Eric Flint's Blog, page 275

Sanctuary – Snippet 12

Sanctuary – Snippet 12

Njekwa hesitated. She had to be careful here, she realized. Young adherents tended to get impatient with the necessary caution their situation required. Some of them — but many, no, but the number might grow — were becoming contentious.

Two had gone so far as to seek refuge with the Kororo in the mountains. Njekwa was afraid others would follow, now that Zilikazi was marching on the Krek. You’d think any Liskash with half a brain would realize that fleeing to the Kororo right when Zilikazi planned to destroy them was sheer folly.

But youth was prone to folly. She had been herself — just a bit — at Zuluku’s age.

Best to deflect the matter, she decided. She could shield herself easily enough, and if a young adherent to the Old Faith fell foul of their noble lord, so be it.

“I saw nothing. I know nothing,” she said, turning away. A moment later, she heard Zuluku’s departing footsteps.

She began composing herself, reaching out for serenity to Yasinta, goddess of the evening. With time and application, Njekwa could forget everything she’d just seen and heard. Well enough to sink below Zilikazi’s notice, at least.

Nurat Merav

She woke to pain. Terrible pain, on her left side below the ribs; aching pain most everywhere else.

But fear rode over the pain. Where were her kits? They were much too young to survive on their own.

Her memory was blurred. Despite the age of her kits, Nurat had left them to join the other dancers once it became clear that the Liskash threatened to overwhelm the warriors because of their noble’s mind power. She remembered bits and pieces of the battle that followed, then…

She’d been injured, obviously, but she didn’t remember how or when. Her last memories were of stumbling — often crawling — back to the place in the camp where she’d left Naftal and Fen.

The great relief when she’d found them, still quite unharmed even if they were squalling because she’d abandoned them while nursing.

Then…

Nothing.

She pressed down on the injury and was surprised to encounter bandages. Thick ones, even if they were crusted with blood — but the blood seemed to have dried. And the bandages were well placed and tightened by a cinch around her waist.

Who had put them there? She certainly hadn’t. The best she’d managed was a crude poultice that she had to keep in place with one of her own hands.

She looked around. She seemed to be in some kind of tent. But it was of no design she recognized. The frame was a circular lattice over which were stretched hide walls. All of it was covered with a dome made of thinner wood strips which supported some sort of felt. There seemed to be a thick lacquer spread over all the roof’s surface.

She tried to picture what the structure would look like from the outside, and almost instantly realized that she was looking at a Liskash yurt. She hadn’t recognized it for what it was immediately because the interior had none of the decorations that would adorn the exterior. If “adorn” could be used to describe garish colors that usually clashed with each other.

She was a captive, then. And soon would become a slave, once the noble who lorded it over these Liskash turned his attention to her.

A Liskash female came through an opening in the yurt which she hadn’t spotted. The opening wasn’t a door, just a place where two hides overlapped. She thought the female was quite young.

The hide flaps moved again, and another female came into the yurt. Then, still another.

Three of them, and all young. They were staring down at her intently. What did they want?

She tried to remember the few words of Liskash she knew. Or rather, the few words of the tongue spoken by the Liskash who’d lived in the lowlands near when her tribe had once lived. She had no idea if these Liskash spoke the same language. Mrem dialects — at least, on this side of the newly formed great sea — were all are related, many of them quite closely. But the Liskash had lived here for… ages. No one knew how long. She’d heard that their languages could be completely different from each other.

Before she could utter more than a couple of halting syllables, however, the second Liskash to enter the yurt spoke to her. In an Mrem dialect that was not her own but was still mostly comprehensible.

“What you <garble something>.” Nurat wasn’t sure, but she though that last word might be a slurred version of “name.” And there had seemed to be an interrogative lilt at the end of the short sentence.

Acting on that assumption, she said: “Nurat Merav. What is your name?”

Liskash expressions were unfamiliar to her, but she suspected the stiff-seeming appearance of the creature’s face was the Liskash version of a frown.

“You mean my <garble something which sounded like the same word>? That was definitely a question.

“My <slurred version of ‘name’> is Zuluku,” the Liskash continued.

Naftal mewled softly. Fen did the same.

“Quiet must!” the Liskash hissed, softly but urgently. “Very must!”

The three young Liskash females stared at the yurt entrance. They seemed tense and agitated.

Nurat didn’t understand what was bothering them so much, but it was clear they felt the kits had to be kept silent. She saw no reason to argue the matter; and, besides, the kits were hungry. So she began nursing them.

After a while, the Liskash seemed to relax. The one who called herself Zuluku turned away from the entrance and stared down at Nurat.

“Why are you doing this?” Nurat asked.

But no answer came. Perhaps the Liskash had not understood the question.

Zuluku

In fact, Zuluku had not understood the question, although she’d recognized most of the words. But even if she had, she would have found it difficult to answer.

Perhaps even impossible. She did not clearly understand herself why she was hiding the wounded barbarian. Part of her motive was certainly her sense of khaazik. But only part of it. Khaazik was not something that normally moved people to acts of daring, after all.

Most of all, she was driven by deep frustration. At every turn and in every way, her spiritual urges were stymied and suffocated. As a youngster, she’d once heard a Kororo missionary speak to a secret gathering of Old Faith adherents. She had understood very little of what the Kororo had said — almost nothing, being honest — but she’d never forgotten the missionary’s sense of sure purpose.

She’d dreamed of that purpose ever since, and gathered around her other young Old Faith adherents who shared her dissatisfaction. None of them had any clearer idea than she did of what their goals should be. They simply felt, in an inchoate way, that they should have some goals that went beyond the never-ending passivity of their religious superiors.

Njekwa seemed to have no goal beyond survival. They wanted more.

In the end, perhaps, they sheltered the badly wounded Mrem and her kits simply because they’d finally found something they could do.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 11

Sanctuary – Snippet 11

Chapter 5

Zilikazi

The third day of the march began late in the morning. Zilikazi would have preferred to begin sooner, as he had done the first two days, but practical reality dictated otherwise. They had entered the foothills by the middle of the afternoon the day before, and the temperature had dropped noticeably. If he ordered his soldiers to begin marching too soon, before they’d been able to soak up some heat from the rising sun, they would be sluggish. The huge train of camp followers who brought up the rear would be even worse, and not even a noble of Zilikazi’s power could override the ties between his army and their camp followers. Mates, children, the elderly — no matter how fiercely Zilikazi lashed his soldiers’ minds, they would resist simply leaving their folk behind. Not openly, of course; but resistance could take the more subtle form of lethargic incompetence. The soldiers would be taking two steps sidewise and one step back for every four steps forward.

Besides, he didn’t want his soldiers unready in case combat erupted. Zilikazi wasn’t expecting to encounter any armed resistance yet, but it was hard to predict the behavior of religious fanatics. If the leaders of the Kororo Krek had any sense of military tactics, they’d wait until Zilikazi’s much larger and more powerful force was well into the mountains. The terrain would then favor the defenders. Even such a crude and simple tactic as rolling large stones down the slopes would cause casualties.

But who could be sure what the Kororo would do? From what little Zilikazi had been able to glean from the babble of the one he’d had tortured, the Krek’s beliefs bordered on outright insanity.

Like all nobles, Zilikazi had little interest in the elaborate theology of the Old Faith. Whatever power the old gods might have possessed had mostly been superseded by the power of the newly-risen nobility. That those decrepit ancient deities still lurked about somewhere, Zilikazi didn’t doubt, but they mattered very little any more.

That said, he didn’t have any reason to question their nature. First, they were beings, with personal identities — names, genders, personalities. Zilikazi was dubious of some of the specific claims made by the priestesses. The sun deity Huwute, for instance, was almost certainly not female. Only a male god could shine so brightly.

