Flying the Storm by C. S. Arnot Page B

steep downwards slope urged him on, and the nagging sense of exposure was getting hard to control. Tovmas knew he had to restrain himself, if not for his own sake but for that of the men following him. He stolidly continued his rapid and quiet walk, and if his pace quickened at all, it was impossible to tell. 
    The grass beneath Tovmas’ feet was dry and it rustled slightly as he walked. He cursed the dry weather. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, and the rushing of blood in his ears was deafeningly loud. Surely, between the dry grass and his pounding pulse, the sentry would hear him?
    H is foot struck the loose pebbles of a patch of scree, and he froze as two or three of the small stones tumbled off down the slope, bouncing and clattering loudly. The men behind him froze as well, and some of the more experienced ones crouched with their weapons up and ready. Tovmas’ eyes flickered as they scanned the shadowy fortress wall ahead. By now it was within two hundred metres, but he could see no movement. The dim light of the campfire was obscured now as they had descended past the level of the tower. After a few tense seconds, he gingerly took a step back up the hill, off of the loose scree. Feeling with his feet, he eventually found a path around the stones. His men followed in single file.
    The sky was getting worryingly light , turning from purple to deep orange as they walked on. High, feathery cirrus clouds above him had turned salmon-pink as the sun’s rays touched them. Tovmas knew it was a matter of minutes before the sun would break over the Geghama Mountains to their rear, illuminating the crag and the fortress wall for all to see. He hoped desperately to be inside by then.
    As they drew closer, the sentry’s tower on its outcrop grew taller, and dread writhed in the pit of Tovmas’ stomach. It was so imposing, so sinisterly still that he couldn’t take his eyes off it, and at every step he expected to see the dark silhouette of the sentry’s head appear over the battlement, exposing them at their most vulnerable.
    And yet it didn’t happen. No sentry appeared, and no alarm was raised. Tovmas and his sixteen men had reached the foot of the tower’s outcrop, just a few metres from the tumbled-down gap in the wall. He shepherded his men into a file around the head of the ravine on one side of the outcrop, ready for the attack into the raider’s camp. The man at the front, a big man named Lernig, was braced against the stones, ready. Tovmas could see the big man’s face was steely, but his eyes were tellingly wide.
    S eeing that all were in place, Tovmas fished in his pocket for his torch. Praying silently, he flashed it three times in the direction of the rocket team. Then he tapped Lernig on the shoulder.
    The big man hurled himself through the gap, and Tovmas and the rest of the men followed in twos and threes. Inside, they spread out and tucked themselves behind boulders and tumbled pieces of the wall, not moving more than a few metres from the gap. The interior of the fortress was no more than a large grassy hill, littered with stones from long-gone buildings, intermingled here and there with the tents and lean-tos of the slavers. Tovmas knew from his recce that there was an anti-aircraft gun near the top of the hill and a makeshift landing site on the far side for the slavers’ aircraft. The rocket team was to target those first.
    Still, nothing moved in the camp. Tovmas sent one of the smaller men, Magar, to climb the ladder to the sentry tower. Another man covered the lip of the battlement with his rifle, should the sentry finally make an appearance. So far, so good , thought Tovmas. But where were the rockets?
    Just as that thought crossed his mind , there was a blinding magnesium flash and a ferocious boom at the top of the hill as a fiery plume of dirt and smoke exploded into the sky. The sentry, wakened by the explosion, threw himself against the battlement, staring open-mouthed at the