A fire?!

“Who did that?!” Whiskey yelled. “Shet!”

Zan stood, confused. Evidently, the fire in the distance had not supposed to happen. Not yet, anyway.

Whiskey snapped her reins and sent the horse into a tizzy. The sudden action surprised Zan, and he barely held onto Whiskey. Straining his arms and gripping her as tightly as possible, Zan held out against the forces of gravity as he used every muscle available to him to remain on the horse. Though it only lasted for twenty seconds or fewer, it seemed to Zan such an exertion; it felt like minutes.

Fully righted on the seat, Zan now nearly cried. His body hurt and his heart thumped. He was in pain and paranoid every little bump would send him flying.

“Sorry ‘bout that!” Whiskey yelled. “I forgot you don’t ride!”

Zan thought about hiding his pain, telling Whiskey it was all okay. Dishonesty in a life-or-death situation, however, seemed like poor teamwork, so Zan said, “Please warn me before you pull a move like that again! I’m in pain!”

Whiskey was quiet. Long enough quiet, Zan thought she hadn’t heard him. She eventually said, nearly yelling, “I am really sorry! Next time! I will warn you!”

Zan felt good about himself. Now the battle could proceed with both parties knowing the state of the other. They would not be going into battle ignorant of one another’s abilities. It wasn’t long before the base came into view.

Well, less a base and more the foundation for one, Zan thought as he saw the sprawling construction site unfold.

Over an area perhaps the size of perhaps half a mile, partially completed wooden structures dotted the distance. Planks of wood, simple machines — operated by a weight and pulley system, like Zan and friends had encountered in the forced labor camp — also dotted the base. Zan wished he could see more, but the blackness of night prevented his otherwise eagle-eyed vision from finding every nook and cranney.

Ahead of the war party was the now roaring fire first sighted minutes ago.

Throughout an area of a certain size, a battle raged.

One side was a rebel war party, perhaps a scouting party, and on the other, a group of automotrons. Burning was an automotron structure.

Whiskey rode hard, albeit only forward over smooth ground. Thus, Zan did not have to worry about falling to his death. She skidded to a halt and even slew a few of the golems before turning her attention to the scouts. “What in every hell was that for?!” Whiskey screamed.

“Hey! It’s fine, lady! We knew you were on your way with back-up. We only wanted to get the attack going!” was how the scout responded.

Both Zan and Whiskey had trouble containing their drooping mouths. So surprised were both at the scout’s terrible, mean response; their mouths lost the fight to gravity. If for only a moment, as they recovered and formed an immediate answer: “I’ll deal with your insubordination later!” Whiskey screeched, nearly biting her lips with each venomous enunciation. “For now, press with the attack!”

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“Is this common?” Z asked, trying to make easeful small talk as they rode into the camp.

“Unfortunately, yes!”

“If you joined the order,” Zan shouted to be heard, “You wouldn’t have to worry about that!”

Whiskey did not respond to Zan’s comment. She did say, though, that he should “hold on tight! We are making an attack run!”

Zan did not know what she meant until he saw it happen.

Passing by the golems, Whiskey struck out with her twin-blades; on both her left and right she hacked, throwing to pieces over a dozen of the flimsy war machines who, in the din of darkness, had not expected an enemy attack.

Looking around, Zan saw no bonfires present. That did not mean they weren’t around, though. With the darkness acting as a blanket and the area large, the moonlight strictly limited Zan’s sight. On the second pass, however, Zan knew what to expect, and he joined in with Whiskey, hacking away at the automotrons.

“Great… cots!” Whiskey panted, happy at the damage they inflicted.

“How much time do we have, you think, before the enemy lights up one of those bonfires? Remember, from the camp?” Zan asked.

“I don’t know… not long!” Whiskey continued to pant, catching her breath.

Ahead of them were the trigger-happy scouts. Systematically working their way into the camp, the scouts cut down the surprised enemy. The darkness had left their mechanics drained of the much needed fuel to keep them moving at full speed during the night. Whiskey whistled and recalled the scouts.

Seeing Jiehong’s horse arrive with the other rebel leader, Zan forgot his name. In fact, he did not think he was ever told it.

No matter.

Directing Jiehong’s horse, Whiskey yelled for about half of the wayward scouts and the other leader to “circle around the left side of the camp. Jiehong! Toss those ‘grenade’ things you used during the camp raid if you have ‘em! We’ll do the same from the righthand side.”

Zan picked up the strategy right away. He thumbed his belt for the grenades.

“Be sure to tell me when your riding hard! I can’t hold on and threw at the same time!” Zan cautioned.

“Don’t worry about it!” Whiskey shouted and took off with her small retinue of scouts. “We need to be quick about this! I want this base in flames before the others arrive so we don’t hit them in the crossfire!”

“Understood!” Zan shouted. His voice worn, Zan tired of doing nothing but yelling. He could not help it, though, as it was the only thing he could do to ensure Whiskey heard him over the heaving galloping of the horse.

“Coming up first!” Whiskey shouted. “Get ready to throw!”

Zan hurried. Or not hurried… carefully. He detached one hand from Whiskey’s waist only to reapply instantly. He did the same motion two, three times. He wanted to get the flow of the terrain, the pace of the horse. On the fifth attempt, he quickly reached down to his belt. Holding on even tighter, Whiskey even slowing down some, Zan detached one of the tiny, bulbous weapons and brought it to his face. He used his teeth to pry the pin off; then, wanting it gone right away, he chucked it as far as he was capable, ensuring it was well-away from any of the rebel scouts he thought he saw glide through the night.

Moments later, the grenade exploded. It shook the night air with a bloom of fire.

Whiskey rode hard again. She did, in fact, warn Zan, but it was a tiny bit too late, and he nearly got bucked off. He didn’t have to strain his whole body this time, however, to remain on the horse, so that was he good.

“Sorry!” Whiskey shouted. “Also: coming up!”

Hurrying himself to recover faster, Zan’s heart raced.

But he managed his breathing, always remembering the techniques Jiehong had taught him to control his panic mode. It did not help him in this situation any more than a touch, but that ‘touch’ was enough for him to repeat the throwing process from the first grenade and roughly toss it once he pried its tab free.

Like the first, the grenade exploded to great effect and set a fire.

It was on this second explosion Zan saw a bonfire roar to life.