But the errors and biases of the priestesses of the Old Faith were pallid compared to the ravings of the Kororo.

No deities at all, just abstractions given names? Mere facets of a greater and mysterious so-called “godhead”?

Preposterous.

The Kororo didn’t even have proper priestesses and shamans — or even priests. Their religious leaders were called “tekkutu.” So far as Zilikazi had been able to determine, the term meant “adepts of tekku.” Apparently, this so-called “tekku” referred to some sort of mental power over animals.

That such a power might exist was plausible enough. As children, members of the nobility often played with manipulating the minds of animals. But the intrinsic limits of that activity soon made it pall. Most animals simply didn’t have enough brains to make controlling them useful. If you tried to force one to open a gate by lifting the latch with a foreleg — assuming the beast was big enough to manage the task at all — it would fumble it, at best. More often than not, the beast’s mind would simply shut down under the pressure.

Unless they were predators, especially large ones. Those would resist fiercely and usually successfully. Some would even attack the noble who tried to force his will upon them.

And this fragile mental activity was the source of a Kororo tekkutu’s power?

Preposterous.

The Kororo fortifications might be a bit of a problem. They were reputed to be quite strong, in a primitive sort of way. The terrain would certainly be a nuisance. But the end result was not in doubt. Zilikazi estimated it would take him no more than a month to crush the mystics.

Njekwa

The slaughter of the Mrem too badly injured to move on their own or with minor assistance took place at noon. By then, the able-bodied Mrem had already been sent about their slave chores and duties, so there were few around to put up any resistance, and all of those were also injured.

The task was done quickly, efficiently, and with a minimum of fuss, the way Zilikazi’s well-trained soldiers went about such things. There weren’t really that many badly injured Mrem left by then, anyway. Days had passed since the battle where they received their wounds, and the majority of the wounded had either started to recover or had already died.

Njekwa and the other priestesses and shamans made it a point not to be present at the killing. They raised no public objection, of course. To have done so would have brought the noble lord’s wrath down upon them. But the savagery of the deed fit poorly with the precepts of the Old Faith, and none of its practitioners wanted to be in the vicinity when it happened.

The issue wasn’t so much one of mercy. Liskash understood the concept, although it figured less prominently in their moral codes than it did (at some times and in some circumstances) for the Mrem. But the Old Faith did place a great premium on khaazik, the general principle that harm should be kept to the minimum necessary. Killing those who had no chance of survival was acceptable; indeed, in some situations, a positive good. On the other hand, killing creatures, especially sentient ones, for no greater purpose than to avoid minor inconvenience went against khaazik.

Duzhikaa, it was called, which translated roughly as trespass-upon-observance. As misbehavior went, it was not as severe as outright criminality, but it was still frowned upon. Severely so, if the misdeed came to the attention of Morushken, goddess of thrift.

But it was in the very nature of Morushken to appreciate all manner of thrift — such as the thriftiness of a high priestess who sheltered her adherents from avoidable punishment. Njekwa was quite sure the goddess would look away, so long as she and the other priestesses and the shamans stayed out of sight and sound of the killing.

****

Unfortunately, as it turned out, some of her adherents were unclear on the nature of thrift. Youngsters were particularly prone to that error — and especially the one who came before her with two Mrem kits hidden in her basket. This was not the first time Zuluku had been a problem.

“There is no need to kill them,” Zuluku insisted. “It was their dam who was badly hurt, not they.”

Njekwa looked down at the tiny creatures in the basket. “They are still suckling age, and will be for some time. I think.” She wasn’t sure how long, because she didn’t know that much about the barbarian mammals.

But it didn’t matter. A few days would be too long. Newborns of any advanced species required constant feeding.

“They’re mammals, Zuluku. Without their dam and her milk, they’ll die soon anyway.”

The young female looked away, her expression seeming a bit…

Furtive?

The dam is still alive also — and this young idiot is hiding her!

Njekwa started to say something. She wasn’t sure what, except that it would be harshly condemnatory. But then Zuluku looked back at her with a new expression. A very stubborn one.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 10

Sanctuary – Snippet 10

She wasn’t sure what he was doing, in any way she could have put into words. But as she continued the dance, she knew. She had perhaps never been closer to any person than she was in this moment to Sebetwe the Liskash.

She danced, and danced, and knew that Dakotsi danced to her left and Mareko to her right. All the tales placed the goddess of wonder and the god of caprice in tandem at such times.

Chefer Kolkin

Chefer Kolkin had recovered enough to be able to follow what was happening. More or less, from the outside. He had no sense of the complex weaving of minds that was transpiring between the still, kneeling Liskash and the whirling Mrem dancer. But he could see that — somehow — the Liskash was controlling the fearsome monster that had almost killed him. And he could see that — somehow — Achia Pazik was aiding and supporting the Liskash in its effort.

“What does she think she’s doing?” hissed Tsede Zeg. But it was a soft hiss, almost a whisper. “Is she crazy?”

“Be silent,” Chefer Kolkin commanded. The younger warrior obeyed. On this level, Chefer Kolkin’s authority was paramount.

Nabliz

Further up the slope, in the nest, Nabliz was as puzzled as the Mrem warrior below. He’d expected the effort to control two gantrak hatchlings to be enormous; quite possibly more than he could manage. Even as small as they were — small compared to their parent; each of them still weighed a third as much as Nabliz — and caught in the snares, they were gantrak. Ferocity incarnate. There were larger land predators, but none who would willingly face a gantrak in direct struggle.

And, indeed, so it had been at the beginning. But then, something… happened.

Nabliz had no idea what it was, except that it coincided with the cessation of the noises of fighting coming from down the mountainside. The adult gantrak’s screams of fury had died, of a sudden. Thereafter — silence.

That silence was echoed, as it were, up in the nest. The hatchlings had ceased their own screeching and thrashing. Within a few moments, they’d become almost listless, as if they were half asleep.

Nabliz was pleased by the change, of course. Pleased and relieved. But some part of him worried all the more. Whatever else, the gantrak hatchlings had been a known quantity.

What was happening?

Sebetwe

Finally, it was done. The gantrak rolled onto its back, exposing its belly. Its underside was not exactly unarmored, given the toughness of the monster’s hide. But it was covered with none of the spines and plates that made so much of its body almost impenetrable by any hand-held weapon.

By now, Sebetwe knew enough of the creature’s instincts to make the appropriate response. He leaned over, placed his palm on the gantrak’s belly, and then leaned on it with all his weight.

But only for a moment. This was no pet to be stroked! That one brief but firm touch was enough to close the surrender reflex cycle. Henceforth, the gantrak would be submissive to him.

Not docile, though. Docility was simply not in the nature of a gantrak. But the predator had accepted Sebetwe as his superior.

Might it be possible to actually tame the creature? No adult gantrak had ever been tamed by Liskash. For that matter, Sebetwe knew of only one instance in which an adult gantrak had even been captured alive — and that had been an instant in more senses than one. Within a short time, the monster’s captors had been forced to kill it before it managed to break loose from its bonds.

It was hard enough to tame gantrak hatchlings. More than half of those had to be killed also.

But if it could be done…

The power and force of the great predator’s spirit, if it could be tapped by a Liskash adept, would be of tremendous assistance against Zilikazi’s mental power. It still wouldn’t be enough to beat down the noble — Zilikazi’s strength was incredible — but it would be enough to fend him off for a time. Perhaps quite a bit of time.

