Eric Flint's Blog, page 241

The Seer – Snippet 36

The Seer – Snippet 36

At the sound of the voice, Amarta felt a shock of familiarity. Where had she heard it before? Memory of the past, or glimpse of the future? She could not tell.

“No business here, ser. We only pass through.”

Amarta tried to see the face of the large man atop the dark horse, but could not. His back was to her.

“Where are you going?”

“The markets of Munasee,” answered Jolon. “To trade and sell. If there is anything remaining, perhaps on to Perripur.”

“Captain,” said a new voice, and Amarta managed to move a little to see a soldier on foot. “The town council and families have barricaded themselves in the basement of the mayor’s mansion.”

“Did you explain that it is the king’s will that they put themselves in our custody?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Say it again. Slowly and loudly, so there is no confusion.”

“Then break down the door and drag them out?” The soldier’s voice had an eager edge to it.

A pause. “No. Burn it.”

“Ser?”

“Give them a count of ten to come out and then burn the mansion.”

“So that they come out, Captain?”

“No, so that they die. No one comes out.”

“But…” Another voice. “They have children there, too, ser.”

“Good. I want the townspeople who are standing watching to clearly understand what comes of disobeying the king’s orders.”

“Yes, ser.”

Sound of footsteps departing.

Another voice: “Shall we inspect the Teva wagons, Captain?”

“What do you say?” This from Mara, who was standing just outside Amarta’s field of vision. “You cannot, we are –“, she stopped suddenly. From a slight movement, Amarta guessed Jolon put a hand on her shoulder. Jolon slipped off his horse to his feet and turned to the captain, hands wide and open.

“We offer no challenge, Captain. We only want the road. We are Teva, friends to your king and empire some three hundred years.”

“I know this,” the captain said. After a moment he tilted his head toward the wagon in which the three of them hid. “What exactly do you transport, Teva?”

“Shall we take a quick look, Captain?” Again, the eager tone.

Apparently the captain’s hesitation was taken as approval; one of his men dismounted and left Amarta’s sight, walking in the direction of their wagon. She pulled back, looking alarm at Dirina.

Jolon laughed — a loud, hearty laugh, full of such sincerity that it drew Amarta back to the pinhole to look. Through the opening she saw that she was not alone in this; everyone had stopped to look at him. She very much hoped that included the man who had been walking toward them.

“Let me show you, Captain,” Jolon said, still sounding amused.

A long moment later the back flap pulled open. Dirina flattened and cringed, Pas tucked under her, while Amarta kept her hand clamped tight around the ripped opening.

Jolon looked around inside the wagon as if they were not there at all. He dug under the hay and blankets, bringing out a cloth-wrapped package. Then he dropped the flaps and left.

Back in front of the captain, all eyes were on Jolon as he unwrapped the item, then held it up.

It was a hand-high statuette of a shaota horse, painted in chestnut and clay colors, the tones and stripes matching the animals, who looked on curiously. After a moment, the captain reached down and took the offered item.

“Teva children,” Jolon explained, “they paint these. The figures are well-loved in Munasee and Perripur among the high houses.”

“And anyone can have one,” the captain said. “Unlike the horses themselves.”

Jolon ducked his head in agreement. “They sell so fast we cannot make enough. Also these flutes.” With this he held up a small, round item that hung around his neck. “I will play. It makes the shaota laugh. Watch?”

Not far off, a shout turned into a shriek, then a keen howl, which cut off abruptly, sending chills down Amarta’s spine. She admired the way Jolon reacted not at all, simply waiting until the voice was done before he put the palm-sized oval to his lips and blew. It was a loud, high note, followed by a rapidly descending cascade of sounds. Behind him one of the shaota opened its mouth and made a similar throaty sound.

Jolon had been right: it almost sounded like laughter.

At this a few of the soldiers standing around also laughed.

“Captain?” came a new voice.

“What?”

“This man is the grain silo keeper. He says he can give you a list of names of the guilty.”

“I can!” A strained voice. “I want immunity, ser Captain. A full list — everyone who spoke in favor of breaking with the crown’s grain contract. Every name. I swear it on the harvest — all the harvests — for all of time, and –”

“Yes, yes,” the captain said, waving the man to silence.

He looked at Jolon thoughtfully a moment. “Be on your way, Teva. Nalas, take a demi-squad and escort them through town. Make sure they get through without incident.” He held the shaota casting down to Jolon from his horse.

“No, no,” Jolon said, hands up to refuse. “A gift, Captain. For you. Or your king. As you see fit.” With that, Jolon gave a small bow.

#

Only after the voices and smell of smoke were long gone did Amarta dare release the ripped seam she had been clamping shut with her hand all this time, and only then did Dirina let Pas out from under her.

On they went, horses and wagons, continuing south. A day later, forest gave way to wide lakes and bogs, then a day more and it was farms and fields again, quiet pastures of goats and geese. Then the land turned rocky and spare, with scrub and thick, squat trees that hung low, offering up furry red berries. As the days passed, Dirina and Amarta managed to repair all the rips in the wagon tarp.

Now the ground was a pale, milky-colored rock, dusted with sand, the grasses meager, the small plants few. At last they stopped.

Jolon pulled back the opening. “We are arrived. Gather your things and come.”

They emerged to find the wagons in a small clearing surrounded by rocky rises of gray and ocher rock shot through with lines of orange and tan. A crow called loudly; another answered.

The shaota were gone, as were most of the Teva. Those remaining unhitched the wagon from the carthorses.

Seeing her confused expression, Mara said, “You will see.”

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, came a handful of people. Amarta stared at them in shock.

Their hair was pale yellow, eyes the color of sky. Amarta had never seen such a thing before, had not even known it could exist. Dirina drew Pas close.

“Mama?” Pas pointed and looked up at her.

“Shh”, she replied, taking his pointing hand in her own.

The pale-haired people and remaining Teva began to unload the barrels and sacks and hay that had been Amarta and Dirina’s home these last handful of days, hefting them on shoulders and into handcarts, then taking them along a path that vanished around a small rise. No one spoke.

The carthorses were led away. Finally Jolon and Mara slung bags over their shoulders and motioned Amarta and Dirina and Pas to follow.

Around the rise the land sloped steeply down a dry creekbed, rocky banks rising on either side. The ravine snaked through one blind curve after another and ended at a large boulder. Only when they reached the boulder did she see the small opening beyond. They followed the Teva into a cave.

Mara took her hand as they walked in, indicating she should take Dirina’s, and led them into the darkness. The way led forward and down. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the pale-haired people moving around and watching them from openings in the walkway.

Points of dim lamps. The flicker of candles. No voices.

Mara’s hand stopped Amarta, and she in turn stopped Dirina. They were now in a large room with many low tables at which other of the pale-heads sat, now turning to look at them. Long shelves on the walls, filled with jars and cookpots and crates and barrels.

They stood beside Mara and Jolon, facing five of the pale-headed people, whose heads seemed the brightest thing in this dim, lamp lit room. Pas clutched Amarta’s hand tightly.

Of the five they faced only a woman rocking an infant in her arms smiled back at them. Her blond hair fell in long, snakelike ropes down her shoulders. Her baby gripped one.

An elder man and woman spoke to Mara and Jolon in a language Amarta didn’t know. The woman’s pale hair was cut nearly to the scalp; the man’s was blond to the ends, where it went abruptly dark.

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 03

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 03

Chapter 3

Poplock gave his own little salute from atop Danrall’s shoulder as Tanvol’s body, clad in a pure white robe with the pattern of the Seven and One embroidered on it in gems and gold thread, was borne towards the shores of Enneisolaten by seven people: Lady Shae, Miri, Anora, Herminta Gantil and another Color whose name Poplock didn’t quite remember, Hiriista…and Tobimar. Tobimar had insisted he be the Seventh, and none had argued with him.

The Unity Guard had been silent as the body was prepared and the seven had stood. But as Tanvol passed the last in line, they began to sing, a solemn and powerful chant, and turned as one to march behind the seven bearers. Looking behind, Poplock saw most of the population of the city, thousands strong. They were following, some grim, some sad, some crying silent tears, but all of them following with proud and measured pace.

As the procession reached the shore–a shore more broad and low than it had been before the Great Dragon rose from beneath its depths–the Unity Guard began to fan out, spreading towards other white-wrapped bodies waiting on simple rafts at the edge of the great lake.

Tanvol would not depart alone.

At that, we were lucky. Even counting the Unity Guards, less than a hundred people died in Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar. There had, of course, been at least thirty-five other tubes that had been crushed along with four other Unity Guards, and Poplock suspected a lot more had died in outlying areas–the ones actually struck by Sanamaveridion’s ravening fires–but while the main city had suffered much physical damage, its people had mostly survived. Poplock hopped from Danrall’s shoulder and, after a moment, bounced back to Tobimar and climbed back to his accustomed place. I owe Tanvol too; I…wouldn’t want to be doing any of this without Tobimar.

Lady Shae yielded the place of honor next to Tanvol, Light of Kaizatenzei, to Tobimar, and instead became honor guard to Light Dravan Igo, the one Kyri had killed in freeing Miri. The others took up places at the side of the fallen, Unity Guard or merchant or mother or, in two heartbreaking instances, child, and stood tall and straight, looking west towards the setting sun.

“Lady Phoenix,” Shae said, “we await you.”

Kyri stood at the very edge of the water, at the farthest point of land remaining. “I do not know your rituals well…”

Lady Shae shook her head. “I was the speaker for the Light, but in this disaster I had a terrible hand; I will not speak our words. You know us well enough, Phoenix, and your friend and companion stands as Final Guide to his savior. I trust you will find the words and gestures of your own that say what needs be said.”

Poplock nodded. Shae carried too much guilt for these deaths to feel comfortable giving the last rites, and the same went for Miri; it made sense that she’d give the position to the next most visible hero, the Phoenix who had shattered wave and withstood the Dragon with wings and sword of flame that had been visible even from endangered Valatar.

Kyri took a deep breath, and when she spoke, her voice was unnaturally strong, but not a shout; it merely carried like a shout, like a crack of thunder, yet spoke quietly, softly, warmly.

“We stand here on the shores of Enneisolaten, at the border between land and inland sea, to say our farewells and give final salutes to those who have crossed the greater border from this world to the Light in the Darkness,” Kyri began. “I will not tell you not to grieve, for grieving is a part of loss; even if we are all to meet beyond death, still it is the departing of friends, of family, of children and teachers and lovers and protectors.

“But they would be happy to know that most of us remain, that their hopes and dreams were not destroyed–that Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar still stands, and will rise again. The Tower is fallen, but the Light endures within us all, and lives most strongly of all in those who gave of themselves that we might live.”

She turned and faced the sun, now a blazing sphere sitting atop the surface of the great lake, drawing a glowing path across the water to where Phoenix stood. “I cannot speak for the Light in the Darkness, for Terian; but I can speak for Myrionar, his ally and friend, and I stand ready to send them on their journey to the Light. Let Tanvol, Light of Kaizatenzei, lead your people to the Light, and I hope and pray that Myrionar will be his guide.”

