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This story is a work of fiction. The story and characters are copyright Radical Gopher and may not be duplicated or used without the express permission of the author. This story contains adult situations and should not be viewed by those under the age of eighteen. ____________________________________________________________________________ A DISTANT SHORE - STAND AND FIGHT

Captain Lewis stood silently as his men moved into position. Peering ahead through the tree line he could make out the south wall of the stockade across a 200-yard wide field of what looked like beets. Some of the men were still limping; their feet barely recovered from being flash frozen during their first assault against the stockade.

Raising a spyglass to one eye he scanned the top of the wall. He locked onto the figure of a wolf gesturing to someone in the compound. Next to him stood a white furred squaw.

"There she is," he said handing the spyglass to Colonel Collier. "That's her!"

"How do you know that?" the badger asked.

"You see the headband she's wearing with the bronze disc in the center of it? That's the symbol of a tribal shaman... a magic user."

The colonel huffed loudly. "Magic? Don't tell me you subscribe to that old myth about native spell weavers."

"How else can you explain what happened along the stream?" the lynx asked. "I didn't believe it myself at first, but a lot of my father's stories about the first river wars are beginning to make sense."

"Illusions," Collier snapped back, his voice low so the men wouldn't overhear them. "Nothing but illusions tied together with superstition and ignorance. Magic isn't real."

"Then how do you explain what happened out there?" Lewis asked.

The colonel frowned. His second in command was getting dangerously close to insubordination. "I'm not going to waste time explaining it, Captain," the badger replied, his voice tight and low. "What I am going to do is use our cannon to force the natives to keep their heads down while the company advances across the field and takes that fort!"

Turning he watched as several men worked at setting up the boarding cannon. To the side one of the junior lieutenants, a wolverine, worked on the grenades, calculating the range and clipping the fuses to the appropriate length.

"What kind of rate of fire can you get out of these things?" the Colonel asked.

"Well, being small they're easier to load than a regular cannon. I'd say about one shot every twenty seconds per gun."

Collier nodded. "Good! I want you to alternate their fire. That way we get off one grenade every ten seconds. Keep every round going into the stockade. We'll bombard them for about two minutes then advance under cover of your guns. Once our men reach the walls, those natives won't be able to fire down at them without exposing themselves to our rifles."

The white furred vixen disappeared from sight. Captain Lewis lowered his spyglass and had his men spread out into a skirmish line under the shelter of the trees. They fixed bayonets even as the colonel signaled for the cannoneers to begin firing.

The first two rounds landed outside the stockade, throwing up a small geyser of dirt and dust when they exploded. Lowering the muzzles slightly, they fired another two rounds, one of which bounced off the wooden wall while the other fell just inside the gate.

Gabe tucked his head between his arms as the rampart was sprinkled with small rocks. He looked over at Evans. "We're going to have to do more than keep our heads down, otherwise they'll be over the wall and inside before we know it."

"Too bad we don't have our own boarding cannon," the fennec mused. "Then we could either take out their guns or at least force them to hunker down."

The Marshall thought quietly for a moment then looked at Evans. "Come to think of it, we might have something at that." He gestured towards the coral on the far side of the compound. "Can you see that packhorse over there?"

Evans looked then nodded.

"There's an old buffalo rifle and a satchel with about two dozen rounds in it. If you'd be obliging enough to fetch them, we just might have something we can answer back with." The wolf wrinkled his muzzle slightly in annoyance. "I'd get it myself, but I'm afraid I couldn't make any kind of dash from here to there without tearing open my side."

"No problem," the Lieutenant said. He quickly lowered himself off the rampart and dropped to the ground, flattening himself out when one of the native girls called out a warning. Moments later another grenade went off about a dozen yards away. Evans quickly levered himself to his feet and ran toward the corral. Reaching it, he scrambled over the fence and quickly found both items. Tearing them free from the packhorse, he scrambled back towards the wall, dropping to the ground twice more to avoid incoming rounds.