He decided it was worth trying. Provided…

He rose to his feet and turned to the Mrem whose dancing had given him such acuity, in some way that he still couldn’t fathom but knew to be true, as surely as he knew anything.

The only way to tame the gantrak would be with the Mrem’s continued assistance. Sebetwe had no idea how to persuade the Mrem to do so — even if he knew how to speak its language.

Which he didn’t. He knew none of the Mrem tongues. There were said to be dozens of them. Apparently, their mammalian quarrelsomeness extended to speech also.

But to his surprise — certainly his relief — the Mrem spoke in his own language. Even with the dialect of the Krek!

Achia Pazik

Somehow or other — she understood this no better than anything else — Achia Pazik had learned the Liskash’s language during the dance. Quite well, in fact, even if she didn’t think she was fluent.

“I am Achia Pazik. And you are Sebetwe, I believe. Of the Kororo… I’m not sure if a ‘Krek’ is a tribe. But I know you are enemies of Zilikazi.”

The Liskash stared at her. “How did you know my name? And the Krek is a creed, not a tribe. All may join, no matter their origin. And, yes, Zilikazi is our enemy. Our greatest enemy.”

No matter their origin…

She was pretty sure that sweeping statement had never been intended to included Mrem. But…

It was worth trying. As bizarre as taking shelter among Liskash might be, they needed to take shelter somewhere. On their own, as few of them as there were, running through the wilderness, half of them would be dead before much longer, even if Zilikazi didn’t catch up with them.

She was not so naïve as to believe that the enemy of her enemy was necessarily her friend. But, for the moment, she’d accept a simple lack of enmity. They managed so much right here on a mountainside, fighting together against a monster. Who was to say they couldn’t manage as much fighting side by side against a much greater monster?

“I learned your name — as I learned to speak your language — when our minds intertwined against the gantrak. Now, Sebetwe, I have a proposal.”

****

After Sebetwe accepted, she explained the situation to the others.

“You’re crazy!” exclaimed the Zeg brothers, speaking as one.

“Be silent,” Chefer Kolkin commanded. “Achia Pazik is our leader. She decides.”

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 09

Sanctuary – Snippet 09

Chapter 4

Achia Pazik

When she reached the open space where the ledge widened, Achia Pazik was frozen for a moment by the bizarre scene in front of her. To her left, now pressed against the side of the mountain in a half-supine position, was Chefer Kolkin. The warrior was being tended by Puah Neff and Zuel Babic. He seemed shaken and perhaps dazed, but she could see no blood or open wounds on him.

In front of those Mrem crouched the Zeg brothers, their spears leveled at an incredible monster. But the creature was paying them no attention at all — neither them nor the badly injured Liskash lying unconscious on the ground. Instead, the huge predator’s attention was fixed entirely on a smaller Liskash kneeling not more than two arm’s-lengths away.

Who, for its past — most bizarre sight of all — was doing nothing more than peering intently at the monster. The Liskash not only had no weapons in its hands, the hands themselves were simply pressed flat to the ground. Its pose was not even one of preparation for sudden flight. More like…

A pose of prayer, almost. Except that was insane.

What was the Liskash doing?

Suddenly, she sensed something familiar. The kneeling Liskash was emanating — if that was the proper term; the power’s nature was unclear to Mrem — the same sort of mental aura that Zilikazi had used to destroy her tribe.

Except… not really. The aura was quite different in some ways. That it was some sort of mental force was certain. But it had very little if any of the sheer will that had suffused Zilikazi’s power. It seemed more like…

She had to grope for a moment before she found the analogy. And then she couldn’t help but choke out a half-laugh, half-cry of surprise.

The Liskash was trying to coax the monster! Yes! Just as you might try to inveigle a nervous and wary pet to let itself be stroked.

Achia Pazik would never have imagined such a thing was possible. And…

After a few moments, she realized that the Liskash was not succeeding in its purpose. The monster was growing restive, its narrow but fierce mind chafing at the restraints being placed upon it.

And if it got loose, it was likely to kill or at least injure more than just the two Liskash before it was finally brought down.

But if she ordered the Zeg brothers to attack, the monster was sure to break free of whatever strange binds the Liskash had placed upon it. At which point anything might happen. The creature was certainly more likely to go after its assailants than the Liskash.

As she’d been wrestling with this immediate quandary, a thought that had been congealing elsewhere in her mind suddenly came into clear focus.

Whatever powers the kneeling Liskash was trying to wield, she now realized that they actually had little in common with the forces Zilikazi had controlled. Instead, oddly, they reminded her more of the mental aura that she and other dancers created in their war dance — which was not a “force” so much as a shield. And not a shield deployed in a way that stops a blow directly, but rather deflects it.

Confuses the blow, befuddles the blow.

Again, she choked down a half-laugh. You could even say, seduces the blow!

Without thinking about it, she’d come to her feet and began the first shuffling steps.

This was madness! Yet…

Who could say? All of these powers were mysterious and poorly understood.

Within seconds, she was into the full rhythm of the dance.

Why not?

Sebetwe

Sebetwe had begun to despair when he felt a sudden surge of strength.

No — not strength, so much as a heightened awareness, a better and more acute grasp of the way the gantrak’s mind worked. It was as if he could suddenly understand a language that had formerly been nothing but a half-meaningless argot.

His new understanding was not fluent, but good enough that he could insinuate himself — his mind, his spirit, who knew what it was, exactly? — into the creature’s mind and quell its growing fury.

Again, he had to qualify. He was not quelling the fury so much as he was undermining it. He was persuading the animal that he was neither prey nor enemy, and doing so in the ancient manner common to most predators — by triggering its surrender reflex.

Most predatory species fight amongst themselves, but rarely do those fights result in death or even severe injuries. At a certain point, the animal that felt itself losing would submit to its opponent; who, for its part, would accept the submission and leave off any further battle.

So too, here and now. Steadily, inexorably — Sebetwe had never felt this sure of himself, this filled with mental acuity so great it transcended normal notions of power — he was bringing the monster to an acceptance that it had fought — fought well; fought furiously — but was simply overmatched.

Where this new capacity had come from, he did not know. He was far too preoccupied with the needs of the moment to even give the matter much thought, beyond a passing wonder. The gantrak was on the verge of surrendering, but Sebetwe could still lose the contest if he fumbled even the least because he was distracted.

Achia Pazik

The dancer understood the Liskash better than the Liskash understood itself.

No, himself. By now, and in her own very different way, Achia Pazik had penetrated the thing’s mind.

His spirit, rather. She could grasp no precise concepts, no clear ideas, nothing that could be given a name. Except, perhaps oddly, the thing’s own name. The Liskash called himself Sebetwe.

She was coming to know the Liskash also, far better than she would have ever thought it possible for an Mrem to understand such a creature.

No creature, now. Such a person.

There was great skill here, subtle skill — even sly skill. In its own fashion, Sebetwe’s power was as fearsome as Zilikazi’s. But it simply couldn’t be applied the same way. Sebetwe’s method was based on intuition, understanding — recognition. One being shaping another’s purpose not by forcing its will upon it but by persuasion.

The form of that persuasion was crude, of course, working with the mind — such as it was — of a savage predator. Achia Pazik did not think it would or could work the same way if applied to an intelligent mind. Sebetwe was not causing the gantrak — from somewhere, that name had come to her also — to hallucinate. He was not tricking the monster into thinking that Sebetwe himself was an even greater one of the same kind. Rather, he was…

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 53

This book should be available now, so this is the last snippet.

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 53

#

Allenson stayed with the catapults until the men’s nerves settled then he and Hawthorn departed with the shift change as planned. He slept like a log that night and most of the rest of the next morning. After a substantial brunch, he felt almost human.