Poplock held on as Tobimar shoved the little raft out, and it floated free, slowly drifting on the water. Kyri pointed her sword, and golden fire reached out and caressed the wood of the raft, pulling it forward, guiding it to drift outward along the path of gold-shimmering water, flames of the same color beginning to dance along the edges of the raft.

More scrapes within the silence, and the other rafts with their white-wrapped cargo began to drift from the shore. Kyri’s red-gold flame flowed down both shores, directing the drift, and setting each to glow with the same fire.

Flame leapt higher on Tanvol’s raft, which was now drifting farther away. “Terian the Infinite, in the name of Myrionar I commend these people, the fallen of Kaizatenzei, into your care. I ask you–I beg you–to hear me and bring them to you, receive them into the Light, for though they knew not your name, they served you and have held your Light in their hearts for all their lives.”

Kyri bowed her head, and then raised it, gazing steadily at the armada of fiery rafts, all flickering with the golden fire of the Phoenix.

Then Poplock felt Tobimar’s shoulder stiffen beneath him, even as his own little hands gripped suddenly tighter.

The setting sun ignited in blue-white fire, spreading star-bright light across the water, a path of gleaming silver and sapphire that stretched to meet the oncoming fleet, and as it did so their flames turned to argent and sky. Silhouetted against the now brilliantly-blazing orb was a tiny figure, cloak or cape streaming in a distant wind, arms outstretched as if to welcome friends and family home. The pure, brilliant fire rose higher, dazzling all of the watchers, so that Poplock turned away and even Phoenix raised her hand to shield her eyes.

And when the light faded, there were only the calm ripples of Enneisolaten glittering ruby and amber in the last rays of the setting sun; of the myriad rafts and their fires there was not a trace.

For long moments, none spoke; even Kyri was staring in disbelief.

Then Lady Shae gave the great spread-armed bow to the Phoenix Justiciar, lowering herself until her forehead nearly touched the shore, and there was an echoing rustle up and down the shore as everyone from Hiriista and Miri to the entirety of the gathered crowd followed her lead.

Only Tobimar and Poplock stood unbowed and looked into the gray eyes that still showed Kyri’s wonder that she, she of all people, could be the focus of such gratitude and awe…and the heavy awareness of the responsibility that placed upon her. And now she’s become a symbol all over again, to these people, as much as she was to Evanwyl. Oh, Tobimar’s got some of that too, but she’s got the presence…and the god acts through her. They’ll remember the Phoenix of Myrionar first and always.

At last Shae rose. “We–we all–thank you, and through you Myrionar, for Its intercession on our behalf, and give praise to the Light, to Terian himself, for taking our fallen to his side.” There was a murmur of agreement, echoing gratitude that covered the peninsula. “We can now return to our city with the sure knowledge that those we had lost await us in the Light, and wish us all joy and strength.”

The stars had begun to shine out above, the clarity of the sky resonating with the purity that still somehow persisted about Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar, and as they began to move towards the broken, beautiful city, Poplock glanced back, and saw Kyri silhouetted against the fading crimson of the sunset.

Above her, just visible against the coming night, the stars of the Balanced Sword shimmered.

 

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 30

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 30

Chapter 15

“Are you hurt, Tully?” Finnegan was incredulous, and felt he had every right to be. Two horses come back without riders, and Barry slumped, grey-faced and blue-lipped in his saddle. The boys were helping him down, but if ever there was a man not long for this earth, it was Niall Barry, late of County Cork. The hole in his buff-coat wasn’t a large one, but the whole of his trews were dark with blood and it was dripping from his boots. His horse, freed of her burden, stood shivering in terror, and it would be hours before the beast was fit to be ridden again, if ever she was. The lads’ own mounts were stabled and being rested against need. What was supposed to be simply an early morning visit to Sir Henry Steward to remind him what was what in this locality, did he have any ideas about the burning of one of his properties, they’d taken livery nags to spare the good mounts.

Tully was off his own beast and making much of the gelding, who seemed in better color for not having had all of a man’s blood poured over his back. “Not a scratch on me, nor have I, and that only by the grace of God. I saw but four of them, yet there was a hail of bullets like a winter storm from men hidden in the hedges, Finnegan. We lost Kennedy and Quinn right off the bat, two quick shots. Kennedy took a bullet to the heart of him, shot from behind by some fuckin’ coward, and the head was off Quinn a moment later. They had one fellow at the gate with a musket, and three others afoot to try and take us. Barry and me, we made to cut ourselves clear, and all but made it. They shot again as we were leaving, and I think that’s when Niall got shot. He put one man down, the one that got most in our way, so he’s that to his credit, the poor bastard.”

“Fuck,” Finnegan said. He’d have to think hard on this one. Was it Cromwell, come back to search for his children, or was it the English mercenaries that Nolan had recognised, the ones the earl had offered a bounty for weeks before? Were the two connected? There was no reason to think so, but then no reason to think not either.

“Ah, will you look at what the bastard did to the poor beast?” Tully had found a graze on his mount’s rump. “I thought I saw him get a shot off with that funny-lookin’ pistol while Niall was riding him down. I was in fear I’d been shot myself, but it was the poor screw that took the shot.” He went on to fuss over his horse.

“Funny-looking pistol?” Finnegan asked.

“Sure, it was a little thing. Bright metal and sort of squarish-looking. Funny the details you pick up in a fight, is it not?”

“Did it smoke?”

“I’ve no recollection, is it important?” Tully asked, after a pause for thought.

“It is, at that. Did you read the stuff the earl gave us about the guns they’re making in the Germanies now?” Finnegan could almost smell the scent of it, now. He’d never been close enough to an up-time weapon to know if the powder in them, reputed to make not a particle of smoke, smelt different to the stuff he was used to, but a man had imagination and there was a demonic reek to the things when he thought about them. Between the lack of smoke and the rate of fire, they’d put the devil’s own power in a man’s hand and didn’t William Finnegan want that power for his own self? Didn’t he just.

And where those weapons and the stink of them went, there went Cromwell and the Americans who’d helped him escape. “Let’s not get ourselves blathered over, here,” he said. “Get a wash and some ale, and come sit with me at the Falcon and we’ll have a careful think about what you saw. You’ve to give an affidavit to the justice of the peace, no less, and I don’t want to put thoughts in your head about what I want to hear, now.”

An hour and a half later, barely mid-morning, and Finnegan’s mood was brightening with the weather outside. If the little short fellow wasn’t Alexander Mackay, last seen in Scotland near three months before and whereabouts currently unknown, he’d eat hay with the donkeys. Which meant that that wicked sharpshooting wasn’t a whole platoon of hidden bastards with rifles, but the infamous Julie Mackay, whose speed and accuracy with her future-made rifle were a legend across Europe. Over a thousand yards at the Alte Veste, went the legend, and not just Wallenstein but the two poor bastards stood behind him! Of course, you’d to mark down such stories for the embroidery they picked up, but three corpses made in a minute — for Barry had passed within the hour — was near legendary shooting.

It was a shame Kennedy had died in the first moments of the fight, for he was one of the ones who knew Leebrick, Towson and Welch by sight, he having had duty at the earl’s town-house the day they were brought in. There were others, one of whom Finnegan had sent to York all unknowing, but Kennedy had been on the spot. They were all sure that the three mercenaries knew nothing of Finnegan’s band, as they’d been in the tender care of Captain Doncaster and his men. Finnegan had a score to settle with those three when it came right to it, as it was the Cooley brothers — old hands of Finnegan’s, and less fastidious than Doncaster’s gentleman soldiers — who’d taken the purse for going up there with wheel-locks to do execution, and been killed in the melee of the mercenaries’ escape. Alive, none of the others had much cared for the Cooley boys, who were a bit much even by torai standards, but dead? There was the beginnings of a feud to be paid out when opportunity allowed. As if Finnegan had needed anything to spur his boyos to the chase!

“Is that one of the cowards?” The voice was clearly trying for booming, but was only managing querulous and sarcastic. It came from a scrawny-thin fellow in the plain black clothes affected by well-to-do Puritan gentry, who’d walked into the main taproom of the Falcon with an obvious lawyer and an obvious lawyer’s clerk. “You there, Finnegan, is that you? The new justice?”

Finnegan rose. “That would be me, for a certainty. And who might you be?”

“I am Sir Henry Steward, Mister Finnegan, and I have cause for complaint regarding your so-called constables. And, I might add, the dilatory manner in which you are pressing your commission in the matter of Oliver Cromwell, since I was paid a visit by the fellow this morning. Whatever might have been the cause of his arrest the year before last, he’s certainly outlaw now!”

The lawyer was standing expensively by and his clerk had found a table and was rapidly scratching notes. Finnegan got the feeling that he’d have to get some political work done to deal with this, because his commission as a justice of the peace was about to get some legal work it might have trouble with. A useful fiction, getting himself appointed such, but a fiction that would wear very thin if he had to appear in court to justify brushing this idiot off. In front of witnesses. “Now, Sir Henry,” he said, putting on his most expansive manner, “If it’s about the excess of zeal my fellows showed the other week –”

“It. Is. Not.” Steward was plainly angry. The pantomimed efforts at self-control were more than a little hilarious coming from such a weed of a man, and him unarmed at that. “That’s a matter for damages, and don’t think my counsel won’t be seeing to you about that, Mister. This is about your collection of jackanapes letting themselves be run off by the ruffians who were terrorising my household this morning, leaving two of their number corpses on my very doorstep and a good man among my manservants sorely wounded. What good are they as constables if they’ll not show fight in the presence of outlaws? What good, may I ask? They ran, Mister Finnegan, when we thought them our only hope of deliverance. I was convinced I and all my household were as good as dead, and all the good they did was convince Cromwell more would be along, so he left. A prime chance to get Cromwell in the chains His Majesty wants him in, and your men ran.”

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 29

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 29

He was all but on them by the time they got their horses turned around. Plainly not trained warhorses, but beasts that needed careful management around the sounds and smells of gunfire and blood. To his professional’s eye they were making not too bad a fist of things, but it was about to get a lot more difficult for them.

Beyond, Kit and Stephen were on their feet and charging hard. Silent, quick, no wasted breath in shouting. Mackay stepped smartly to the middle of the lane. Room enough for both horses to pass either side of him. He’d have to defend against one and stop the other. Tough, but do-able. He took a deep, cleansing breath and brought his pistol to the aim.

There are a limited number of tactics for a lone man on foot against charging, mounted opponents, and most of them consist of methods to not die in the brief slice of time while the cavalryman passes. Most of them, on the record, work fairly well provided the footman isn’t outnumbered and doesn’t panic; all of the truly high-scoring slaughters of infantry by cavalry have been worked on fleeing soldiers. And, of course, being outnumbered is a major problem whatever the other tactical factors.