He reached the rampart as a third grenade exploded just inside the stockade. One of the native vixens yelped in pain as several pieces of shrapnel caught her across the face and shoulders. The fennec quickly handed the buffalo rifle to White Cloud, then went over to help the girl.

Slinging the satchel over one shoulder, Gabe looked around for someplace he could steady the rifle for a long shot. The only spot he could find was a cross-brace for the lookout tower. Using it, however, meant he would have to stand upright, exposing himself to both shrapnel and possible long-range rifle fire. The latter didn't bother him. He doubted any of the soldiers were good enough to make the shot. The grenades were another matter.

Shrugging, the wolf slapped a round into the rifle's breach and worked his way over toward the tower.

Snowbird silently watched for a moment then moved beside him. "Even with my magics helping you, it will be a difficult shot."

"At best," nodded Gabriel. "But if I have enough time to get a solid bead, I can hit what I'm aiming at." There was a warning call. Everyone watched as yet another grenade arched through the air to land next to a water trough, far from the rampart.

The white-furred vixen nodded to herself. Moving across to a rough-hewn ladder, she began climbing the tower.

"SHIT!" yelled the Marshall. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I am giving you the time you need to make your shot good."

"DAMN IT! You're going to get yourself killed!"

"Only if you don't make the shot," she called as she reached the top and stood in full view for everyone to see.

Cursing under his breath, Gabe stood, braced his buffalo gun in the tower's frame and sighted along the barrel. There were several scattered rifle shots from the tree line. They missed, the range being too far for your average soldier. Of course, that didn't mean there might not be a marksman or two out there.

As he focused there was another cannon shot. The Marshall watched as the grenade arched slowly towards him and began it's decent. It looked almost as if it were falling straight towards him. Up on the tower Snowbird set herself, weaving her hands together in an intricate dance and chanted. As the grenade began to fall she brought the palms of both hands together, then whipped one arm suddenly out to the left. There was a blast of air that rattled the stockade wall. The grenade abruptly changed direction as the wind knocked it away. It landed far from the wall and exploded. Moments later another grenade was launched toward them. Once again the vixen wove her hands together then gestured. There was another blast of wind and the grenade arced off to the right and exploded near the stream.

White Cloud sighted along the barrel of the rifle. Thanks to the magic Snowbird had laid on his vision he was able to clearly see the two cannon. He aimed carefully, took a breath, eased it out and squeezed the trigger.

The two men handling one of the boarding cannon were just about to load another round when they heard a loud metallic crack. The weapon suddenly jerked to the right. Looking down, they were astonished to see the cannon's firelock lying on the ground, twisted and smoking. It had been torn free of its mount. Moments later the report of a heavy rifle could be heard.

"I'll be damned," muttered one of the soldiers.

The colonel strode up. "What the hell's wrong? Why aren't you firing?"

A private held up the twisted piece of metal. "We can't, sir! Those bastards just shot off our firelock."

The badger yanked the mechanism from between the private's fingers and stared at it, scowling. "Can it be fixed?"

"Yes sir," the soldier replied, "provided you give me a couple of days and a forge."

The colonel angrily tossed the ruined firelock back to the private then turned to his other gun crew. He watched as they fired off yet another grenade. Halfway through it flight however it suddenly veered to the left and exploded well outside the stockade walls. "What the hell's wrong with you? Can't you even aim a simple mortar?"

"We're trying, sir! It's that witch! She's putting some kind of jinx on our shots."

"The only jinx I see is you, screwing up your own shots," the badger growled. He brought the spyglass up to his eye and studied the walls for a moment. He focused in on the tower, spotting both the Marshall and white furred vixen. "Alright... with our rate of fire halved I want you to start dropping those in as close to the tower as you can get." He then called Captain Lewis over to him.

"Yes sir?" the lynx said, appearing at the Colonel's side.

"I want you to form a skirmish line of ten men, using the best shots in the company. Position it along our right flank. Have them ready to put out covering fire in controlled, carefully aimed volleys."

"Yes, sir. And our target, sir?"

Collier handed him his spyglass, which the lynx raised quickly to his eye. "Anyone in sight posted on or around the tower."