A note from Ling awaited him on his datapad inviting General and Lady Allenson to dine at his villa outside Oxford. Allenson was tempted to refuse citing the work that had built up in his absence but, in truth Trina, Todd and his staff had handled most of it already. The rest would keep. Trina had taught him the importance of seemingly pointless social conventions. If Ling wanted to meet privately in an informal setting, it probably indicated that he wished to convey some informal message. That evening Allenson and Trina duly set out in their finery in a tolerably functional frame carriage that Boswell had scrounged from somewhere.

Boswell had been vague about the carriage’s provenance and Allenson thought it best not to enquire too closely. He strongly suspected that somewhere in Oxford was a garage with an insecure lock, a lock that may or may not have been insecure before Boswell discovered it.

Ling lived in a small comfortable home on the outskirts of a village that served the local agricultural community. His villa looked as if it had been converted from a farmhouse since it was structured around a central two story building with bedrooms on the top floor above functional rooms at ground level.

A one-story wing at right angles to the main structure may once have served for animal husbandry and equipment storage. Now it made a pleasant suite for guests and entertainment. A low wall from wing to building enclosed a triangular frame park and small formal garden. Allenson suspected that the wall had once been much higher. What remained was far too substantial to be a mere ornament. He also noticed that none of the buildings had ground floor windows onto the outside.

In less settled times the farmhouse would have doubled as a castle. Now it was a gentleman’s residence.

A log fire warmed the interior of the dining room. The meal commenced after the usual convention of welcoming drinks in front of the flickering flames.

Ling’s wife, Alphena, was a willowy lady who overtopped her husband by at least ten centimeters although she wore flat heeled shoes to disguise the height differential. She said little through the formal dinner but listened intently.

After they dinner, Ling escorted Trina into the formal garden beside his villa to show her some exotic blooms he had been cultivating in controlled environment greenhouses. Allenson was left alone with Alphena. They settled into comfortable chairs and Alphena kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under.

“Bring us some tea, Lily,” she instructed the maid who appeared to be the only servant in the house.

Allenson wondered what the purpose was behind the evening, pleasant though it was. Chiefs of Staff commonly invited their commanders to dinner but the way he had been separated from Trina seemed a little contrived. Trina had clearly thought so too as she indicated by a raised eye-brow to Allenson when Ling ushered her out. Allenson had expected the ladies to retire leaving him alone with Ling. Clearly this conversation was to be very informal.

Alphena made small talk about the price of tea and the merits of various suppliers until the maid left the room. That was unusual in itself. Normally the maid stood unobtrusively against one of the walls in case further service was required. She had obviously been given prior instructions.

Allenson waited patiently making polite conversation while sipping his tea. Something sensitive was about to be touched on. Prodding the lady would not expedite matters. No doubt she would get around to the matter in her own time.

“You are not quite what I expected, general,” Alphena finally said.

“Indeed, what were you anticipating?” Allenson asked.

Alphena smiled.

“I’m not sure. Someone more…” she paused, selecting her next words carefully, “…authoritarian and ambitious perhaps. Someone more interested in politics and less involved with his family and farm.”

“We call them demesnes,” Allenson said.

He smiled, “Although they are just farms albeit on a large scale.”

“That’s it exactly, that self-deprecating humor. That was not what I expected.”

“I’m afraid that I’m poor martinet material,” Allenson replied.

“Yes,” Alphena said seriously.

There was a pause in the conversation.

“What made you imagine I might be?” Allenson eventually, asking an open-ended question to get her talking.

“You came to us with a great reputation, Sar Allenson, not just your record as a war hero but as a powerful businessman and a key player in Manzanitan and ‘Stream politics. It’s difficult to reconcile that image with the man. People who have never met you have some strange fancies.”

“Really?” Allenson replied, merely to keep the conversation going.

She chose her next words carefully, like a lawyer recalling the terms of a verbal contract.

“Many of the radicals, particularly the younger men, and some of the army officers are frustrated at the slow progress of the Assembly and their inability to come to any decision. There is talk in such quarters that we would be better off with a strong-man in charge. Someone who gets things done…”

“…and makes the frames run on time.” Allenson interrupted.

She laughed.

“Precisely!”

“And these hotheads imagine me in the role of captain-general, dictator and all-round grand supremo of the Cutter Stream?” asked Allenson, shaking his head in amusement.

Alphena looked serious.

“Put like that the idea is ridiculous to anyone who’s met you or bothered to take a close look at your decisions. You don’t act like a supremo and your actions are hardly calculated to set up a military dictatorship.”

“But there is still a problem,” Allenson said flatly.

“These’re troubled times. Many people have not met you and are too frightened or ignorant to analyze the situation logically. There are several people horrified at the idea of a military dictator for every individual who likes the idea.”

“A view I share, Lady Ling. I assure you that my only intention is to get this unpleasant business over as soon as is practical. I’m impatient to return to my demesne on Manzanita and get on with my life. My personal plans have no room for ridiculous coups.”

“I believe you, Sar Allenson, but not everyone will. Not all your enemies are on the Brasilian side. I urge you to watch your back.”

From there the conversation returned to trivial matters.

Allenson was inclined to dismiss Alphena’s warning as understandable paranoia. Everyone was nervous and inclined to see plots behind any chance remark. There would be losers whoever won the confrontation with Brasilia. Some people were going to be labelled loyal patriots and others traitors but at this stage it was not clear which was which.

#

The trooper reeled and waved a glass of plum brandy.

“Another bol, barkeep. Plum brandy, only the best for me and my mate. If it’s good enough for the bloody nobs it’s good enough for us.”

He turned to his drinking companion, waving an arm for emphasis.

“Whatdaya say your name was again?”

“You don’t like nobs much then,” said his companion, deftly putting out an arm to steady the drunken trooper before his expansive gesture caused him to overbalance.

The bartender opened a fresh bottle of branded plum brandy and poured the first glass. The drunk tossed a Brasilian twenty crown onto the bar. He used far too much force so the coin skated off the other side. The barmen, who was used to dealing with drunks, caught it one handed.

“Keepsh the change, my good man,” said the drunk waving his hand in what he clearly fondly imagined was a display of liberality to the lower orders.

The barman examined the coin carefully. In his considerable experience drunken troopers rarely owned twenty crown pieces let alone threw them around. The coin must have passed the barman’s expert scrutiny because he put it in the till.

“You don’t like nobs,” repeated the drunk’s companion.

“Feckin’ Manzanitan snobs,” the drunk said, reflectively. “Come here to a civilized world like some cock o’ the walk. Captain of Militia I was, properly ‘lected by my peers.”

He thrust his chin out and raised his voice.

“Wasnae good enough for Him though was I. Busted me he did for being more popular with my men than he was.”

“Bloody liberty,” said his companion, raising his refilled glass to his lips.

An observant person might have noted that the level in the glass had not perceptibly changed when he set it back down on the bar. The drunk was far too deep in his cups for such levels of perception.

“Liberty, yeah, liberty’s coming mate,” said the drunk. “Feckin’ snob’s turn will come. Gonna be a reckoning though or my names not Prat.”

“A reckoning! What are you going to do?”

The drunk tapped his nose conspiratorially.

“Wait and see, mate, wait and see. Gonna be a reckoning soon. Whatya say your name was again?”

His companion looked at something over the drunk’s shoulder.

“Kemp, my name is Kemp,” his companion said.

“This the man,” drawled an upper class voice from behind the drunk.

“Yes, gov, he’s come into money suddenly and been making threats against the boss.”

The drunk frowned, his fuddled brain processing the information slowly that a third party had joined the conversation. When it did, he turned.