It was a given that Mackay wasn’t going to panic. He knew, to a nicety, the limits a cavalryman faced in this sort of a situation, and he had the means to keep himself alive and, in theory, no worse than a little bruised. The trick was going to be hurting one of them — or his horse — badly enough that he could make no escape but not so badly that he died before he could be questioned.

To do that would take someone who was truly good. Alex Mackay of the Clan Mackay grinned. He needed drop only one.

They’d seen Alex and Stephen coming. Where there were two armed men on watch, there were more, went the reasoning, and there were enough sharpshooters hidden about to empty two saddles already. The rate of fire of modern weapons was leading them to all manner of wrong conclusions, and Mackay was pleased to see the first knockings of panic on their faces.

A rapid gabble of Erse between them and they picked Alex’s direction. The way they’d come, and only one visible enemy. With a yell of “Fág a’ Bealach!” and a hiss of drawn steel they spurred their beasts hard at Mackay.

Daft wee laddies, he had time to think. Fifteen yards of charge was no time at all for a horse to come into a good gait for fighting. They did right with the steel, though; pissing about with pistols when it was close work was a fool’s business.

Unless you had a big, solid, down-time-built 1911-pattern .45, of course. Mackay had the moves planned out in his mind as soon as he saw what the bastards were about. Time for one shot with the pistol, maybe take one of them in the guts or leg, hopefully hurt the horse enough to throw him, take high guard and be ready to drop under the blow. Had there been more room, he’d have been able to manage a sidestep and a cut at a horse’s face, which would throw the beast into an utter terror and probably make it throw its rider as well.

And had ma granny baws, she’d be ma grandda, he thought as he settled his front sight neatly on the left-hand rider’s nearer hip. He hoped the riders could see his grin. Even just feeling it from the inside was unnerving.

The shot came, as all good ones do, as a surprise and even so he was already twisting to get his sword into guard as the other rider closed. A flash of steel at him, and a calm quiet little voice in his mind that sounded exactly like the master-at-arms who’d taught him the cavalryman’s trade said dinnae cut at the charge, ye fool, thrust as nicely as ye may and it was a simple roll of the wrist and sway back, so — and that was the last he knew for a moment until he was on the ground trying to cough some wind back into himself.

Distantly, two more shots, pistols, three cracks from Julie’s rifle, and he heaved himself to his feet to see four horses and two filled saddles vanishing into the murk and drizzle.

Leebrick arrived just at that moment. “Loose horse knocked you on the way past, Colonel. Too busy looking at the one with a man on it. You were doing really well up to then.” Leebrick was grinning. “I don’t think your first shot did more than score the horse’s arse, though you’d have had a good ‘un on the way past if you’d not gone down. I don’t think Stephen or I hit anything, but I’m pretty sure your good lady drilled a third one.”

“Yep,” Julie said, coming up the lane. “Alex, I need more practise over iron sights. I’ve been keeping ’em properly zeroed, but I need me to be zeroed with them. Can’t assume I won’t ever get into anything this tactical again.”

“Did ye not shoot at the horses?” Alex asked, without thinking, and immediately regretted it.

Of course, she’d not have shot at the horses. It was hard work to get her to shoot at deer, and about the only prey she was really happy about shooting was boar, because they were “gross” and when you got right down to it, shooting a boar wasn’t just hunting but pre-emptive self-defence because the bastards were — very tasty — murder on four legs. He’d known that, he’d accepted that, he even cherished the softness of heart it showed as one of the many things he loved about his wife. It was, therefore, very much the case that the resulting chewing-out was his just and lawful punishment, to be endured stoically.

It was, he accepted, not the horses’ fault they had assholes on their backs. True, he agreed, there was no good reason to be hurting the poor beasts for what their riders were doing. He accepted entirely that it would be cruel to hurt a poor beast that didn’t understand why it was there and was already frightened with all the shooting. In truth, Julie had nothing to say on the matter that, from time to time, most cavalrymen would say. All of the good ones, certainly. A man who did not care greatly for horses did not long remain a cavalryman. Nevertheless, without taking the horses into harm’s way, a cavalryman was nothing but a dragoon, and dragoons were a sorry lot. That didn’t mean that horse-soldiers didn’t quietly regret the harm the horses came to. Just not quite so vehemently as Julie put it.

“All clear out here,” came Welch’s voice over the radio. “They’ve gone by the Huntingdon road, too far for a good shot, sorry to say.”

McCarthy and Cromwell had come out from the house by this point, accompanied by what had to be Sir Henry Steward, who’d gone immediately to see to his man, who was still clenched around a wound in his side. Mackay hadn’t noticed, but two women had already come out from the house and were starting to tend to him. He couldn’t see the dog any more, so with any luck the poor beast had only been wounded and had limped off somewhere. They’d have to find him and tend to him later, but for now the people were the main thing.

“They didn’t send anyone round the back, Oliver and me just checked,” Darryl said, “so I think them showing up was just an accident.”

“An unhappy one,” Sir Henry put in from where he was, really, doing no more than fuss over the care the two ladies were providing, “for now I am known as sheltering you.”

“We might be able to do something about that,” Darryl said, “if we can make it look like we came here to rob you or something?”

“Aye, I care not that my name be blackened with such as they,” Cromwell said. “Give it out that I came here furious that my goods and chattels were gone from the farm I leased from you, which is truth enough. Let the king’s men think I came to take them back from you, or rob you of goods to their value. ‘Tis as foolish as any justification a thief gives before the bench, and plausible thereby. Give it out that the king’s tyranny is turning gentlemen bandit — truth, too, for I am indeed outlawed by the king — and how long before any man is safe in his home? None of it false witness, and only the false of heart will hear it as lies.”

“True, from a certain point of view,” Gayle said, as she knelt by the wounded man and began unpacking an aid kit.

“From the point of view of Prince John, Robin Hood was naught but a thief,” Cromwell said, with a smile, “for all he was a good Huntingdon lad.”

“A Puritan Robin Hood?” Darryl was plainly amused by the idea. Especially, since in his heart of hearts, Robin Hood was and would always be a singing, animated fox.

Mackay had to put in something at this point. Robin Hood wasn’t really a Scots legend — Wallace and the Bruce were real, historical figures, after all — but he’d heard the stories. “I was always told Robin Hood was a Yorkshireman,” he said, “not that I’ve any great caring in the matter, ye ken. But I led borderers for a few years and the ones from the English side of the border would say ‘Robin Hood in Barnsdale Stood’ when they meant a thing was entirely plain. And Barnsdale, Gisburne and Loxley are all in Yorkshire, are they not?”

He had, over the years, wondered what the national argument of England was. They just didn’t seem to feel most of the differences you could bring Scotsmen to blows over. The next ten minutes seemed to settle it in his mind; they all wanted to claim their most notorious criminal for their own. Even Leebrick had a word or two to put in for Derbyshire.

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 02

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 02

Chapter 2

Tobimar caught at Kyri’s arm and pulled her back. “Don’t! We don’t know how these open, remember?” He caught her gaze, staring steadily into the huge, gray eyes, waited until they focused on him. “You all right?”

She closed her eyes and then nodded slowly. At that point, the recognition of the name she’d screamed hit him. “Wait. Rion? Your brother? But…he died in front of you, didn’t he?”

“Yes…yes, of course. You’re right.” She cast an agonized, confused glance at the tube as Lady Shae slid a floating cradle under it. “But…but that looks like him. I mean, it really looks like him.”

“You’re looking through a not-perfectly-clear window at some guy floating in whatever-that-stuff-is that Wieran filled these tubes with,” Poplock pointed out. “Your eyes might be tricking you. Shae’s got that one; let’s finish this work up. We’re not opening any of these things yet, so there’s nothing more to do with that mystery anyway until we’re done here. Right?”

Kyri tore her attention away from the receding, mysterious tube with a visible effort, then gave a rather forced-looking smile. “Of course, you’re right. As usual.”

The two of them worked in silence for a few minutes. Tobimar couldn’t help but think about the bizarre event. What could that mean? Kyri’s got really good senses, and if anyone would know her brother, it should be her. What if that is Rion?

“Could be another trap,” the little Toad muttered in his ear, making him twitch.

“What? Are you reading minds now, Poplock?” he murmured back.

“Not hard to guess what you’re thinking about. Probably what she’s thinking about too.”

“I suppose. Yes, it could be a trap. But for what purpose?”

“That’s the murky part, yeah. It’s not an illusion in that oversized jar, I can tell you that; if her eyes weren’t just confused, then whoever’s in there must look awfully like her brother.”

“But looking like him would be pretty useless.”

“Very useless,” Kyri’s voice spoke from behind them, making them both jump. “Sorry to startle you.”

“We were trying not to…”

“I know. But it isn’t as though I’m not thinking the same things.” She shook her head as they started maneuvering yet another sealed tube up and out. “I watched Rion die. An impostor won’t fool me for a second.”

Poplock made a face. “Don’t be so hopping sure. We couldn’t even tell that Miri and Shae were demons until they dropped the masks. We’re dealing with great demons and gods–they can fog even Myrionar’s sight, and you know it.”

Tobimar could see Kyri try to come up with a countering argument and fail. “An Eternal Servant maybe?” he suggested. “Like the Unity Guard?”

The Phoenix Justiciar shook her head. “Possible, I suppose, but it makes no sense. Why put one of those artificial things in a suspension tube? They don’t age on their own and I can’t think they’ll be better off soaking in liquid than operating. And what good would such a thing be without the original alive anyway?”

“I don’t have answers there,” Tobimar admitted. “But I’ll tell you what: once we’ve got every tube out of here, that one will be the first to be opened. We know the tubes are stable, so the Guards will be okay as long as they’re out of here, and your tube constitutes a mystery that we really want to solve.”

Kyri smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you, Tobimar. You know it would eat at me if I had to keep waiting.”

“Well, assuming that Shae or Miri or Hiriista don’t come up with some really convincing argument that we should keep waiting, I’ll go along with that idea,” Poplock said. “But remember that this is their country and…Oh, drought.”

“What?” Tobimar suddenly became aware of a faint hissing noise in the background. He whirled, seeking its source, and found it; a grayish line shimmering from the far wall. Water. The wall has finally sprung a leak.

Kyri ignited in golden flame. “Move it, everyone! I know we’re exhausted, but the wall holding back Enneisolaten is giving way!”

Muttered oaths echoed around the room and the exhausted salvage crews redoubled their efforts, yanking the tubes from their foundations, desperately dragging them to floating cradles, sprinting out with them. Kyri placed herself against the far wall, which had begun to crack across its surface, and auric-orange flame spread, dug in, anchored, refused the movement, denied the water entrance. But Tobimar knew that her power would not last forever, or even for terribly long. Both of them had drained their reserves almost to nothing in the battle against Sanamaveridion; he saw the strain on her face already.

He saw Poplock scuttling around the wrecked mystical machinery at the center of the Great Array, shoving various things into his neverfull pack. Don’t know what he’s doing, but there isn’t too much he can do to help in carrying these things, so I suppose he’s doing whatever he thinks is best.

There was a cracking, grumbling noise from above, and part of the ceiling sagged.

