not expecting an answer.
“Only in picture books, Goodie,” replied Margaret. “In his locker on the Hood.”
“What were you doing in his locker then?”
Margaret gave her friend a mischievous grin, “well, I had to welcome him on board, didn’t I.”
“Damn! Thought I was first one there. Where’d he get the tarzan outfit from?”
The answer came from an unexpected quarter.
“Good isn’t it?” said Toldo the wardog. “Our Caren Bonecrusher and your little Tanya made it from a picture he showed them.”
“Tanya?” said Margaret with rising voice.
“Yes, she provided the goat skins, Really needed a lion, but had to make do. Still looks a hoot though doesn’t he?”
Marco was the best thing that had happened to the dogs in years, and they had drawn straws for the privilege of running with him and his amazons in the forthcoming battle. In the unlikely event of him surviving the conflict, Flair and Sticker had worked out a rota so that they could all have a laugh with the mad man.
Sylvia Long was Homesteads leading sword hand, and had thought that she would be in the centre of the front line, so she confronted Marcus, sorry, Marco.
“What the hells do you think you’re doing?” She said, horrified at his, and her girls appearance. “And where’s your blasted armour?”
Marco was right in character as he answered her, “fear not, fair one. I will protect you.”
“What?”
“You’re safe now, fair damsel, for Marco and his fearless band of warriors are here to save the day.” He ad-libbed beautifully.
“What?”
The dogs listened intently, and hung on to his every word, grinning wildly and stifling their laughter. The distraught war leader turned to the three Homestead girls, now dressed in the bare minimum of leather required to preserve their modesty.
“You idiots belong to me, and you can get your arses back to the wagons and put some decent clothes and armour on. Now.”
The girl nearest to her, Snowy Vale, looked her in the eye, then smiled and taking a pace forward, casually raised her shield. There was a ‘Thunk’ and Sylvie found herself staring at an arrow head protruding through the wood.
She looked from Snowy to the dogs, and back again. Realisation dawned on her. “Just what have you been up to?” She demanded.
“Same as you, only more so I reckon” answered the grinning girl, “all of us. Crampton girls as well, and it’s been… interesting.”
Sylvie took a deep breath and nodded slowly. The Crampton girls had taken some persuading to get near the dogs, but all seven of them now had ‘super senses’, and were a match for Beryl and Joannie, the only others who had ever overdosed on superdog hormones.
“Do as you see fit,” she said quietly, “we’ll follow.” Then she resumed her place, and sent new messages both ways along the line.
Margo Lemon lowered her bow, “see that? She didn’t even look.”
Her neighbour answered her, “there’s summat a bit witchy going on over there Margo.”
“Reckon them dogs are straining to get on with it.”
“Wish you hadn’t said that, Margo. I’m nearly messing meself already.”
“Well don’t do it near me, Dotty Sharp, that’s all.”
Fortunes of war
On the small rise behind the Eastern ranks, the four gurus, Connie, Mona, Tammy and Joannie linked hands.
“Can’t see no alternative,” said Tammy eventually, being boosted to the limit by the other three’s egos.
“Might as well do it, I reckon.” She beckoned to the runner, Suzy Swift, “go tell that Jade to concentrate on the right. We’ll be pushing that way.”
“Jade, right,” repeated the girl, and she sped off.
Margo Lemon upset the guru’s plans, by loosing another shaft at the ‘tree beast’, and yet again, it was deftly caught on another amazons shield. Amongst the opposing archers, Jimmy was the first to say what they all felt.
“It’s bloody stupid, we’re well within range and should have a go, now.”
Anton confirmed his feelings, “too right Jimmy lad, all in favour say aye.”
It was said humorously, but humour took a back seat here on Asher’s field. A dozen small voices said in unison, “aye.” They probably didn’t understand the joke, but Jade made the decision that changed the battle’s outcome, “Sod it. Nock your shafts,” she ordered loudly. “Draw and aim. LOOSE.” Twenty three arrows soared towards Central’s archers. Seven were from Homesteaders, and Jimmy had been in the time machine’s medico, so eight were guaranteed hits. Fifteen struck home, and as the screaming began, Marco started the advance towards the enemy, his terrible swords still sheathed on his back.
The advance was uneven, as the flanks were not expecting it, and Marco’s troop became the point of an arrow formation. When only ten paces from the enemy, He drew his swords at last, and in doing so, his right sword nicked his left wrist. Marcus made a brief appearance, “Bugger and damn.”
Then Marco loudly reasserted his authority. “KILL THEM ALL, NO PRISONERS,” he bellowed at the top of his voice. The dogs behind him howled with uncontrollable glee. This was what they had risked rigging the lottery for, it was going to be a great tale to tell their grandkids, and they would be able to strut around the camp and have the ladies swooning at their feet. Lady dogs, that is.
When the amazons started yelling, “kill them all,” as well, the Ibis militia suddenly remembered that they should be at home milking the cows, or something, and in front of Marco, the enemy melted away, while the only blood on his swords was his own. The battle ebbed and flowed across the meadow, with Central’s numerical superiority in some way cancelled out by the Homesteader’s super sense and the chaos that surrounded Marco wherever he went. He could still be heard above the clash of steel and the screams of the injured and their injurers. “NO PRISONERS.”
Connie Nesbitt looked on in horror.
“What the buggery doodahs are they doing?” she yelled in anguish, “they aint supposed to do that, it’s nothing more than a barroom brawl.”
The Docksiders, however, were in their element. Barroom and brawl uttered in the same breath were like nectar to them, and besides, they had Beryl on their side now. Last time they’d had this much fun, at the Full Moon tavern in Gap, Beryl had been the fly in the ointment, but today, she was the icing on the cake. Behind the sailors from Dockside and Gap lay a trail of bleeding and broken women, but strangely enough, no bodies. Brawls were more interesting than battles, and you left your enemies alive so they could recover to do it again in the return match.
But over there, on the far right, it was death city. Caren, she of the blond hair, baby face and innocent eyes, and dubbed the angel of light by the villagers, was, in more realistic terms, the angel of death, as she wielded her alien sword with a dexterity born in the kendo ring at Hummingbird Tower. The sword was a scalpel salvaged by the Hood from a w
recked alien hospital ship, and had a blade one molecule thick, which was only visible because it twinkled. Part of the sword appeared to be in another dimension because all that Caren had with her was the sword grip with its controls, and the helmet covered in solar panels. There were no generators, motor units, gyros or wires to trip over, nothing. What the blade touched, it cut through without effort, and it weighed less than her kendo stave back home.
She fought in silence, as her almost redundant followers stepped through the blood and gore of amputated limbs and headless bodies.
“Oh, flaming seesaws, what have I trod in now?” exclaimed Gilda.
“Back off Wilma, it’s growing again.”
Caren extended the blade with a gentle squeeze of the handle, and two of Violet's palace guard, who thought they were out of reach were felled in one sweep of the glittering blade. A mass of lungs and intestines fell from one in a shower of blood which covered the other, who promptly fainted. She thought that she had died, but the sword had only grazed her hand, and when she regained consciousness after the battle, declared it a miracle and became a devout follower of the Lady.
On the left flank, a small group stood watching the fray. Margaret frowned and turned towards Gudrun. Her