"That'll be a difficult target, colonel."

"Yes... but maybe we can force them to stay down while we advance across the field." There was another sharp crack, this one sounding like shattered wood. The colonel whirled in time to see the wooden tripod mount on the boarding cannon collapse. There was another distant rifle report as the loaded weapon dropped muzzle first to the ground.

"COVER!" screamed one of the cannoneers as he and his crewmates dove away from the gun. The shock of impacting the ground released the firelock, triggering the cannon. There was a booming roar and the discharge launched it like a rocket about forty feet into the air. Captain Lewis tackled the colonel, knocking him to the ground just as the grenade, its fuse lit by the explosion, detonated.

The badger picked himself up off the ground as he and the lynx untangled themselves. Fortunately, no one appeared to be hurt. He looked around for the cannon; finally spotting it lodged high in the thick branches of a nearby tree. A couple of soldiers went over to the tree, intending to retrieve the gun. A few carefully placed shots by the Marshall into its trunk quickly convinced them to abandon the effort.

* * * *

"Nice shooting," Lieutenant Evans whistled in admiration.

"Easy enough," White Cloud replied simply, "when you know now to aim and have the right kind of weapon."

The fennec smiled. "Right weapon is putting it mildly. I've seen a Sharp's .55-caliber muzzle-loader, but yours is the first breech and cartridge model I've ever seen. Must have one hell of a kick to it."

The Marshall grinned back at him. "That it does. Had it made special order, for hunting oraacs, and other big game," He cocked the breech open and blew out some powder residue. It'd been a long time since he'd used it this much.

Snowbird had climbed down from the watchtower and joined him. She noticed immediately that the wolf was favoring his left side. Reaching up, the vixen carefully reached under his buckskin tunic and pressed her hand against his wound. White Cloud hissed in pain, but she ignored him and continued her probing. It felt hot to the touch and when she pulled her hand away it was dappled in blood.

"Your gun most certainly does have a kick," she said, scowling and she pried it out of his hands and passed it to Evans. "You have torn some of the stitches."

"Leave it be, girl," the Marshall said. "There's no time now to deal with it."

"Then we will make time," she replied. Pulling up his tunic she gently peeled away the wrappings and poultice. She then began rapidly rubbing her hands together as she chanted softly. Finishing, she blew on her palms, and then placed them flat against the slowly oozing wound.

"HOT! HOT! HOT!" White Cloud gasped.

"Stop fidgeting," she admonished him as she held her hands against him for several long moments. When she pulled them away a large scab had formed and the bleeding was stopped. "This is only temporary," Snowbird warned. "Sooner or later I will have to restitch it."

"Thanks," the wolf responded, giving the white-furred vixen a light peck on the forehead. She responded by gently slapping him on the side of the muzzle.

"Just do not pull it open again," she replied, going over to check on the girl who'd been wounded earlier.

Evans watched as she walked away then looked over at the Marshall. "Are you and she...?"

"To be honest, I don't know. Why don't you ask her?" He stared across the open field and saw movement beneath the trees. "Looks like they're up to something," Gabe muttered as he raised his small pair of field glasses to his eyes. He watched for a moment then passed them to the Fennec.

"I think their forming for a charge," the Lieutenant said.

"Is Collier mad?"

Evans shook his head. "Not really, just desperate to end this as soon as possible. Without his artillery to soften us up, it's his only effective option. He doesn't know the terrain around here well enough to make a night assault, and time is more on our side than his."

"What can he do?"

"Once the company gains the base of the stockade wall, we can't shoot at them without exposing ourselves," the Fennec responded.

Snowbird rejoined them at that moment and listened as the Marshall quickly repeated Evan's assessment of the current situation

"So how do we counter this?" she asked.

"In ancient times the occupants of a castle would drop boiling oil on an assault force, breaking up their attack. But we have neither the oil or time needed to boil it."

The vixen sat quietly for a moment, thinking. Then she smiled. "I think I have an idea."