“Everyone out!” bellowed Tanvol, his deep voice echoing around the room. “We’ve done what we can! Phoenix! Phoenix, run!”

But instead of running, Kyri walked, backing away from the far wall a step at a time, golden fire streaming from her arms, covering the wall, trying to climb higher, to grasp the bulging ceiling above.

Poplock bounded to Tobimar’s shoulder. “Come on, go, go, go!”

“I should help–”

“She knows what she’s doing! You don’t have enough control of your power yet!”

Tobimar gritted his teeth but couldn’t argue. He could use the power of Terian to reinforce himself, and to deliver incomparable strikes against his enemies, but controlling that power to reach out and hold something without possibly making it worse…no, he didn’t know enough to do that.

But Lady Shae and Miri knew how, and did. The two former demons flanked Kyri and their power–white and aqua–reached out, building columns and braces of temporary might and evanescent energy. The workers were streaming out, Tobimar now passing most of the stragglers, glancing over his shoulder at the three women, still methodically retreating, holding uncountable tons of stone and water at bay through unbending will as much as immortal power.

Tanvol was surveying the room himself, making sure all the others were getting out. “Lady Shae! Miri! Phoenix! We’re all out! No more time to waste, come on!”

Tobimar, Poplock clinging tightly to his shoulder, and Hiriista ran through the open doors of Wieran’s lab, hearing a creaking, ripping rumble starting, shaking the stone below them. Light Tanvol and Anora Lal sprinted past them with Unity Guard speed.

Tobimar couldn’t keep from turning around.

A blaze of white-gold light appeared in the entryway, and he saw all three women flying towards him, Kyri’s gold-fire wings stretched out and nearly touching the sides of the corridor, while Shae and Miri streaked through the air seemingly by will of light alone.

And a rumbling roar echoed out behind them; dark-roiling movement seethed into view.

“Great Desert!” he cursed, and ran.

Kyri caught up with him after only a few strides and caught him up, speeding up the stairs, weaving between the support columns. Behind them the water roared like Sanamaveridion’s rage, and Poplock gave a terrifed, wordless squeak. Cold, foul-smelling wind blew past them and Tobimar saw to his horror that the water was catching up, channeled by the tunnel into unspeakable velocity, reaching, hissing spray vaporizing from Kyri’s flaming wings, and then–

–water caught them, coiling, grasping, filled with stinking bottom-mud and shards of stone, propelling them onward–

–smashed into a wall, a stunning blow, Poplock torn from his shoulder–

–and again, forward, unable to breathe, lungs beginning to protest, tumbling over and over, hammered by pebbles and rocks and timbers torn from the bracing below, racing at unguessable speed–

–breath burning from being held in, unable to see, water dimming even the brightest lights, or perhaps there were no lights anymore…

Tobimar felt darkness greater than that surrounding him starting to close in on his consciousness, a red-tinged blackness that meant death; once he gave in, he would try to breathe, and the vile water would fill his lungs. But he couldn’t hold on much longer. Poplock…Kyri…

Abruptly he struck stone, rough but symmetrical, cut and ordered, and the headlong flight had slowed, the water was becoming sluggish, hesitating, going backward. With the last of his strength he reached out, grabbed hold of the stone beneath, and held on as the water streamed by, first slowly, then faster and faster, as knives seemed to be impaling his lungs and his grip weakened. He felt his fingers starting to slip–

–and a massive hand closed around his and yanked him up.

The gasp of pure air was the most wonderful thing he had ever felt. For a moment he simply hung there, letting the air force back the reddish-black haze that had nearly taken him. Then he managed to open his eyes again.

Tanvol was holding him half-suspended in air, the huge Light gasping for breath himself, draped across a brace that was jammed diagonally in the stairway that ascended to the Valatar Throneroom.

“Thanks,” Tobimar managed.

“Think…nothing of it…Prince of Skysand,” Tanvol replied slowly. His grip slackened. “Glad to…have been able…to provide a last…service.”

A sliver of ice pierced Tobimar’s heart. The massive, boisterous, inexhaustible Light seemed to be…fading. “Last…what do you mean?”

“It appears,” Tanvol said, with his brilliant grin wan and regretful, “that one of the few capsules…we failed to retrieve…was my own.” His eyes were clouded. “I…see two places at once…here, and…a dark place, with vague shimmering against glass before my eyes, and it is cold.”

“T-Tanvol? No, no, no!” Miri was stumbling up the steps. “No, I won’t let–”

The rumbling chuckle was a ghost of its former self, but the humor was there. “Alas, my one-time demonic comrade, I fear you…cannot forbid…death.” The black eyes blinked, glazed, the head was drooping, even as Lady Shae and Phoenix staggered up. “I see…cracks forming. Slow enough…to allow a farewell…swift enough to not draw out the pain. It…was a good life…Lady Shae…Miri…do not mourn, but…sing for me. The Light…awaits me. I see it now…Light beyond here…beyond the glass…that drips water upon…my unmoving face.”

Tanvol’s eyes closed, but he was smiling, and the lips parted once more. “…and with…such glory ahead…who wants…to live…forever?”

The massive Light’s body sagged, and Tobimar caught it as it slid, now lifeless, to the ground.

 

 

The Seer – Snippet 35

The Seer – Snippet 35

Chapter Eleven

Amarta tentatively put weight on her injured ankle, suppressing a wince. Dirina helped her from the horse to one of the covered wagons.

“We take a chance with you,” said Jolon, the small man they had spoken with at Nesmar Port. He lifted Pas from where he stood next to Dirina and set him inside the wagon.

“You won’t be sorry,” Dirina said with conviction as she helped Amarta limp forward.

“We hope this is so,” replied the woman who had come back for them, Mara, with a sober glance at each of them.

Amarta did, too. Having left Enana and her family in the path of the shadow hunter, she wondered just how safe it was to help them.

With Mara’s help she climbed up into the wagon, finding an open spot among casks and sacks of grain, bails of hay in the corners, and blankets wadded into the spaces between. Through a rip in the wagon’s tarp, in the twilight, she saw another of the small, striped horses walking by. They settled in and then, from all around the wagon, voices began a trilling soot-soot-soot half-song. The wagon jerked forward and began to roll.

“Where are we going?” Amarta asked Dirina as her sister took Pas into her lap.

“Away from here,” Dirina said adamantly.

Away was a good direction. But he would follow, surely.

She could imagine him arriving at the riverside barge dock the next morning. But so many people had walked and rode and wheeled up and away from the dock, across banks and river rock. Surely he could not track them among all the others’ footprints.

He could have lost their track anywhere between the farmhouse and Nesmar Port. In the forest. At crossroads. Surely it would be impossible for him to determine what direction they had gone, let alone that they had climbed into a wagon.

Just as it was impossible to know the gender of a foal whose mother did not yet even show her pregnancy?

With that troubling thought, Amarta lay back on the blankets.

#

The wagon stopped suddenly. Amarta sat up, waking, not remembering falling asleep. Outside, it was full dark.

Mara opened the tarp flap at the back, a lamp in her hand. “Come,” she said.

They climbed out. Dirina took Pas off to a nearby tree.

Around the wagons, the small tribespeople in their odd rag and leather clothes were making camp, feeding and watering their carthorses and the smaller ones with stripes. A fire was going, and someone was preparing food.

Mara looked at her. “We will feed you, too, lost girl. To sit here.” She took Amarta’s arm and helped her limp over to a fallen log.

Her mind was on their pursuer. He might even believe that they had gotten on the barge that they had just missed.

Somehow she didn’t think so.

Around her, tribespeople were making camp with a practiced ease that she had never seen before. They had grown up together, she supposed, surprised at the intensity of the ache of envy she felt.

Jolon sat beside her on the log, a lamp in one hand, bread in the other. He handed her the bread, which she nibbled gratefully. “Do you still hurt?”

For a moment she was stunned — how could he know?

He meant the ankle.

“Much better, thank you,” she lied. They could not afford to be thought of as a burden. Even if they were.

“Those you run from. You worry. It is not needful.”

She shook her head, denying the worry, denying the assurance, not sure how much to admit. She looked for Dirina for guidance, but her sister was elsewhere with Pas, helping prepare the food.

And that was good: they must seem useful enough to be worth the risk, and hide the trouble they really were. Amarta saw another tribeswomen kneeling to talk to Pas, smiling, and she felt relief; if Pas were sweet, that might be one more reason not to leave them by the side of the road. Which they probably should.

She realized that Jolon was still watching her. She hoped she hadn’t shown too much of what she’d been thinking. “Where are we going?” she asked.

He smiled. “Somewhere safe.” He considered a moment, then crouched down in front of her, set his lamp on the ground, and motioned her close. Smoothing a bit of dirt flat, he drew an oval with a finger. On the lower side of the shape he made a long, thick, wavy line. “We follow the river road, here.” On the near end of the oval he made a small mark. “This is where we camp now. This –” at the far end of the oval, he pointed, “is where we took you with us, at Nesmar Port. Where are the ones who follow you?”

Hesitantly she pointed to an area to the side of the oval. “He was here, I think.”

“He? You mean he is one man?” At her nod, he gave a short laugh. “One is not enough. No more worry for you. We are Teva.” At her look, he made a thoughtful noise. “You have not heard of us?”

She shook her head.

“We are Teva,” he repeated, sitting back on his heels, a playful smile on his face. “We are so fierce that Arunkel kings and queens bribe us to be on their side. Some say it is our clever nature. Some say it is our laughter. Some say it is shaota.”

“Shaota?”

“The horse you called pregnant. And her brothers.” He gestured to the striped horses.

Amarta looked over at the small creatures, nibbling at grass. “You don’t halter or tether them. Won’t they wander away?”

“No, they…” He seemed to consider a moment, then stopped himself. “Yes, sometimes, it is true. But rarely. It is not like…” He moved a hand in the air, searching for words. “They are not slaves, like the carthorses. They belong to themselves.”

“To themselves?” She had never before heard of such a thing. “Then why do they not leave?”

He frowned a little, his gaze on the horses. He made a guttural chuffing sound, and one of the horses turned her head to regard him for a moment before she turned back to the ground cover. He suppressed a chuckle.

“They like us,” he said with a shrug. “We are Teva. Who does not like Teva?”

#

The wagons continued south. Some days later, Dirina asked for and gained from the Teva thread and needle to repair the various tears in the seams on both sides of the wagon’s tarp. Amarta watched her fiddle, thinking it more likely, given the rattling and swaying of the wagon, that she’d stab herself than mend anything.

But Dirina was right to try. The more useful they were, the better.

As she began to work on the tarp, Amarta curled around Pas on the blankets, awaking as the wagon suddenly jolted to a stop.

Dirina hissed, sucking on a finger.

Far distantly they could make out voices and shouts and something that might be screams. Dirina held her hands out for Pas. He crawled over to her. After a long moment, Jolon put his head in at the back of the wagon.

“We come now to a town. There is no way around it. You stay inside and be silent, yes? No matter what, yes?”

