and faltered, his hand dropping from the holster. He looked to say something. His mouth made motions, but no sound came forth.
“Get dressed. Pack your pack. Meet me in the command tent in Albert in four hours. Don’t talk to anyone there. If they ask what you’re doing, you tell them you’re waiting for me, on my orders. Do you understand?”
“I—yes, Draoidhae John, I understand,” Branson replied, standing more slowly. “May I?”
He indicated with his hands that he was going to touch his holster. John crooked an eyebrow.
“The belt holds up my trousers. “
“Leave the gun,” John said. “You won’t be needing it.”
The two men and the Sidhe stood silently while Branson gathered personal belongings into his pack and left. None of the items in the pack would help him survive on the battlefield.
“That man has lost his way,” John said, as Branson exited, and the blanket dropped.
“Aye,” the sergeant observred. “But these bloody trenches can do that to ya. He was a damn sight better when he first got here.”
John turned to the sergeant while he looked around the dugout.
“Three things, sergeant. First, I need a messenger to take down some notes to get to headquarters.”
“Aye. That’ll be done, Sir. I’ll get one in a minute.”
“Second, the purpose of our side trip. I want to erect mana-barriers over your troops. Give them a place to get some cover and rest without worrying about getting shelled. Maybe set the barriers to be pushed up out of the way when you need to get out of the trench.”
“Aye, it sounds like a good idea, but the Jerry’s did the same thing a few months back. We foun’t the gaps in the lids by droppin’ a few wee mortars just short and o’er their positions. The sod fell on top of the mana-roof, so we seen the bleedin’ gaps they was comin’ outta. That’s when the boys in the RFA 92nd Brigade gave them what for. They concentrated the 15” Howie’s and mortars on those gap spots and when we dropped one through, the wee blast was funneled under the mana-roof. Like a bleedin’ rifle barrel it was. Compression wave and debris killed everyone for a hundred feet on either side.”
“Well, we don’t want that to happen to our boys. Still want to protect the troops a little. Any ideas?”
“I gotta’ few, Draoidhae. We can do the roof in segments. Like overlapping tiles that can move up and down. Oh, across the width of the trench, maybe ye put in vertical mana-doors every so often to redirect a blast up?”
Jarlath smiled, “I like him, brother, can we keep him?”
The Sergeant smiled as well. John shook his head in amusement.
“And the third item?” Sgt. Pike asked
“Just a quick question. Pike’s a British surname, but you’re definitely Scottish, anything I should know?”
“Aye, both sides of me parent’s families think their own married beneath themselves, Sir,” Pike replied with a quirky smile. “And a right obnoxious and irreverent lot of offspring they produced because of that.”
“Understood,” John said, returning the smile as he turned to Jarlath. “Go with the sergeant, brother, and put the panels in place where he asks. Try to figure out a hinge for the vertical doors so the troops can move back and forth. Nothing to complex.”
“You’re not coming with us?” Jarlath replied stepping toward John. They were about to have the same argument they’d had dozens of times since their return to Earth.
“I’ll stay right here and talk with Nikola through the stone. I won’t move until your return.”
“Brother, I swore on the Cloch Mionn that I wouldn’t leave your side until we returned to Ruitheanas-Sidhe,” Jarlath said, a pleading look on his face. “My family were binders. Prionsa-Ard Seanon, Ban-Prionsa-Ard Brenna and Bhean Eilís. The Cloch Mionn is more than a jewel embedded in a pillar of granite, it is one of the original artifacts of Ruitheanas-Sidhe. I’m compelled to keep the oath I swore upon it.”
“I know that. But I believe you swore you’d remain close to me to lend aid and guard me against any harm, even sacrificing your life for mine, until you could return me for Eilís to wed,” John said, impatience in his voice as the argument took on a familiar tone. This time, he meant to win. Jarlath nodded in acknowledgment.
“Well, you can aid me by helping these poor sods. Throw up some barriers around this dugout to keep me safe and let me talk to Nikola. I want to take off my shoes, drink some tea and not do a damn thing for the next hour or so. Alone. Does that present a problem with your oath, brother?”
To make his point, John sat on the edge of former company commander Branson’s cot and pulled off one of his boots.
“I guess we’ll have to see,” Jarlath said, turning to the sergeant. “Sergeant, as we go about our task, if I move no further or I leave your side, it is because I’m being compelled to return here to nursemaid that pigheaded Draoidhae sitting over there.”
“Aye, I’ll be keepin’ that in mind,” Sgt. Pike, accepting what was said like it was a common conversation, looking back and forth from John to Jarlath. “Ye all fight like me Ma and Da’, God bless them.”
“This is my penance for being a bodyguard’s bodyguard,” Jarlath said to John.
John smiled and made a pushing motion with his hands, shooing the two out of the dugout.
Continue on to read Chapter 4—>>>
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