* * * *

Dusting himself off, Colonel Collier ordered the entire company into a single skirmish line, save the ten sharpshooters assembled by Captain Lewis. Turning to the lynx the badger drew his sword in one hand and unholstered his pistol with the other.

"Captain! On my order the company will advance at the double. Your men will move forward along the right flank, pausing to lay down volley fire every twenty paces. Have your men reload on the march... Concentrate your fire on the tower and anyone you can see along the ramparts. Understood?"

"Begging the colonel's pardon, sir. But advancing across two hundred yards of open ground is more than a little risky," the lynx protested.

" Have you been counting their guns, captain? I have, and they have only a half-dozen or so at most. At double-time the men can cover the distance in just under a minute, and with your skirmish line forcing them to keep their heads down the risk will be minimal. Once at the base of the stockade walls they won't be able to shoot at us without leaning out over the parapet, while we can still shoot straight up at them."

The captain thought about the plan for a moment then nodded. It was sound enough, provided the men crossed the field as quickly as possible. They had four climbing poles already prepared for when they reached the wall, so once in position they could gain the ramparts without too much difficulty. Speed was the key. Don't give them enough time to set their defenses.

Captain Lewis looked over at the badger who simply nodded once, then raised his sword.

"Company.... Attention!" The line of furs rapidly straightened itself out. The Colonel paused for a moment. "Port.... Arms!" There was a ripple of metal against wood as the troop snapped their rifles up into position. "Sharpshooters.... Advance and Fire!"

Captain Lewis and his ten riflemen stepped forward twenty paces then knelt, aimed and fired as one. Rising to their feet, they marched forward reloading as they went. The lynx kept cadence and at forty steps the line once more halted, knelt, aimed and fired. Collier could see figures scrambling along the rampart, hunched over to keep from being hit by the volley fire.

When the sharpshooters rose once more and started moving forward the Colonel brought his sword to the fore in an exaggerated sideways arc. "Company.... At the quick march... Advance!" He watched as the troop moved ahead at a fast jog from the tree line, the officers and NCOs keeping them together in a reasonably straight rank.

A few scattered shots erupted from the stockade's parapet. Three soldiers went down. Two of them regained their feet and limped painfully after their comrades. Marshall White Cloud frowned. Even with their augmented sight it was difficult for the inexperienced natives to hit a moving target, especially when trying to aim only for the legs at Snowbird's insistence. He couldn't fault the girl for not wanting to kill. She had done so once already. As a shaman she was dedicated to preserving life and even though forced by circumstances it had sickened her. This, however, was not a good time for such scruples.

The Marshall looked out across the field. He could see four separate clusters of men carrying what looked like wooden poles. Noting their position he quickly guessed where along the wall each group would take refuge. Keeping low, he moved along the rampart and marked the wall at those points with a quick swipe of his claws. Waving to the Lieutenant he got the fennec's attention.

"Go see if you can dig up clubs or mallets... quick!"

Evans nodded. He dropped to the ground and dashed over to the longhouse. Moments later he was back carrying with him a wooden mallet, a couple of tomahawks and a medium-sized club. Climbing back up to the rampart, he came face to face with four of the native women. Each took hold of a weapon then hid below the level of the wall at one of the spots marked by the Marshall.

"Remember," White Cloud said in their language, "go for the muzzle or the hand... whichever pops up above the wall first." They bobbed their heads once in agreement and focused on the top edge of the wall.

The Marshall looked over towards Snowbird. She was standing underneath the lookout tower; the wyvern perched on her forearm rubbing its head against the palm of her hand. It reminded him of a cat he once had as a cub. The vixen looked up at him and he touched the brim of his hat.

Snowbird carefully placed the wyvern on the hitching post in front of her and placed both her thumbs gently against the creature's eyes. She began chanting a simple verse, repeating it thrice before stiffening. The vixen's eyes flashed. She abruptly dropped to her knees and hunched over, curling herself up into a ball before collapsing on her side, unconscious.. The wyvern looked around, spread its wings and launched itself into the sky, heading for the creek.