Episode 04 Battle at Boiling Lake

  Before the foe had a chance to fire, Preston Lost's first shot from his elephant gun went through the chest and out the back of the captain in the yellow coat, leaving an exit wound the size of a grapefruit and the heavy slug also passed through a man or two behind him.

  The noise seemed to shock the long-necked men. Some of the squad started and stared at the clouds, or at the volcano cone not far away, looking for the source of the sound.

  The little gray man gestured at the glassy hull on which they stood, and the glass material flowed like water and solidified like ice, forming transparent battlements behind which they fell to all fours.

  These protective glass walls grown from the hull blocked the harquebus line of fire. A gray man flourished a lantern, and flashed colored heliograph commands to the harquebusiers. These came forward and leaned their long, awkward weapons on the newly made glass merlons,

  The weapons were silent aside from a quiet, flat crack of sound when the projectiles passed the speed of sound. There was no smoke, no sound of gunpowder. Instead, long, slender splines or rods of crystal darted from the barrels. These splines, swift as arrows, landed on the rock, shattering into glassy shrapnel.

  Had Preston Lost been standing on the rocky atoll in the boiling lake, he would have been cut to bits.

  He had used the moment of confusion to fire his second shot not at the flying disk at all, but at the tall, vine-draped tree whose branches were hanging so tantalizingly above his head, out of reach. The heavy bullet struck the joint of a likely looking branch where it met a larger branch. His aim was true. The wood parted. Groaning and creaking, the massive branch fell like the gangway of a ship flung down. Boiling water splashed and struck his legs, scalding him even through the heavy fabric of his flight suit.

  The branch had carried down with it many vines. He ran and jumped. He caught a vine in midair. It was covered with thorns like a cactus. His gloves protected his hands. The vine parted under his weight, dropping him toward the boiling water surface. More by blind luck and by audacity than anything else, his leap momentum carried him into the midst of the fallen tree limb. He clutched at the slimmer branches radiating from the broken branch.

  The far end of the broken branch was still lodged in the mass of the trunk. Some tenacious strips of bark still connected it to the main trunk, but it was groaning and sliding open under the impact of his weight. In a moment, the bark would rip, and the branch would drop entirely into the boiling water.

  Looking down, he saw an Ichthyosaurus, in the shallow lake water just below, eyeing him. Was it intelligent enough to sense his predicament? Or was it a mindless killing machine, merely attracted by the vibration of branch striking water? Either option was chilling.

  He scampered up the branch as quickly as a squirrel. His wild eyes were fixed on the shivering strip of bark that was very slowly parting under his weight.

  In the next moment the harquebusiers had reloaded. Another flight of bright glass-sharp spears hissed through the air.

  He was partly covered by the leaves of the trembling branch he was balanced on. One spline struck him in his knapsack, but hit some hard obstruction, and did not impale him, but shattered. Crystal shards of shrapnel from the impact dashed across his shoulders and the back of his head, cutting him and drawing blood. The other splines passed through the branches and twigs left and right, sending leaves into the air, and then passing into the water and vanishing.

  By good fortune, none struck the wood near him. Those that struck water did not shatter on impact. Had Preston been on hard ground rather than balanced in midair, the volley would have filled the whole area with shrapnel.

  He rose and leaped just as the branch trembled and gave way, falling with a great splash into the boiling lake below.

  He clung at a slippery limb. Stinging centipedes emerged from holes in the hollow branch to rake their angry stingers across his gloves. He uttered a curse, swinging his leg over the branch, and pulled himself up. His motions were swift and frantic.

  The crystal disk dropped lower, its hull brushing the upper branches of the lakeside trees. Some red and furry monkey-sized creatures uttered blood curdling screams and threw twigs at the flying disk when they were disturbed. The rim of the crystal disk pass between him and the red sun. Shadow fell around him.

  A narrow head peered over the edge of the disk, and a long necked man aimed his strange weapon. Preston's final bullet from his Mauser struck him between the eyes. The man toppled limply across the crystal battlements of the saucer, and fell into the boiling water, his harquebus toppling after.

  But now the Ichthyosaurus, roaring a loud roar like no sea creature in Preston's time could make, rose from the waters. Two of the splines that had missed Preston were lodged in the fish monster's hide.

  Preston instinctively called out a warning. When out game fishing, he had once seen killer whale leap as high as the tuna tower of his boat, twenty feet or more. Apparently whoever was piloting the flying disk was more nonchalant, or less experienced.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  The maddened fish monster rose and rose and snapped at a little gray man clinging to the underside of the hull. The sharked-toothed beak closed on the gray man's head and tore him from the hull. He made no sound as the bleeding monster fell back into the boiling water with him. There was a white splash, a gush of bubbles. The smell of boiled meat rose up.

  The other gray men looked downward gravely, showing no emotion. The long necked men cowered and quailed and raised their odd comical heads to utter drawn-out ululations of mourning from their bass, woodwind-length throats.

  Now two of the harquebusiers fired their glass spears again, but at the lake, not at Preston. One struck the Ichthyosaurus, who leaped again.

  Preston meanwhile had vaulted himself into the thickest part of the tree. There was a crotch where several sturdy limbs met. A mess of leaves made a nest here.

  A furious jabbering greeted him, and a thrown twig rebounded painfully from the bleeding back of his head. He turned.