“You’re a feckin’ snob as well.”

The drunk threw a sudden swinging punch. Hawthorn leaned his head back three inches so the blow expended on empty air. This time Kemp made no effort to effect a catch so the drunk crashed to the floor.

Hawthorn looked down at the drunk dispassionately like a taxonomist who had discovered yet another new species of parasitic roundworm doing all the usual things one expects such creatures to do.

“Hose him down and detox him until he’s reasonably sober then we can have a little chat. You recorded the conversation?”

“Yes, gov.”

Kemp’s face showed an unusual expression. Actually any expression was unusual for Kemp.

“Something on your mind?” Hawthorn asked.

“Well, gov, you know recordings can’t be used in trials,” Kemp asked, adopting the tone one uses when a normally reliable superior appears to have overlooked the sheer bleedin’ obvious.

Kemp and the criminal justice system of the ‘Stream were old acquaintances. He had a working knowledge of court procedure that would not have disgraced a professional advocate.

“Trial?” Hawthorn asked, genuinely astonished. “This man’s not going anywhere near a court.”

#

“Good of you to see me, Jeb. I realize that you have many calls upon your time,” Trina said.

“Not at all,” Hawthorn replied.

In truth he was curious why Trina should suddenly demand his attention. They were hardly intimates so why did she want a private meeting?

“Would you care to take tea?” Hawthorn asked, politely.

“As you are busy I will get right to the point,” Trina said showing a most unnatural directness for a Manzanitan lady.

“That would probably be for the best,” Hawthorn replied, neutrally.

“I understand that you have arrested a man for threatening the life of my husband.”

Hawthorn blinked.

“Possibly you should be running security rather than me, Trina. We only picked him up a couple of hours ago. The matter is not supposed to be public knowledge. I would be curious to know your source of information.”

“Oh one hears things,” Trina replied, vaguely.

Hawthorn wondered who inside his organization was spying for her. It didn’t really matter that Trina had a pipeline into Special Security but he was concerned that he hadn’t known. It was professionally annoying and it raised the possibility that other more unfriendly principals had planted double agents on him. He resolved to have a purge. No one had yet adequately resolved the conundrum of “who will watch the watchers?”

“Was it a serious threat or just a drunken blowhard?” she asked.

Hawthorn regarded her curiously.

“I have reason to believe that we should regard it as serious.”

“Have you told Allen yet?”

“That we have made an arrest? Not yet.”

“Then don’t,” Trina said firmly.

Now she really had surprised him.

“Why ever not? He should be warned to be on his guard.”

“You will question this would-be assassin to establish who his principals are.” Trina made a statement. She hadn’t asked a question.

“Of course, my people are sobering him up and putting on the frighteners to prepare him.”

Trina nodded.

“Quite so. If you tell Allen he will insist on the matter being done by the book with a proper trial.”

“That would certainly impede my investigation,” Hawthorn said, thoughtfully.

Trina leaned forward and her eyes blazed.

“Let me make myself clear, Jeb. Some bastard is plotting to murder my husband and I want this person found and permanently neutralized by whatever means you find necessary.”

Hawthorn threw one of his dazzling innocent smiles.

“Then we are of one mind, Trina.”

He paused to reflect.

“It hadn’t occurred to me that Allen would be squeamish about this but you’re right. He’d do anything to protect his friends but would regard it as ungentlemanly to do the same for his own welfare. Sometimes I forget how bothered other people can be by abstract ideas of conscience.”

He shook his head, ever puzzled how seemingly intelligent people failed to grasp simple truths.

“You can rely on me, Trina. I will squeeze this oik like a soft fruit in a vice. I will to get to the next link in the chain and so on until I find the head of the conspiracy.”

He looked her firmly in the eyes.

“Then I will decapitate it,” he said without especial emphasis as if stating a simple fact.

Trina visibly relaxed.

“I knew I could rely on you, Jeb. I believe I will take that tea now.”

Hawthorn called in an orderly and gave the order. They made small talk while they waited for their tea to brew. Trina finally raised something that was clearly on her mind.

“You haven’t told Allen that it was me that sent you away all those years ago,” she said, somewhat diffidently. “Why is that?”

“It would upset him,” Hawthorn replied.

He grinned.

“Beside you didn’t send me away. You merely pointed out to me how much damage I was causing my friends and suggested a solution. As it happened I agreed once the matter had been explained to me. Sometimes I overlook how people react. So you see, I sent myself away.”

“I’m glad you don’t hold a grudge.”

“I make my own decisions about what I do or not do, Trina, and I blame no one but myself for the consequences.”

At that point the orderly came back and the conversation shifted to safer ground.

#

Allenson was not quite as naïve as his nearest and dearest assumed but in this case he was far too busy to notice that Trina and Hawthorn were unusually close. An urgent message summoned him to the control room in his headquarters.  He erupted from his office pulling on his jacket as he ran as warning sirens sounded all over the camp.

He burst into the control room to find Todd and Ling already present. Ling stood behind the main hologram conferring with the operators. Allenson didn’t want to distract his chief of staff so he grabbed Todd and pulled him to one side.

“What’s happening? An attack?”

“It could be, Uncle, our instruments have detected significant wash in the Continuum from a sizable inbound tonnage.”

A new hologram opened in the room showing a visual of the air above Oxford Bay. It shimmered and distorted then three large structures appeared. The picture sharpened and they clarified into ovoids with shimmering pylons that slid from red to blue as the ships turned and descended onto the Port’s hardstands.

“That’s precision navigation,” an operator said. “To dephase in formation like that right above the target is bloody impressive.”

“Brasilian Navy pilots,” said another operator. “Flying like that means they have to be regular navy.”

“Surely Port Oxford hard stands aren’t big enough or strong enough for ships of that size,” Todd said, shaking his head.

The ovoids deployed dozens of ground skids under their hulls and settled down. The hard stands weren’t nearly big enough but the ovoids landed mostly on the grass surrounds. The ships rocked gently as the skids took the weight and self-levelled when their pads pushed deep into the soil.

“Those are specialized assault ships,” Allenson said. “They can land regiments damn near anywhere reasonably flat and cost as much as a battleship. I doubt if there are more than a dozen in the whole Brasilian Navy. Why the hell are they using them here?”

“How do we fight that?” Todd asked in wonder.

“We don’t,” Allenson said bleakly.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 08

Sanctuary – Snippet 08

So were its fangs and talons.

Chefer Kolkin rose before the Liskash. That was his first mistake. The monster, which had been crouched over the Liskash and ready to tear it into pieces, immediately had its attention drawn to him.

And immediately charged him.

The charge was terrifying. Unlike any lizard Chefer Kolkin had ever encountered, of any size, this one rose on its hind legs and surged forward with its front limbs spread apart and raised, its talons ready to slash.

Or grapple. Chefer Kolkin had no idea what the beast’s fighting tactics were — and had no desire to find out. So he lunged forward with his spear, aiming below the armored chest for what he hoped was the softer and thinner hide of the monster’s belly.

His aim was true and his guess that the creature’s belly was less well protected than its chest was correct. But “less well protected” is a relative term. It was still like striking armor with his spear head. The blade penetrated only a short distance before the monster jerked its torso sideways, causing the spear to leave nothing more than a shallow cut that didn’t pierce the body chamber.

That sideways twist also unbalanced the creature, so it didn’t slam into Chefer Kolkin with the driving force that it had obviously intended. The veteran Mrem warrior was no stranger to battle and twisted his own body out of the way.

But as it passed him, the creature struck with its taloned paw, slamming into Chefer Kolkin’s left shoulder. The warrior’s own armor kept the talons from shredding the flesh beneath, but he was knocked off his feet.