“Yes,” Dirina said.

His eyes flickered quickly between them. “One last time I ask you. Tell me true. You do not run from Arunkel soldiers?”

“No,” Dirina said firmly, and Amarta also shook her head, agreeing.

“Good,” he said, but he seemed worried, and he looked at them a moment longer. To Pas: “You stay quiet, yes?”

Pas nodded.

Then Jolon left. The trilling soot-soot-soot song, and then the wagons jerked forward.

What were they going into? What was about to happen?

A pointing finger, followed by a shout. Hands grabbed for her, yanking her from the wagon. Sleeves of red and black. Dirina shouted. Pas screamed.

Amarta scrambled over the straw and crates to the largest of the rips in the tarp and clamped it shut with her hand, looking out the tiny opening that remained.

“Ama,” Dirina whispered.

Amarta held a finger to her lips for silence.

As the wagon rolled forward, the voices and shouts grew louder. Amarta smelled smoke, heard distant wailing. She made a gesture to Dirina to get down. Her sister wrapped her arms around Pas and burrowed into the blankets.

A shout to halt. The wagons stopped. Horse snorts, footfalls. Amarta peeked through the pinhole opening.

Two large horses. Then three. Men atop them, wearing red and black.

“Identify yourselves,” said a male voice.

“We are Jolon and Mara al Otevan,” answered Jolon, who was mounted on his shaota.

“You have picked a poor time to visit Arteni, Jolon and Mara of the Teva. What is your business here?”

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 1

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“Lady Shae!”

Kyri shouted even as she realized that Shae could not possibly react in time, and lunged forward, shoving the taller woman aside. Her gauntleted hands caught the sagging beam, gripped so tightly that the hardwood dented beneath her fingers, and she braced herself, throwing all the Vantage strength into keeping the monstrous mass of stone above from moving so much as one more inch.

By then, Shae had caught herself against the corridor wall. “Phoenix? By the Light!” Immediately the red-haired ruler of Kaizatenzei raised her voice. “Tanvol! Miri! Braces, quickly!”

Kyri felt her arms starting to give. Myrionar, no!

Another presence next to her, and a glow of blue-white power enveloped Tobimar Silverun as he used his newfound strength to reinforce hers, the two of them keeping the roof of the corridor from collapsing until the two Lights of Kaizatenzei–Tanvol with his massive frame, bushy black beard, and booming voice and Miri, tiny, delicate, and golden blond–arrived and levered their braces into place.

“Whew!” Kyri said in an explosive breath, and leaned somewhat shakily against the wall. “That was…”

“…far too close, Phoenix,” Shae said, and looked at her with concern. “Are you all right? Do you need to rest?”

I can’t afford to rest. She didn’t say that–it would trigger an argument from all her friends who would then insist she needed to sit down. “No, I’m all right. Besides, we’re almost there. We can’t stop now!”

She saw Miri bite her lip and gaze down the last few steps of the staircase to the doors of Master Wieran’s great laboratory, which had shut behind them when they had left to confront the Great Dragon Sanamaveridion. It wasn’t hard to guess what was going through her mind–the almost ethereal girl was still coming to terms with the fact that she was no longer a demon but…something else, a something else that still remembered, and felt terrible responsibility for, the evils she’d committed and assisted before awakening to the Light she’d been pretending to serve.

Kyri put her hand gently on Miri’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s save them.”

Miri looked up and swallowed, then smiled and nodded bravely. “Yes, of course.”

“Oh bottommud!” Poplock Duckweed cursed from the door. “Stupid things locked themselves.”

“Do we have to break through?” Shae asked, looking apprehensively at the already-cracked stone above. “I do not look forward to trying anything so forceful here.”

“Ease your mind, Lady Shae,” Hiriista said with a rippling of his crest that conveyed a smile. “I and the Toad will unravel these seals momentarily. Wieran’s major defenses were broken; these should prove little impediment, and then we can leave the doors open to provide their own bracing–just in case.”

True to his word, after a few minutes of muttered consultation and inscribing of various symbols, there was a muffled clack and the doors began to swing open.

The great laboratory looked far different than it had when last Kyri had seen it. Great shards of stone, many with sections of the Great Array still glinting on their surfaces, had plunged down into the ranks of tubes that encircled the forty-nine levels of the laboratory, and smashed much of the fabulously complex machinery and sorcerous designs which had filled the center of the immense room. Sharp smells of chemicals, the sulfur tang of broken stone, the tingling scent of sparks, and underlying stenches of more ominous nature were set off by the eerie and irregular lighting. Some of the lightglobes spaced around the laboratory were still intact, others crushed to dark powder, and other devices and runes flickered with blue or green or purple light. The ordered hum was now disrupted, uneven, but still present.

“Careful!” Poplock admonished in his surprisingly powerful voice. “We know what’s at stake, but Hiriista and I have to check these tubes out first. The fact that you Unity Guards are mostly still moving tells us that old Wieran’s systems weren’t so fragile that a few falling rocks would do them in, but we don’t know what kind of traps he had on them, or how independent they are, or how hard it is to get someone out of one of these things alive.”

Kyri restrained herself with difficulty; she could only imagine how hard it must be for the others, most of whom had friends–or, in the case of the Unity Guard, themselves–somewhere in those shadowed rows of coffinlike tubes.

“He seemed to be able to put people in or take them out very easily,” Shae said in her warm, steady contralto. “I’ve seen him do it.”

“Alas,” Hiriista said, as he and Poplock cautiously approached one of the intricately sculpted tubes, “that means little to nothing. Wieran may have carried a charm that allowed him–and only him–to safely open and close the tubes, or have previously unlocked some safeguards before you observed him, or any of a number of things which would make it far, far more difficult for anyone else.”

Kyri stood a considerable distance away from the two as they worked. There was no point in crowding them; she knew almost nothing about magic, while Hiriista was probably the greatest magewright in the country and Poplock, for all his protests that he was a mere amateur, had an uncanny insight into the workings of mystical devices, especially from the point of view of someone trying to undo any locks or defenses on such devices.

Lady Shae was herself a magewright of no small skill, but Kyri watched her eyes first narrow, then widen, and then saw the ruler of Kaizatenzei rise quietly and move away, shaking her head. “I am older than everyone in this room put together,” she said with a rueful smile. “Except for Miri, of course. And I have studied magical works, off and on, for centuries. But those two…” She shook her head again in disbelief. “You say he’s only twelve?”

“That’s our guess,” Tobimar said. “Of course, for the Toads it’s not the same; by the time he was a year and a half old he was close to the size he is now, and already talking at the level of an eight-year-old. Toads grow up fast. But even so…yes, he’s something unique, isn’t he?”

“My body and spirit remember how unique very well, yes,” she assented wryly, referring to the way in which Poplock had defeated and nearly killed her with her own magic, before Shae had followed Miri and changed her mind about which side she was on.

“Does that mean that he’s not going to live as long as a human?” Miri asked, worry in her voice.

“On average, Toads don’t live as long as we do, no,” Tobimar said quietly. “On the other hand, if someone really wants to live longer, there are ways, and I’m sure Poplock will find one.”

Kyri chuckled. “Yes, I think he will.”

Tanvol and his usual companion, the Light Anora (who was taller than Miri but even more pale-skinned and with hair so blond it was nearly white), came to stand near them. “I’ve told the others to spend their time putting up more bracing all along the stairs,” Tanvol said. “Give them something useful to do while we’re waiting.”

Kyri grunted. “You know, I think I’ll do that too. I have no idea how long this will take.”

Tobimar nodded and followed as she started out of the room, and the others came after them. No one really wants to just wait without being able to do anything.

There was a lot of bracing to do. Most of the three-hundred-forty-three step staircase had cracks running across the ceiling, showing where the combat against the miles-long Sanamaveridion had transmitted its shock and violence down, hundreds of feet into the living rock. Miri could summon temporary bracing columns of stone, but more permanent timbers of wood, or supports of metal, had to be put in place to ensure that the path would remain clear.

On the positive side, after a good night’s rest there were a total of eighty of the Unity Guard still present and active, and eighty of those borderline-superhuman warriors could do a lot of work. Orders were bellowed, relays of materials and workers and water were organized, and strong, regular ranks of bracing and beams began to spread up the stairs like frost across a windowpane, a smooth and inexorable blooming of perfect symmetry. Kyri let them direct the work; these people knew each other and trusted each other, and she was the outsider–respected and perhaps more, but still not one of them, and not able to respond as they could to a hint or a gesture.

But finally she heard Hiriista’s steamkettle whistle.

“Well?”

Poplock spoke up from the mazakh’s shoulder. “Good news. There were some boobytraps, but Hiriista and I think we’ve got ’em all. The good news there is that they were universal traps–once we broke them, they’re off all the tubes, and each tube is self-sufficient. I don’t think there’s anything else on them; let’s face it, Wieran had plenty of other security and he didn’t have any reason to expect anyone would ever get the chance to try to take away his human batteries.”

“I have to wonder,” Tanvol rumbled, “just what will happen to, well, this me when that me,” he gestured vaguely to the dimness in the laboratory, “well, wakes up.”

“Not sure, honestly,” said Poplock. “But that question isn’t something to answer right now. The tubes have to be opened carefully and we don’t know what shape the people inside will be in. From what we know of Zogen Josan, he was in perfectly good shape, but they knew he was retiring a couple months ahead of time, so they could have spent that time preparing his body for release. We’re going to have to take all the tubes out of here as fast as we can; there’s no way to brace that ceiling, it’s a dome a thousand or more feet across and hundreds high–it’s a water-clear miracle it didn’t all collapse right away. But–”

There was a clatter and hiss as fragments of rock spattered from the floor a short distance off.

“–but, as I was saying, that could happen any time now.”

“Enough with the bracing, lads!” Tanvol thundered. “Everyone, we’re moving the tubes containing our people–and us–out of here! In relays, everyone, we can fit three across the main entrance, so I want teams of three. The strongest here–Lady Shae, Phoenix, and Miri, with of course Tobimar Silverun’s assistance–will remove the tubes as fast as they can, while we run a rotating relay to carry them to the Valatar Throne.”

That’s…twenty-seven teams, plus the three of us. She heard a faint groaning of the stone overhead, and rock dust sifted down. I hope that will be enough.

“It has to be enough,” Tobimar said, and she realized she’d spoken aloud.

“It will be enough,” Miri said. She reached down and detached one of the tubes–taller than she was, weighing over a hundred and fifty pounds without the man inside–and heaved it up, carrying it easily to the first three-man team. “We will make it enough.”

Kyri watched them lugging the massive tube and frowned, even as she hauled the next tube out of its socket and walked heavily over to the next team. Twenty-seven teams. Three hundred forty-three steps, then down a good stretch of corridor, then up the fifty or sixty steps to the Valatar Throneroom…that’s a ten-minute operation even if they don’t start to get exhausted right away. Twenty-minute round trip. We have to get one a minute or so. She looked around the room. Even leaving aside the ones that had been crushed by falling debris, there were hundreds of the tubes. How long could they keep up the relay?

