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The reverie is interrupted by the sight of men gesticulating at him. Imperial soldiers. They yell in unfamiliar accents. He is walking across the floor of the valley. Jeeps, tanks, all other forms of transport have been picked off, one by one, angular carcasses everywhere. The enemy soldiers are backing away as he advances, sword in hand. They are not afraid, merely practical, for with their guns and long-range weapons, it is better to be at distance. Killing must be clinical, conducted under safe parameters. But they cannot move fast enough, as they are burdened with their utility packs and their heavy helmets and their jackets of armor, all of which are no help when the warrior's unerring blade finds their exposed necks. Moments before, he was among comrades. Somehow he has left them behind. There was  |
no plan of attack in place, no scheduled movements, no anticipation of combat, and then the enemy was there, spread before them in the valley in a giant stain, and those who did not flee at the sight of it simply moved forward. There is no time to glance behind him to see if his comrades are still there. He is committed to advancement, it is as if he is swimming, one end of the pool to the next, and he cannot breathe until he arrives. Some of the dying enemy soldiers raise their arms from where they lie, unable to see that he is foe and not friend, wanting to tell him their names so someone can relate to their loved ones the story of their demise. He slaps the hands away and continues forward. Behind him he hears a trumpet as it blurts out a new set of signals -- at least, it sounds like a  |
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