On the ground, half-stunned, Chefer Kolkin saw that the monster had also stumbled and fallen. But a moment later it was back on its feet and spinning around to charge again — this time crouched on all fours, it seemed. Which was logical enough, given that Chefer Kolkin himself was sprawled flat on the ground.

The creature surged forward. Desperately, Chefer Kolkin tried to interpose his spear. But he knew he wouldn’t have time.

Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, the Liskash was there. Now standing, blood oozing over much of its body, holding a big rock in its hands. Apparently it had lost whatever weapons it once possessed.

The rock did splendidly as a substitute, though. The big Liskash threw it down with great force, striking the monster’s skull. The impact flattened the creature and seemed to daze it somewhat.

Somewhat. A sideways blow of a front limb struck the Liskash’s lower leg, tearing another gash and sending the Liskash sprawling.

By then, thankfully, the rest of the Mrem warriors had arrived. The Zeg half-brothers had their spears ready, holding the monster at bay, while Puah Neff and Zuel Babic came to Chefer Kolkin’s side and began tending to him.

The monster was coming out of its daze quickly — if it had been in one at all. Thwarted in the direction of the Mrem by the spears of the half-brothers, the creature turned its attention to the Liskash.

Who, for its part, was now all but helpless. The Liskash still seemed to be conscious, more or less, but that last wound — or simply accumulated damage and exhaustion — had left it unable to do more than feebly try to lever itself up on one arm while, with the other, it tried to find a rock with which to defend itself.

The monster crept toward it. But then, suddenly, a second Liskash interposed itself. A considerably smaller Liskash — and one who seemed to possess no weapons at all. What did it think it could do?

Sebetwe

There was no chance Sebetwe could control the gantrak, even as battered and confused as it was due to Herere’s incredible fight and the completely unforeseen intervention of the Mrem. But he thought he might be able to keep the gantrak stymied long enough for…

Whatever. Perhaps the Mrem would finish it off. Perhaps Herere could be rescued once the rest of the Liskash arrived and they could flee.

Whatever. He had no great hopes or expectations.

He tried to apply gudh. But, as he expected, it served no purpose. The great predator’s mind was simply impervious to mental bludgeoning.

And thankfully so, all things considered. If Liskash nobility could control the world’s most terrible predators with their minds, they would be even more powerful than they were. But that sort of sheer will simply didn’t work well on hunters, unless they were small or young.

So, it would rest entirely on Sebetwe’s bradda. To make things worse, he hadn’t had time to do more than the first of the needed exercises — and certainly didn’t have time now. The gantrak was less than two body lengths away and about to charge.

Sebetwe began with a spike of pure glamor, doing his best to surround himself and the recumbent Herere with an aura that would make the monster wonder — leave the creature puzzled, at the least, hopefully tinged with a bit of awe.

It was the greatest such spike he’d ever created. By far. Why? He had no idea. Perhaps it was the peril of the moment. Perhaps it was the exaltation of trying such a feat against such a creature. For all he knew, it was simply caused by the lightheadedness brought on by the rarified atmosphere.

Whatever the cause, the gantrak’s forward creep stopped immediately. The monster’s head came up. Its two forwardly-focused predator’s eyes scrutinized Sebetwe intensely. Somewhat in the manner that such creatures studied their prey, but more like…

Sebetwe’s concentration was almost disastrously broken by a laugh. But more like a possible mate is studied.

He did not want that much glamor! Again, he had to force down a laugh.

The humor swelled his self-confidence. Now, through the veil of the glamor’s aura, he began to insinuate other emotions. The key one was kinship. Gantrak were not pack hunters. But they did mate for life and spent years raising their young. That was enough, he hoped — and blessed be whatever gods and goddesses did exist and never mind what the teachings said — for the tie of kinship to take hold. Long enough, anyway, for whatever else…

Might happen. He still hadn’t given that any thought at all. Any more than he’d been able to think about Nabliz’s situation. The last he’d seen, Nabliz had been trying to control two hatchlings with a snare in each hand. Good luck with that!

The arrival of another Mrem on the open space barely registered on him at all.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 52

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 52

Chapter 17 – Cut and Thrust

Allenson’s body went into that surreal zone he thought of as combat mode. Time slowed down and consciousness narrowed like turning up the magnification on a powerful microscope.

He saw the hovercraft in intimate detail. He noticed a spot where the carbon crystal skirt had been holed and patched with a material of a slightly different shade of light grey. The vehicle engine throbbed arhythmically as it drove the rotor. A detached part of his mind speculated that one of the blades on the prop must be slightly out of balance.

The driver controlled the hovercraft from a small cabin in the center. He stretched one arm out towards the side of the cockpit. The hovercraft hit the boulder still travelling sideways at some speed and the skirt tore with a sound like ripping cloth. The subsequent deep gash was going to need more than a patch to fix.

Forewarned, the pilot managed to keep his feet but many of his passengers were not so lucky. They tumbled about the hull like children on a funfair ride. One unlucky soul shot head first out of the hovercraft in a high arc. He crashed onto the rocks and lay like a crumpled paper model.

The driver had tried to do something clever. He turned the launch at the last moment intending it to slide gently into the bank sideways so that the assault troops could get over the gunwale onto the rocks as a single group. His instincts were sound. It would have been a more effective tactic in a contested landing than debussing a few at a time over the front or exiting at the sides and having to wade through the ooze.

But it hadn’t worked.

Maybe the driver was more used to boats than hovercraft. The greater viscosity of water compared to air would have slowed a boat for a perfect stop. Maybe, he just got it wrong in the heat of the moment. No matter, the result was chaos whatever the driver had intended.

“Take them before they can regroup,” Hawthorn yelled, projecting his voice through the mask. “Follow me!”

Despite his limp Hawthorn made good time down the slime-covered rocks. He headed straight for the crippled hovercraft.  Allenson did his best to emulate but he lacked Hawthorn’s balance. The younger men overtook him. A ‘Streamer reached down and cut the throat of the Brasilian ejected from the hovercraft.

The act wasn’t nice and it wasn’t fair but it had to be done. It would be insane to leave an enemy behind them. Just because he was down now didn’t mean the soldier couldn’t get up. It wasn’t worth the risk of a knife in the back.

The first man over the side of the hovercraft stabbed at Hawthorn when he jumped down into the hull. Hawthorn deflected the Brasilian’s strike with his left arm and stabbed the man under his mask. He drove his blade brutally upwards through the victim’s neck into his skull. The Brasilian dropped back into the hovercraft. Before he hit the deck Hawthorn turned to engage another target.

Allenson slipped on some goo. He put down his left hand on the ground to recover.

Brasilians jumped out of the crippled launch only to slip and slide on the rocks. One went down on both knees. He held up a knife to scare of a large ‘Streamer who threatened him with an iron bar. The ‘Streamer swung the lever down with both hands. Muscles bulged under his jacket with the power of the blow. The Brasilian’s arm broke with an audible crack and he dropped his knife. He screamed, cradling his broken arm with his remaining hand. It was an understandable if suicidal reaction.

The ‘Streamer struck again catching the soldier’s helmet. It deformed under the blow pitching the soldier forward on his face. The ‘Streamer hit him repeatedly across the back and neck until he stopped moving.

A ‘Streamer went down from a knife thrust to the chest. Allenson tried to catch him but he was beyond help. Bloody froth bubbled on the inside of his mask. The badges on his uniform identified the stricken figure as one of Pynchon’s artillery men.

