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From: corleyj@helium.gas.uug.arizona.edu (Jason D Corley )
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: [Pitzar] Over There
Date: 8 Sep 1993 18:44:08 GMT
Organization: University of Arizona, Tucson
Lines: 62
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <26l95o$qut@organpipe.uug.arizona.edu>
NNTP-Posting-Host: helium.gas.uug.arizona.edu

The next day I was awakened by a gentle shaking of my shoulder.  "Mr. Pitzar?"

I opened my eyes and saw a Trarovian uniform.  "There's been a mistake,"
he said, "We're very sorry.  The General would like to see you immediately.
Come on."

Outside Freedom Road, I tore into the chicken they gave me and threw
my knapsack over my shoulder.  They led me up the street, three soldiers
in the uniform of infantrymen.  A rat scuttled across the road, thick
and healthy.

One of the soldiers stopped a moment, his boots scraping on the
shattered brick street.  He pointed into the sky.  "Carpets!" he said.

I saw the four rectangles black in silhouette against the light grey
morning sky, moving in a simple square formation, undulating left and
right.  They swooped down to our left, disappearing behind the burned
and gutted husk of a temple.

THUD.  A distant explosion.
THUD.  Nearer.
THUD.  Still nearer.
THUDsssssssssss.

"Gas!" shouted the soldier.  He yanked a hankerchief from his hip bag
and pressed it to his face.  One of the other guards had an extra,
and he quickly gave it to me.  It was damp against my cheek,
and smelled of something old and dank.  Brown billows of gas boiled
out of the scarred temple door and stung at my eyes.  Red-faced
and nearly blinded by tears, we ran.  I could hear the clatter of
their hobnailed boots on the street and their scabbard against
their leggings, but behind it all the dead silence of the deep
wilderness.

The smoke cleared enough for me to see the sky, where the carpets
wheeled and danced, like a flock of dark, flat paintings of birds
(Craos, I thought.  Lost.)

A faint, indistinguishable shout reached out ears, and a hail of
arrows streaked up towards the carpets.  A figure rose up from one
of them, waving it's arms, and tipping backwards, falling in a long
slow curve to the jagged, splintered building below.  The carpets
sailed and rolled around, trying to find the archers, but by that
time the second volley had torn into them, and they spiralled
downward, out of control, spitting blazing purple sparks and
heavy yellow smoke.

The skies were empty.  I found myself hoping no-one had survived
to be taken to Freedom Road.  I looked down and saw a man face
down in a pool of vomit and blood, in his outstretched hand a
torn and useless hankerchief.

"We got them," one of the soldiers said tonelessly, still looking
at the sky.

I nodded, still looking down.

--
******************************************************************************
"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the
 black flag and begin slitting throats."---------H. L. Mencken
Jason D. "corleyj@gas.uug.arizona.edu" Corley Claims Full Responsibility