She saw by Tobimar’s grim face that he’d been doing the same internal calculation; Poplock was also silent on his shoulder as the Prince of Skysand used the power of Terian to carry the next tube over.

“There’s no way we can keep this up, and ordinary citizens won’t be of much help; carry something weighing hundreds of pounds up hundreds of steps? No, that just won’t work,” she muttered to herself. “But we have to do this.” She pulled up the next tube, not looking at the deathlike face barely visible within. “I can do this three, four, five times, but even I’m going to get tired.” She handed that tube over, then sighed as she passed Tobimar. “If only we could make them lighter, somehow.”

“That would be…” Tobimar trailed off, and then exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Poplock on his shoulder; just as the idea dawned on her, the little Toad drew in a huge breath.

“Tanvol!” shouted Poplock. “Phoenix just got a great idea! Send a couple teams up to pry off as much of that floaty-rock as they can from the broken bridges, and bring it down with some nets! We can use that to float these tubes up!”

Tanvol froze for a moment, and then his thunderous laugh threatened to bring the roof down. “By the LIGHT, that we will!”

The next half-hour was agonizing work, as they kept hauling out the massive tubes and dragging or carrying them to the teams that would somehow lug them to the surface. But then a crowd of the citizens of Kaizatenzei flooded into the laboratory, carrying nets filled with the mysteriously buoyant stone and metal that supported the flying bridges that had spanned the city. It took many of them to hold each set of stones down, but hooking them onto a tube made the tube easy for even an ordinary man to guide and carry up the stairs.

The hours blurred together; the work might not have been quite as backbreaking, but it was painstaking, tedious–and dangerous. A massive boulder dropped from the ceiling three hours into the operation, crushing eight more tubes beneath its mass, and causing one Hue to drop instantly to the ground; the human body that had supported Hue Surura Saval was dead, and without that body and spirit there was nothing left to move the artificial shell. For a moment all the Unity Guard stood silent, shocked; then Miri snapped “Move! That’s what will happen to all of you if we don’t get your tubes out of here–and we don’t know which ones are yours!”

More hours passed, tubes pulled from sockets, rubble cleared from paths, chains and rune-ropes untwined to allow more tubes to be removed, a quick drink of water, a bite of food, then back to the work. It was harder because Wieran had not simply filled all of the spots starting from a given location; the individuals were spaced according to a complex pattern that made it difficult to be sure you had found all the tubes in an area, and forced you to go much farther, on average, to reach the next tube.

Finally, Kyri realized that they actually were nearing the end. “We’ve…almost reached…the far side of the room,” she said, sliding the current tube into a floating sling.

“Yes,” Miri said, exhaustion in her voice. “Let’s get the next one.”

The “next one” was a tube isolated from the others, near the central area where Wieran had done his most complex work. She was about to grab it when Hiriista hissed a warning.

“That one…is different.”

“Yeah, and different could be bad,” Poplock said. “Different makes me suspicious. Let’s take a look at this one.”

“You know anything about this?” Kyri asked Miri and Shae.

Miri shook her head; Shae tilted hers, then nodded slowly. “That one…is relatively recent. I remember it showed up there, a year or two ago. It surprised me; I knew we hadn’t had any new…recruits in that time. When I asked about it, Wieran said it was a special delivery from his patron; that was as much as he’d say.”

“Well, that one was locked and trapped. Good catch, Hiriista. I don’t think Kyri really wanted a bath in acid.”

She shuddered. “No, thank you.” Kyri moved cautiously up to the presumably harmless tube, which was also slightly larger than the others–perhaps built to be moved more easily? It had been shipped here, if what Wieran had said was the truth.

Kyri leaned forward, squinting at the clouded glass in front. What’s inside this one?

She realized there was one way that might show her; she picked up the tube and tilted it towards her.

The shadowy shape within swayed and moved a few inches forward, revealing the outlines of the face for just an instant.

Kyri staggered back, dropping the tube which was barely caught by Lady Shae. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t think. It’s impossible! Impossible!

But then the face became visible once more, as Shae lifted the tube back up, and Kyri lunged forward, without thinking, screaming out the name:

“RION!”

 

 

Phoenix Ascendant – What Has Gone Before

I’m posting this and Chapter 01 today and will be following the usual MWF schedule starting with Chapter 02 on Wednesday.

Phoenix Ascendant – What Has Gone Before

Phoenix Ascendant

Ryk E. Spoor

Previously in The Balanced Sword series

Phoenix Rising

Kyri Victoria Vantage lost her parents to unknown attackers some years before. Even the Justiciars of Myrionar, God of Justice and Vengeance, the patron deity of her country Evanwyl, were unable to discover the identity of the assailants. But she has moved on, and her brother Rion has become a Justiciar himself. Then tragedy strikes a second time, and during a sudden and monstrous attack on Evanwyl, something kills Rion, tearing his soul to shreds.

Shocked and now worried that her whole family is in peril, Kyri leaves Evanwyl with her aunt Victoria and younger sister Urelle, travelling to far-distant Zarathanton to begin a new life. But a chance discovery there reveals the hideous truth: that it was the Justiciars who were responsible, the supposed holy warriors somehow betraying everything they stand for. In rage and shock, Kyri demands Myrionar explain itself–and the god answers. Something far worse is happening; Myrionar is weakened, perhaps dying, but It promises Kyri that if she will be true to Myrionar–will become the one true Justiciar–then she will one day have the justice and vengeance she seeks.

Meanwhile, Tobimar Silverun, youngest prince of the country of Skysand, is forced to leave his country in search of the origins of his people–a quest that is thrust on his family once in a generation, and which amounts to exile for twenty years…unless he can discover their ancient homeland. The mysterious mage Khoros, once Tobimar’s teacher, also warns Tobimar that the next Chaoswar is about to begin, and that this is connected to his quest.

Tobimar’s search leads him to Zarathanton, greatest city of the world, and to a startling meeting with Poplock Duckweed, a diminutive Toad adventurer who has already disrupted the plans of one of the Mazolishta demonlords, Voorith. The two seek an audience with the Sauran King, only to find that he has been assassinated moments before they enter the Throne Room!

Having accepted Myrionar’s offer, Kyri realizes that if she is to be a Justiciar, she must obtain the magical and powerful Raiment–the armor of a Justiciar–that both symbolizes and protects a Justiciar, and sets out to find the half-legendary Spiritsmith who can forge the Raiment. After managing to discover him–and pass his lethal tests–she convinces him that she is indeed the first of the new Justiciars, and takes the name Phoenix as her new title (as all Justiciars have the names of birds).

As refugees from the Forest Sea begin to pour into Zarathanton in massive numbers and word of revolutions or wars in distant lands begin to arrive, Tobimar and Poplock realize that they are seeing part of a vast, coordinated plan to destroy the State of the Dragon King and perhaps the peace of the world–certainly part of the Chaoswar that Khoros warned them of.

The small clues that Tobimar had for locating his country suddenly come into clear focus when he realizes that the god Myrionar’s symbolism and location fit everything he has heard, pointing him and Poplock to Evanwyl. In the company of a new ally, Xavier Ross of Earth, they head for Evanwyl, confronting demonic pursuers along the way.

With her new Raiment and accompanying sword, Kyri begins her work of undermining the false Justiciars and preparing to confront them. She attempts to convince the first, Mist Owl, to change sides and help her, but he fears the force behind the false Justiciars too much to do this, and dies at her hand. A second Justiciar, Shrike, afraid that she will convince his adoptive son, the Justiciar Condor, to follow her, which might lead to Condor’s death, also fails to kill her. Realizing that her confrontational approach is making it almost certain that she must fight each one, she chooses to try another way: to approach them not as a Justiciar, but as their “little sister,” Kyri Vantage. For this, she selects Thornfalcon, the least martial of the Justiciars.

At the same time, Tobimar and Poplock have arrived in Evanwyl, having parted ways temporarily with Xavier. They hear the rumor of a false Justiciar named “Phoenix” who has killed at least one of the real Justiciars, and as this fits with the sort of thing they’ve already encountered more than once, offer their services to help hunt down Phoenix. They come across Shrike’s body and deduce where Phoenix is headed next–although they do not realize the truth yet.

Kyri makes contact with Thornfalcon, who seems open to her approach…until he reveals the trap he has set for her. He was the one who killed her brother, and who has directed most of the operations of the false Justiciars (although there is someone or something above him).

Tobimar and Poplock arrive at Thornfalcon’s just in time to prevent him from murdering Kyri, and instead find themselves in a fight to the death. But Kyri escapes her imprisonment and joins them. Together the three kill Thornfalcon despite his nigh-demonic powers, but are then caught in a trap that is unleashing an apparently endless horde of monsters into the midst of Evanwyl. At the last minute Xavier shows up, and together they locate the source of the monstrosities. Kyri calls upon the power of Myrionar and destroys the gateway through which they are coming.

Once all four have been introduced and understand each others’ stories, Kyri, Poplock, Tobimar, and Xavier make their way to the Temple of the Balanced Sword where they confront two more false Justiciars, Bolthawk and Skyharrier, and reveal them for what they are.

The truth has been revealed, but they know that there are more mysteries–who was truly behind Thornfalcon, how a god’s chosen emissaries can be corrupted, and how this all connects to the rise of war throughout the world. With Xavier now gone on his own quest, it falls to the three of them to find the answers…

Phoenix in Shadow

In a prologue, the unnamed true enemy examines the aftermath of the battle against Thornfalcon, and realizes the identity of the Phoenix, as well as deducing more of the nature of her companions than she might suspect. It then returns to the corrupted Justiciar’s Retreat, just ahead of Aran Condor.

Aran demands their patron find some way of giving him the power to confront and destroy the Phoenix. Their patron calls on Kerlamion, King of All Hells, greatest of demonlords. Addressing the patron as “Viedraverion”, Kerlamion agrees to provide the power Aran seeks…if Aran comes before his very throne to request it.

Meanwhile, Kyri and her friends have done their best to help and restabilize Evanwyl after the terrible shock of discovering the other Justiciar’s corruption. Finding Tobimar’s weapons heavily damaged after the battle against Thornfalcon, Kyri leads them to the Spiritsmith’s forge. The Spiritsmith agrees to forge appropriate weapons and armor for Tobimar.

As they are talking, something monstrously wrong happens, shaking the earth, darkening the sky, and in horrified shock the Spiritsmith points to a shadow that now stands on the horizon; the Black City of Kerlamion has somehow come to Zarathan, and the King of All Hells now walks the living world.

The Spiritsmith completes the forging of Tobimar’s gear, and also contacts the legendary Wanderer to assist the travelers in determining their destination and understanding the forces arrayed against them. The Wanderer confirms–as they had guessed–that they must journey through corrupt and deadly Rivendream Pass to Moonshade Hollow, and that much of what is happening he knows, but cannot tell them. Kyri says: “A prophecy. You have a prophecy.”