Allenson charged the artilleryman’s attacker. He mistimed his knife thrust and they crashed together. Allenson knocked the smaller man over and he rolled down the bank. One of Kemp’s men dropped on the Brasilian with both knees and thrust a knife through his mask. The man’s scream turned into a gurgle when toxic fumes filled his lungs.

A ‘Streamer threatened a Brasilian soldier with a knife to hold his attention while a comrade swung a hammer from behind. A blow to the back of the knee brought the soldier down and the two troopers fell on him like wolves. They got up covered in blood.

Allenson reached the hovercraft. Two of Kemp’s men materialized at each side to assist him over the gunwale.  This bodyguarding lark was getting bloody ridiculous.

The fight was almost over by the time he jumped into the hull. The driver held both arms outstretched hands open to show he had no weapons. He appeared to be trying to surrender.

“Too late now, chum,” said a ‘Streamer wearing a security badge.

A vicious blow knocked the pilot out of the launch. He fell into the ooze on the offside. Allenson leaned over to pull him back on board but the mud had closed over.

“Defend the guns!” Hawthorn said.

Allenson took stock.

‘Streamer casualties were mercifully light. They’d wiped out the first unit of attackers. Few wounded survived as a damaged mask meant a death sentence. A ‘Streamer lay back against a boulder clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers. He would have to look after himself as nobody had time for first aid.

Brasilians scrambled towards the artillery from the second hovercraft that had stopped to seaward. The one that had split formation to get inland behind the ‘Streamers had further to go so was still maneuvering. Climbing back up the slippery scree was easier than going down. Hawthorn’s small force soon assembled in front of the artillery modules. The enemy came on in a disorganized group.

“Stand, wait for my command,” Hawthorn said, spreading out both arms as if to physically hold his men back.

The Brasilians lost further cohesion as they ran across the rocks. They looked more like a cross country run than a military unit. The first few to reach the colonial position slowed and looked nervously behind for support.

“Get them,” Hawthorn yelled, charging forwards.

The ‘Streamers rolled over the Brasilian vanguard without breaking stride. They left a trail of broken bodies in their wake. The charge slowed as it ploughed into thicker clumps of enemy soldiers until it halted in chaotic melee. Allenson hacked and stabbed as targets crossed his path. He lost his knife when it snagged on a Brasilian’s clothing. Cursing, he picked the man up and threw him bodily at a fellow. Both Brasilians went over. He lost sight of them when he had to defend himself against an enemy stabbing at his chest.

The Brasilians melted away suddenly. One moment Allenson was surrounded by struggling figures the next there were only enemy corpses. Some of the Brasilian rearguard never got as far as the colonial position. Upon seeing how the battle was going they dropped their weapons and made a run back to their hovercraft.

A ‘Streamer whooped and started to follow. Hawthorn backhanded him head over heels.

“Nobody pursues except on my order, Kemp!”

“You heard the govnor,” Kemp said, to no one in particular.

“We walk back to the guns and we wait,” Hawthorn said.

The third party of attackers halted twenty meters from the guns. They appeared to be holding a conference. Many of the soldiers displayed a reluctance to close. The fate of the first two groups probably did nothing for their confidence. Brasilian moral probably wasn’t helped by the various obscene gestures directed at them by the rude colonials.

An officer waved his arms. Sergeants physically shoved men into a skirmish line. Then the group advanced slowly and carefully.

Hawthorn ordered a charge when the Brasilians closed to just a few meters. The ‘Streamers had their tails up. They pounded into the Brasilian line despite their fatigue, bowling over soldiers with the ferocity of their attack. Allenson’s attention focused tightly into the opponent directly in front. A shock of orange hair projected out from under his mask like tangled fibers from a particularly revolting fungus.

The soldier lunged with a knife large enough to be an ancient short sword. He feinted then slashed at Allenson’s neck.

Allenson caught the knife hand by the wrist but another Brasilian dropped his weapon and grabbed Allenson’s free arm. He hung on with both hands preventing Allenson from using his weapon.

The three of them struggled like some sort of perverted love triangle. A small Brasilian hovered nervously at the edge of the melee waiting for a safe opportunity to sneak in and stab. Allenson must have seemed a sitting duck. The small man jumped forward knife-arm outstretched. Now would have been a good time for Allenson’s minders to intervene but they had unaccountably vanished in the confusion – sod’s bloody law.

Allenson had only his own personal resources to draw on. It was not enough for him to merely push at his attackers. Something so feeble would end with a blade in his gut. He had to overpower them, to deal them such a crack that they never got to exploit the advantage of their numbers.

He dropped his knife and took a firm grip on the two men clinging to him. He reached deep within himself as if to toss a rock for the winning throw. Allenson lifted his attackers off their feet. He clapped their bodies together like a cymbal player marking the final of a particularly energetic concert.

The men bounced off each other. Allenson released his hold allowing them to drop. The little man stared at Allenson goggle eyed. He’d lost his knife. He raised both hands ineffectually as if trying to swat a fly.

Allenson was fresh out of pity. This little bastard tried to gut him like a fish thinking him helpless. Some fish. He seized the soldier by the back of his neck with his left hand and pulled him in. Putting the heel of his right hand under the man’s chin he thrust upwards with a powerful rotating motion. The scrawny neck broke with an audible crack.

Allenson looked around for his other two assailants. The one on his right lay face down with the hilt of the small man’s weapon jutting from his back. That explained where the knife had gone.

The one on the left scrabbled on his hands and knees in the process of climbing to his feet. Allenson kicked him hard in the face like a footballer making a strike for goal. The soldier rolled down the slope and disappeared.

Just for a moment Allenson was clear. He did a quick three-sixty to gauge the tactical situation. The Brasilians were brave and determined but they were soldiers. Kemp’s men were street fighting thugs. This was no place for a soldier used to wielding a laserrifle at two hundred meters. This was a brawl for men who weren’t afraid of sharp edges and who were willing to shed blood, their own or someone else’s. A fight for men who had no compunction about ganging up on an opponent and hitting him from behind, men who were willing to put the boot in, Hawthorn’s type of men.

A clang of metal against metal drew Allenson’s attention. A Brasilian officer somehow broke free of the ruck and made it to the nearest artillery piece. He swung an iron bar vigorously and there was another clang.

Allenson ran back across the slippery rocks leaping from ridge to ridge. Momentum kept him going when his fleet slipped. It was madness but he had no choice.

The Brasilian officer got in two more heavy blows. Then Allenson reached over the officer’s shoulder and ripped the mask from his face.

The officer reacted automatically by sucking in a lungful of the polluted air. He coughed and retched, gasping and twitching. Blood-flecked foam sprayed from his mouth. Appalled, Allenson tried to get the man’s mask back on. The officer panicked and fought to keep it off his face.

The man bled from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Mercifully it was quick.  Allenson struggled to avoid throwing up in his mask. That really wouldn’t be a good idea. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve while examining the equipment.

Fortunately the officer had attacked the catapult module. It might seem the most important part of the gear but it was also the strongest. It had to withstand the dynamics of throwing heavy iron balls. The beating this one received put a few dents in the casing but it seemed operational.

He had a sudden suspicion. Surely the Brasilians wouldn’t have put in such a determined attempt merely to belt the gear with iron bars? He checked the hydraulic module but found nothing so moved on to the power supply.

Taped to the side of the module was a round can with a screw top. It looked like a perfectly ordinary confectionary tin. Allenson doubted there was anything sweet inside. He dug his nails under the tape and ripped the can off the power supply. As it came free a small voice in his head chided with the words ‘trembler switch’. Oh well, too late now.

Throwing back his arm he bowled the tin as smoothly as he could out over the marsh. It plopped into the ooze creating a small crater that immediately filled with brown liquid.