  Here was a large simian creature with bright eyes as gold as amber, a pointed, triangular muzzle, and sharp white teeth. Black markings circled its eyes and mouth. The fur was fox-red. The tail was ringed like the tail of a lemur, but prehensile, for the beast was hanging from it. It was armed with an impressive set of fangs, which it bared in Preston's direction. He had stepped into its nest.

  He did not want to shoot it, nor move. The glowing, flying disk was not ten feet overhead. He spoke in a soothing tone.

  "Hullo there big, smiley fellow! That is quite a mouthful of teeth you've got. Now, we don't want to start a fight or make much noise, do we? No we don't. Why don't we find something nice for you to chomp on, more tasty than my tough old rawhide, eh?"

  Without taking his eyes from the creature, he groped into his knapsack, groped, and pulled out his survival ration bar. He tugged it open with fingers and teeth, broke off a bit, and tossed it lightly toward the primate. The bar fell to the leaves with a soft noise.

  Meanwhile, out on the boiling lake, the battle between flying disk and fish monster had attracted attention. The long snakelike neck of a second Plesiosaur was rising out of the waters, its broad nostrils quivering. The little gray men with frantic flashes of their lanterns signaled into the interior of the glass hulled craft. The flying disk began silently to rise, and the men on the upper and lower surface of the craft sought hatches.

  Not fast enough. With a thrust of its flukes, the Plesiosaur lunged, reached, snapped. One half of a long-necked harquebusier disappeared into the huge, red mouth. The other half went flying over the treetops, trailing streams of blood. The gray men hid below deck.

  The harquebusiers crouched behind the battlements opened fire.

  At the same moment, giant centipedes, Euphoberia, began swarming down the upper branches toward Preston. The creatures were a foot in length, and their bright scales gleamed as if oiled with red, yellow and orange.

  One centipede as long as his forearm sank fangs into his glove as he broke open his rifle. He plucked up the creature with a grunt of disgust, and, whirling the snake-sized centipede overhead, threw it at the hull of the ship seen through the leaves overhead.

  A hooting from the monkey creature startled Preston. He had no time to reload; and his Mauser was empty. He drew his switchblade and flicked it open, and turned to meet this new threat.

  But, no. The simian was munching happily on his ration bar, gargling with pleasure. Now it aped him. It nimbly plucked up one of the giant centipedes and flung it toward the flying craft. The motion of its arm was manlike, not the like the stiff, narrow-shouldered throw of an ape. The centipede landed amid the long-necked men, who uttered hornlike cries of woe.

  "Good boy! Good throw!" said Preston in a soothing voice, wondering where his spare magazine was. "You are a regular Cy Young, aren't you, Smiley? Cy the Smiling Saber-toothed Simian, I suppose. Do it again! Watch me!" For one of the stinging, biting foot-long centipedes was climbing his boot at that moment. He pinned it with his knife, grabbed, and threw it.

  Smiley the simian hooted again, and was answered by chatter and hooting in the surrounding trees.

  The flying disk rose up out of reach of the Plesiosaur. Now Preston could see them reloading. The harquebusiers carried foot-long quarrels of crystal in quivers, which they muzzle loaded. These splines expanded to twice or thrice their length instantly when the trigger was pulled, and this force was what propelled them. He also saw that when shot in a volley, the splines curved away from each other, as if magnetically repelled. This spline-gun was meant to throw glassy shards into a volume, not hit a bull's-eye.

  Preston's eyes narrowed. It seemed more like a crowd control weapon than a military one. The penetrating power was limited. And the range was poor.

  Now other simians of Smiley's tribe began appearing furtively through the leaves, like little ghostly faces with gold eyes. The game of throwing poisonous centipedes was imitated quickly. Soon a dozen, then a score, of the yowling monkeys were flinging deadly insects up onto the deck of the disk.

  The disk rose out of reach of sea monster or thrown centipede, and took up a position above the lakeshore. Vents in the hull opened, and spat a drizzle of burning oil. Leaf caught fire, and soon a thick black pall of smoke hung in the air. The simians, appalled by the spreading flames, took flight.

  Preston Lost, however, reloaded. The cartridge he used was frightful: a 3.5 inch case and a 1000 grain bullet, whose muzzle velocity was 2000 feet per second. Heavy enough to kill a bison.

  As it happened, it was also heavy enough to pierce the hull of the flying disk and leave an impressive spiderweb of cracks. The eerie glow surrounding the craft began to stutter. The disk itself began to list and wobble.

  The fire was spreading. Coughing, Preston Lost scampered down the tree, and began pushing, worming, and shoving his way through brier and underbrush. The flying disk did not pursue, but hung in midair at an odd angle, rotating slowly, while its aura of light waxed and waned.

  Preston Lost moved away from the lakeshore toward higher ground. The trees here were taller, spaced farther apart, and the underbrush was less dense. It was hot, muggy, and nearly everything he touched was covered in thorns.

  He crested a hill. On the far slope, he was out of range of the long-necked men and their limited weapons, out of line of sight of the flying disk. Only then did he stop, clutching his knees, grinning and panting.

  He would feel pain from his burns and cuts and bruises soon, but not now. Now he was exhilarated.

  His grin faltered when he saw the disk rising into view, a bright lens. It was still listing, and its glow was unsteady. A figure standing on the hull raised horn to mouth, and blew loud blasts.

  Ahead of him, and downslope, was a green valley lush with jungle trees. Horn answered horn. Unseen below, and not far away, answering signals sounded, echoing from nearby peaks.

  It was a hunting call. They were closing in.