The Wanderer responds with a strange smile, and answers, “Not…precisely. Though, perhaps, close enough for your purposes.”

He gives them only a few cryptic hints, emphasizing that while he would very much like to tell them more, doing so could jeopardize everything they are all trying to accomplish–but that Myrionar’s promise that they can succeed is very much true.

Aran Condor has made his way through the wastelands nicknamed “Hell”, and then finds himself confronted by the real thing–standing before the doors of the Black City itself. His anger and need for vengeance (barely) overcomes his more sensible fear, and he continues forward. Kerlamion gives him the Demonshard Blade, a piece of Kerlamion’s own sword, a weapon of tremendous demonic power which the Lord of All Hells says should be capable of destroying anything–even the Phoenix Justiciar.

The three heroes make their way through Rivendream Pass, which is even worse than they had expected. During this trip, Kyri and Tobimar finally (with a bit of pushing by Poplock) admit their attraction for each other. Shortly after entering the corrupted forest in Moonshade Hollow, they come across a small figure about to be attacked by a monster.

The diminutive, beautiful girl introduces herself as “Miri, Light of the Unity”, and leads them through a barrier wall into a land she calls “Kaizatenzei”, translated as “the Unity of the Seven Lights”.

Impossibly, Kaizatenzei seems to be not only not corrupt, but in actuality a haven of purity, a supernaturally right place where it is almost impossible to imagine the existence of the evil that lies just outside of its walls. The people know nothing of the world beyond the corrupted forest and are astounded by the three new arrivals. Miri is the right-hand servant and troubleshooter for “Lady Shae”, the Lady of Seven Lights. Lady Shae bids the group travel to their capital, Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar.

The three are joined in their travels by Hiriista, mazakh “magewright”–master of magical talents tied to more physical sources, such as alchemy and the discipline called “Gemcalling”. Despite his species, Hiriista appears to be very much on the side of good and develops an unexpectedly strong bond with Poplock.

The group learns that Hiriista has noted some oddities concerning the “Unity Guard”–the combined police and military force of Kaizatenzei, a group that includes Lights, Colors, Shades, and Hues, with Lights such as Miri at the top. These oddities fit with a few unsettling feelings Phoenix has had around Unity Guards.

Unbeknownst to the adventurers, Miri and Shae are the demonlords Emirinovas and Kalshae, and they have some plan which requires Tobimar Silverun, whom they refer to as “the Key”, and also the assistance of the cold and calculating researcher named Master Wieran.

Aran Condor enters Kaizatenzei in pursuit of the Phoenix. The purity of Kaizatenzei breaks the corrupting hold that the Demonshard Blade had gained on Aran’s mind, and Condor successfully defeats the blade in a contest of wills. Miri, as asked by Viedraverion, meets Aran and sends him traveling around the central lake in the opposite direction from Phoenix and her companions.

Miri is stunned when, during their travels, Phoenix manages to summon the power of her god to heal children who should be unsalvageable (infected by a soul-damaging parasite). She also fears that her constant contact with the magic that has made Kaizatenzei so pure is corrupting her demonic essence.

The travelers reach Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar, and all seems perfect–except for a momentary flash of sensation by Phoenix, where she detects two dark presences, one filled with anger and hatred, the other cold and amused.

Tobimar is allowed to approach “the Great Light” in the Valatar Tower, and its response to his approach proves beyond any shadow of a doubt that the Great Light is the Sun of Terian, one of the greatest artifacts of one of the most powerful gods of good, and because of that Tobimar now knows that Kaizatenzei is what is left of the true homeland of his people.

Miri discovers that she is totally corrupt–or, more accurately, purified–when she finds herself drawn physically and romantically to Phoenix.

As a celebration is prepared for them, the adventurers notice a much larger number of Unity Guard entering the city, and recognize that this whole setup could be a trap. Their attempt to escape fails, and they are captured and Tobimar placed on a sacrificial altar; Miri is also caught out and captured by Kalshae.

As Wieran’s and Kalshae’s ritual is nearing completion, Tobimar connects the events with the last advice Khoros gave him, and realizes that an old childhood prayer is in fact the key to accessing the power of the Sun of Terian. For a moment, Terian himself manifests through the body of Tobimar, freeing and healing the Skysand Prince and his friends. Kyri and Hiriista leave the room to rescue Miri, while Tobimar–with more than mortal power–and Poplock confront Kalshae.

Kalshae is defeated when Poplock tricks her into triggering a summons of herself, and Kyri reaches Miri in time to keep her from being locked away. The group confronts Master Wieran in his laboratory, but cannot fight him directly–his Great Array includes hundreds of tubes in which are still-living human beings. Poplock manages to play on Wieran’s ego and desire for an audience, distracting him long enough for Hiriista to notice a secondary magical array and damage it, releasing something which has been sealed up beneath the central lake for millennia.

This disrupts Wieran’s attempt to attain something even beyond the godhead, and Wieran barely escapes; worse is the fact that what is rising now is Sanamaveridion, an Elderwyrm or evil Dragon of incalculable power.

Aran Condor, who has been performing small acts of heroism in his travels around the lake, uses the Demonshard Blade to disrupt the tsunami thrown up by Sanamaveridion’s emergence, while Kyri does the same on the other side of the lake with the power of the Phoenix. Aran cannot do more at this point, but is now certain that where the Elderwyrm has risen, the Phoenix must be waiting.

The heroes confront Sanamaveridion, and after a tremendous pitched battle defeat him through the combined efforts of Tobimar, Kyri, and Miri, with an inspired last-minute summoning by Poplock finishing the job.

Miri attempts to recover the communication scroll she has used to contact Viedraverion–this turns out to be a trap. Miri discovers that “Viedraverion” is not what it seems, but is instead some other terrible being, one she calls by the name “Lightslayer” before it erases her memory of key facts.

The remaining Unity Guard, now no longer under anyone’s mental domination, confront the group for answers once the immediate search-and-rescue after the battle is complete. To the surprise of everyone, Miri confesses everything, and Lady Shae reappears–having been herself purified by the Light of Terian. With the entire party, including Hiriista, now supporting Miri and Shae’s redemption, the Unity Guard accept them as leaders once more.

But the now-unknown adversary has seen everything going according to Its plan, and in the final scene it has also reached beyond the grave to bring back three of the old Justiciars in preparation for the final confrontation…

 

The Seer – Snippet 34

The Seer – Snippet 34

Chapter Ten

This was hardly the first time that Tayre had been poisoned.

His apprenticeship with his uncle had included a close examination of many substances that took away a person’s mind to varying degrees, including permanently. In particular, he had more than passing familiarity with the plant whose juice he had painted on the dart that he’d intended to use on the Botaros girl.

This was, however, the first time it had happened to him by accident.

Except that it wasn’t really an accident, despite the girl’s wide-eyed reaction when her own exceptionally well-timed twitch sent the dart into his hand instead of her leg.

He was now convinced; against all probability, Innel had been entirely correct: the girl was a true Seer.

Tayre could feel the tincture working in his body. It was a fast, potent dose, intended to put the girl into something approximating slumber for a half day or more, which he had expected to be sufficient time to secure her in a way that even her foresight would not allow her to escape.

Then again, the dose was measured for her, not someone twice her size, so it should not affect him as much. If he could summon decisive movement, right now, he might still reach her, hold her, disable her. Stop her from getting away.

She was at this moment crouched on the ground, watching him fearfully, mistrustful of his slowing motions. He could turn that to his advantage, if he could act. Struggling against fading concentration and numbing limbs, he stepped toward her once, then again. His fingers loosened against his will, and the knife fell. He looked down at the foliage where it had landed and realized that the ground seemed too far away.

“Looks like you’re going to fall, boy,” his uncle had said from the rise above.

His ten-year-old self’s hands were sweaty, gripping tight but slowly slipping from the branch, twenty feet over the ravine, from which he dangled.

“What do I do?” he’d asked through gritted teeth.

“Sometimes you lose,” his uncle had said conversationally. “Thing is, if you can wake the next morning, then you have another chance to win. If you die — well. You’ve lost entirely, then.”

Another small slip, his grip weakening. He looked down at the steep slope below. At best, it would be a painful fall.

“I suggest, my boy, that you figure out how to land so that you can wake tomorrow.”

Sometimes you lose.

With what fast-fading control Tayre still had, rather than let himself fall as his loosening limbs wanted to do, he lowered himself to the forest floor. On all fours, he considered what was most likely to happen next.

The road was not well-traveled, so despite hours of lying unconscious, there was a good chance he would wake. The girl herself was the greatest risk; she could kill him as he lay there defenseless. If she had the will. He didn’t think she did.

Or she could bring back others who did.

As his thoughts slowed to an agonizing crawl, he laid himself on the ground, keeping his eyes on her as long as he could. She got up and limped away.

Escaping him a third time.

Tayre’s final thought was that it was a shame he had been told to bring her back alive. He was almost certain that, had he been trying to kill rather than disable her, he would not now be lying here, falling unconscious, as she fled.

#

Tayre woke to wet darkness and sounds of night — crickets, high winds, and the light pattering of rain on leaves overhead. He sat up slowly and reached out to where he remembered dropping his knife. His fingers found it, curled around the handle, resheathed it. His bow, also, was where he dropped it.

Other than being damp from hours of lying in what was now partly mud, it was as good an outcome as he could have hoped for.

He stood, rolling out the ache in his limbs and breathing hard to clear the headache that the tincture had left.

It was very dark. He traced the mud and dirt road with his feet, following to the edge of the woods, in the direction that the girl had gone. The rain slowed and stopped. Overhead he saw small patches of stars.

No rush now. She was hours ahead of him in any case.

With the advantage of being able to see things that had not yet happened.

He considered this for a moment.

Then he stashed his bow and knife under the leaves at the base of a large oak, drew a few lines on his face by feel with an oil pen from his pack in order to make himself look older and more tired than he already felt, and began his search again.

#

Tayre knocked lightly, stepped back, and threw off his wet hood to reveal his face in the lamplight that came from the house as the door opened.

The tall woman’s eyes widened as she saw him. More than the surprise of a late-night visitor; she had been warned.

“Blessings of the season to you, good woman,” he said softly.

She seemed undecided about how to answer this.

Warned and then some, it seemed.

He did not read in her face and body the look of a woman protecting children, which meant that the girl and her sister and the boy were no longer here.

That would have been his guess anyway; the girl was used to running, and people in fear for their lives tended to repeat what they knew best.

The woman stood aside to allow him entrance, the invitation in obvious conflict with what she really wanted to do. He stepped inside hesitantly, hands together implying supplication, head forward, shoulders slumped.

At a table sat two men, likely her adult sons. On their faces Tayre read the simple suspicion of a stranger. So only the woman knew something more.

He turned an uncertain, grateful smile on her.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Her voice was hostile, charged with tension and challenge.

He glanced at the floor, let pain and regret settle on his features. “You must know that I’m following a girl, a woman, and a young boy.” He glanced at her for confirmation, swallowed twice and went on, his voice cracking. “To whom I have brought so much wretchedness I am nightly tempted to end my life to escape my own shame.”

On her face confusion warred with solid mistrust. For a long moment she said nothing.

“We have food and drink,” she said grudgingly. It was an offer, but barely. An unwilling host. It would do.

He smiled bitterly and shook his head. “They must have told you about me.” He saw the confirming flicker in her eyes. “Whatever they said, it was generous. Did she say I was hunting her? That I would hurt her if I found her again?”

The woman hesitated. Then: “Yes.”

He nodded, put his hand on the still-open door, as if about to leave. “I don’t deserve your kindness. Not a crumb of it.”

Her expression had collapsed into confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t claim to be a good man,” he said earnestly. “But I could set all this right, if I could only talk to them for a few minutes.”

“Why don’t just you leave them be?”

He nodded. “I want to. As soon as I discharge my obligation and tell them about their inheritance. My cousin has left them everything. They are wealthy now and will never want for anything again. I need to tell them this, even if it’s the last thing I do. It is the one thing I can do to make amends.”

“I think,” the woman said, her voice hard again, “you had better come in and sit down and explain yourself.”

“You are kinder to me than I deserve. Let me tell you how it happened, and you can decide if you want to help me find them so I can repair some of what I have broken.”

#

It hadn’t taken long to convince Enana of the familial misunderstanding, of the better life in store for Amarta and Dirina and the boy if he could only find them. Of the possibility of them returning here — healthy, happy, and with money.

It was easy: they wanted to believe. Word by word he had used their expressions to guide his story. By the end of his tale, they had been interrupting each other to give him every detail from the months the girl and her family had stayed with them.

They even let him search the small back room where he had found a small blue seashell, a strip of blue cloth, and some hairs.

Apparently the girl had said they were going up river to the town of Sennant, or that they might return to Botaros. Tayre thought neither of these very likely, so he would follow their trail instead, take it as far as it led.

And the girl — how far into the future could she see? How clearly? If he decided to track them back to Botaros, then changed his mind and went to Sennant, would she foresee the one path, then the other, or only the final outcome?

Did she see potential paths, or only the one eventually taken?

It was clear that she was far from infallible. She might foresee well enough into the next few moments, when she thought her life depended on it, but perhaps that was all she could do. He had seen it before, people exhibiting exceptional abilities when faced with death.

But clearly she had limitations, or he would not have found her at all.

Still, he must rethink how to capture her. In the middle of his thwarted forest pursuit it, occurred to him that a sufficient number of capable men under his command might be able to surround her. Every arrow ready to fly could remove an avenue of escape.

But after watching her move and twist and drop to evade, he realized it would take a good many practitioners, nearly as skilled as he was, acting in concert, to accomplish this. An unlikely gathering at best.

With enough soldiers he might conceivably overwhelm her with sheer numbers, flanking and surrounding, but he suspected that would take hundreds.

Not out of the question if Innel rose to power as he clearly intended to, but for the moment, beyond any available resources.

And might she foresee such imminent, mortal danger far enough ahead to circumvent even hundreds of multipronged attacks? However carefully he set such a trap, might she simply avoid it by prediction?

Maybe. Maybe not. He did not yet understand the girl or her ability. He would need to study her.

First he would need to find her. Again.

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 28

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 28

Chapter 14

“Leebrick, do you see them?” Alex Mackay murmured into the walkie-talkie.

“I do. They’re coming right toward me and Stephen. We’ll have them in full view when they get to the bend.” Leebrick’s voice had the calm-but-tense air that all professional soldiers got with action in view. “Have I mentioned how much I love these things?” he added.

“Repeatedly, and no more than I do,” Alex said, grinning. Being able to communicate instantly, undetectably and reliably across hundreds of yards with no line of sight? Professional soldier heaven, as far as he was concerned. The Ring of Fire could have brought nothing else back at all and he’d have been satisfied with the matter of radio alone. Of course, for him to be happy it had to bring him a wife —

“Tell him to marry the thing,” Julie said, fussing at her scope with a cloth. “Gonna have to go to iron sights, I think, this drizzle’s not agreeing with the scope. Wind’s shifted into our faces and we don’t got enough shelter to keep the lens dry.”

“I’ve the case for it here,” Alex said, passing it over and elbowing up on the tarp they’d spread to peer out from under the hedge they were using for a hide. Waterproof, lightweight tarps. Och, you could keep your internal combustion engines for another day, dry above and below in this weather? Marvellous. Of course, they had to poke their faces out at the enemy and that meant a little cool, refreshing rain on those faces. Quite pleasant, actually. But even the superb optics Julie had brought back from the twentieth century had their limits and shooting in the wet was one of them. A proper hide would have solved that handily, but they had neither time nor reason to build one, and it would have had to be deep to keep out the swirling drizzle of this otherwise-mild English summer morning. It would be glorious sunshine by eleven, but right now it was two hundred yards, if that, of swirling grey shite. His binoculars and spotting scope were handling it fine, but he didn’t need to pick up precise detail with those. Didn’t need them at all for all the ranges he could actually bloody see, come to that.

Naturally, whoever this was coming down the road from St. Ives had picked this moment to show up. Julie, who was working rapidly but carefully to get all of the screws on her scope rings loosened — and re-zeroing the thing was going to be a tedious bastard of a job — muttered “the enemy shows up at one of two times…”

“When he’s ready and when you’re not,” Alex capped the quotation. “It’s like you read ma’ mind, love.” One of his old regimental lads, one of the ones who’d studied for his literacy certificate, the one they all called their ticket of letters, had come across “Murphy’s Laws of Combat” that someone in Grantville had saved from the internet of mystery and legend. Not a single professional soldier who’d heard the thing hadn’t laughed himself puking over the thing, and Alex could quote the bloody lot. He’d seen at least half of them happen with his own eyes, and knew some old sweats who’d let on that the whole thing was nothing but flowery optimism.

Mirth didn’t distract him, though, and he kept watching. “Leebrick, is that someone coming oot frae the Hall?”

“Yes,” came the response, “And he’s armed.”

“Shite,” Alex murmured. “I’ll no’ hurry ye, love, but I think someone’s about t’be very, very stupid up at the hall.” There were four of the presumed enemy moving up the lane; they’d passed Alex and Julie’s position entirely oblivious. Towson and Welch had spotted them first, from the spot they’d taken in a couple of trees, with the other two pair of binoculars they had. They were the two who’d actually met their presumed enemy. At least one of the mounted foursome they could see looked familiar. They’d been spotted coming up the lane, it seemed, and someone from the Hall had wandered out to the road. Slepe Hall wasn’t one of those manor houses with a long drive, but stood about twenty yards back from the road. It wouldn’t take much of a watch to be kept to see someone coming. Some oldish fellow, probably one of the house servants, had wandered out, with what looked like a middling-length fowling-piece under his rain-cape, the lock tucked away dry and a plug of rags keeping the charge at least in the barrel if it slipped out from where it was wadded. Not, when all was said and done, a particularly unusual thing to do, and in fact with a river full of ducks less than half a mile away, there was every possibility he’d picked just that moment to go out and administer a hearty dose of birdshot to today’s lunch. From the size of the thing, probably a couple of meals over the next couple of days while he was about it. The fact that he had a dog with him, plainly pleased to be off out with master, might have suggested as much. Of course, with four out-and-out scunners coming up the lane, doubtless armed to the teeth and expecting trouble, carrying a fowling-gun was not going to help.

“Working as fast as I can, here, honey,” Julie said, through gritted teeth.

“I ken richt enow, love,” Alex said, easing his .45 up to where he could grab it for the fifty-yard charge he’d need to get amongst the bastards. “It’s only that circumstances are conspirin’ good an’ quick, here.”

“One word and we’re at ’em,” Leebrick’s voice came from the radio speaker. Leebrick and Hamilton were closer. Alex was where he could cut them off. Towson and Welch were out of the fight — by the time they got out of those trees, it’d all be over one way or the other.

“Wait until you see me close enough,” Alex replied to Leebrick. “I’ve more experience with a modern pistol than either of you two. Charge the back o’ ’em when I’ve fixed their attention firmly to the front.” A quick check of sword and pistol. “Have my back, love, I’ll stay to the left o’ the road.”

“Gotcha,” Julie said, a little distantly as she got her rifle back into battery and began picking aiming marks for iron sights. They’d paced the road in the half-light of dawn, and noted clumps of flowers, easily-spotted rocks and so on. With that much preparation and over these ranges, Alex knew he was tits on a bull as a spotter, and stayed with Julie for her close protection. His wife was lethal past fifty yards. Inside that, there wasn’t a man to touch a Mackay with his blood up. Ahead the foursome had turned on to the flinted forecourt to the front of Slepe Hall, and looked like they were talking to the old fellow. If there was to be trouble, it would be starting soon, so he eased himself out from under the tarp and began feeling under the hedge. It took half a minute or so, during which time he had no idea what was going on at the hall, but time enough to look again when he got up.

He was halfway to his feet when the first shot punched a shot of lightning through his veins and propelled him five yards down the road with barely a thought in his head.

“Clear my shot!” came a sharp yell from behind him and he jinked hard left. They’d picked a spot on a slow right-hand bend that gave Julie a good view of the Hall; as long as he kept to the outside of the bend he’d only be obscuring hedge.

He dropped back from the sprint, taking it at a fast walk. A second shot. Heavy pistols; dragoons? The smoke cloud about the front of the hall was thick and probably reeking. Cheap powder, at that, and Mackay had already grown used to smokeless. Swift check of pistol, left hand, ready to fire. Sabre, check, even though he’d no memory of bringing the weapon to hand. As natural as breathing to fill his right hand with steel.

The drizzle washed some of the smoke away and a puff of breeze did for the rest. The old man was on his knees, clutching at his belly, or possibly one of his legs, it was hard to tell. Alex’s heart sank. They’d shot the puir bloody dug. There were some things that just were. Just. Not. On.

Julie had seen too. One of the riders jerked upright in his stirrups, back arched and a heavy pistol — dragoon, yes — flew from his hand. The puff of blood from the front of his chest washed out almost immediately in the drizzle. Almost as an afterthought Alex was conscious of the sound of the round passing him and the muzzle report from behind. ‘At’s ma girl, he thought, with a grin.

Time enough for three more brisk paces, his breathing falling into a nice, steady cadence, and another shot. A second saddle emptied, this time the shot going high and to the left, taking the side of the bastard’s head clean off. Alex hoped that was the one that’d shot the dog.

Not breaking stride, he barked over his shoulder, “Prisoners!” Julie would get the idea. He’d want to take one of them no more seriously wounded than he had to be, and two-for-one odds with their morale already shot? Difficult, but he could manage the business. Besides, all he had to do was hold them while Stephen and Kit caught up from the other side. Stephen had brought a quarter-staff, really only the pole of his halberd with the blade taken off, and a little singlestick practise against him with it had Mackay entirely happy the man knew what he was doing with it.