The surviving ‘Streamers mopped up, slitting the throats of wounded enemies and tending to wounded comrades. There were few enough of the last.

He gestured trying to get Hawthorn’s attention, to warn him that some of the Brasilians were carrying bombs but a large bang from the swamp deluged him in stinking mud.

#

“What is it with you and mud?” Hawthorn asked, not entirely facetiously while helping to scrape Allenson off. “We dress you up in nice uniforms and you ruin them. Why can’t you just stay in your office and make fancy speeches like other generals?”

Allenson didn’t deign to answer the question.

“As I am the general, perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a situation report, colonel.”

“Certainly, sir,” Hawthorn replied, throwing a punctilious salute.

Allenson just knew that behind the mask his friend was grinning.

“One of the hovercraft got away with a few survivors. One lies wrecked as you can see and we have captured the other in full working order.”

“That will be useful as a ferry for the artillery shifts,” Allenson said. He turned to Pynchon who stood listening to the interplay between the old comrades. “What about the guns, I mean catapults.”

“Major Kiesche is checking them over.”

“Major Pynchon, I want the full battery to open up again immediately.”

“Sir…” Pynchon looked as if he was about to ask something but decided against it.

Allenson pointed to the escaped hovercraft which was making all speed back to Oxford across the bay.

“Those people will hardly admit that they fled without facing us. They will have great stories to tell of their daring and achievements that might raise hopes in the minds of the Brasilian command. I want to kill any such optimism not least because it might discourage a repeat attempt. Commence the bombardment immediately: maximum effort.”

Allenson was not required to explain his orders. Often it would not be useful to so do but he needed the enthusiastic cooperation of men like Pynchon. They were not regulars in a Homeworld army. They would perform better if they knew why he insisted on an apparently dangerous order.

“The target, sir?”

“Anything that catches your eye, Colonel Pynchon, it doesn’t really matter as long as the battery is seen to be in full operation.”

Iron balls bombarded the port, most falling once again on the syncrete apron. The odd lucky hit struck an installation. Kiesche hovered over his babies anxiously.

Allenson began to relax. A sharp twang like a shotgun fired from inside a metal drum jolted him out of his complacency. One of the thick metallic stays holding a recoiling catapult parted under tension. The cable recoiled like a cracked whip.

The stay slapped Kiesche across the head with a noise like an egg struck by a hammer. He spun around and flopped onto his front. The cable expended its final energy by smacking against the rock between Hawthorn and Allenson. It struck hard enough to break off a chip.

Allenson reached Kiesche in three giant steps and gently turned him over. The engineer’s mask had gone, worse, his face had gone. The front of his head was a bloody ruin exposing brain and skull fragments.

Allenson rose.

“That’s not your fault,” Hawthorn said.

“I know,” Allenson replied.

“That’s not even the catapult that was damaged,” Hawthorn said.

“True,” Allenson replied.

“That could have happened at any time to any of us,” Hawthorn said.

“Indeed,” Allenson replied.

The battery was still. The men had stopped firing. Allenson walked slowly and carefully over to the damaged catapult. He casually rested his foot on one of the stays.

“Recommence shooting with our two remaining machines, Major Pynchon,” he said.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 07

Sanctuary – Snippet 07

Chapter 3

Sebetwe

He was at the rim of the nest, now. On the other side of the mound of stones, the noise being made by the hatchlings was almost deafening. Glancing to his left, he saw that Nabliz was ready also.

Sebetwe couldn’t see Herere — he could have barely heard her if she were shouting, in the midst of the hatchling racket — but he would just have to assume that she was in position as well.

It would be no great matter if she weren’t. He was now sure there were only two hatchlings in the nest, which he and Nabliz could handle. Long enough for Herere to arrive and lend her assistance, anyway.

There was no point in waiting.

No point in issuing a war cry, either. Trying to shout over the screeching of the hatchlings would be an exercise in futility.

So, he just came upright and leaned over the stone rim, bringing his snare into play.

Two hatchlings, as he’d guessed. It was almost comical the way the creatures became instantly silent the moment they spotted Sebetwe. They stared up at him with their jaws agape, their eyes large and as round as such eyes could be.

His cast was perfect. The noose came down over one of the hatchling’s head, down its sinewy neck and over the slender predator’s shoulders. With a powerful wrench to his right, he brought the rope tight, pinning the young gantrak’s forelimbs to its body.

Now a wrench to the left brought the creature down. As he clambered into the nest, he saw that Nabliz’s cast had been much poorer than his. Nabliz had failed to get the noose over the shoulders of the other one. Now, he could only lift the small gantrak into the air, choking it with the rope around the neck. Unless someone came to his aid — and soon — he would kill the hatchling instead of capturing it.

Nabliz had no choice in the matter, though. Even a hatchling gantrak was dangerous if left to run wild.

But Sebetwe could spare no more than a glance at Nabliz. His own hatchling was still not subdued. He slammed the pole down and stepped on it with his foot, keeping the hatchling pinned. Then, squatting to bring himself close to the little monster — not too close; a swipe from one of those thrashing and well-taloned rear limbs could easily tear out an eye — he compressed the thing’s mind under his gudh. Within two seconds, the hatchling was completely still, paralyzed.

Being gudru had its uses, but Sebetwe was already readying his bradda. The mental exercises needed for that took some time, though, which was the reason he’d started with a crude but straightforward use of his gudh.

The exercises were mostly a matter of rote for him now, so he took a bit of time to see how Nabliz was faring.

Much better. Herere had arrived and immobilized that hatchling’s rear limbs with his own snare. Between them, she and Nabliz brought the creature down to earth. By now, the hatchling was half-suffocated and dazed. Moving deftly and quickly, Nabliz loosened his noose and slid it over the young gantrak’s shoulders.

That one was now completely immobilized also. Herere, showing the good sense she usually exhibited in combat, switched snares with Nabliz. She would now hold the creature still while Nabliz readied his own bradda.

Everything was shaping up well.

Until the pile of debris in a far corner of the nest suddenly erupted.

Achia Pazik

The screech that now came from the slope above made the ones issued earlier seem like the peepings of small birds. Achia Pazik froze, her eyes ranging up and scouring the mountainside, looking for the source.

Sebetwe

A gantrak — fully grown, with a red-and-blue male crest — came up from the pile of debris. It must have been sleeping there.

The scream it issued paralyzed Sebetwe for a moment. But not Herere. She flung her snarepole at Nabliz, shouting something that couldn’t really be heard above the monster’s scream. Sebetwe thought it might be Here! Hold the hatchling!

Then she rose, drawing her knife, to face the gantrak.

It was an act of courage bordering on sheer madness. There was no way Herere, armed only with a knife, could overcome an adult gantrak. Even the male ones, although smaller than the females, outweighed any Liskash — and if their fangs and talons were any smaller than a female’s, Sebetwe couldn’t tell the difference.

And so it proved. The gantrak’s charge drove Herere off her feet entirely. But not before she grasped the monster’s crest and drove her knife into his chest.

Or tried to. The armor there deflected the blade — she’d have done better to try for the throat or belly — and all her knife did was gash a nasty-looking but shallow cut in the creature hide.

It was enough to unbalance the gantrak, though. Between that and Herere’s tight grip on the crest, the monster stumbled and knocked both of them over the rim of the nest.

The gantrak screamed again. A moment later, he and Herere had fallen out of sight somewhere down the mountain’s slope.

Achia Pazik

Two intertwined bodies came rolling down the mountain. One of them was a Liskash, that much was obvious. The other —

What was it? She had no idea.

But whatever it was, it was big and clearly dangerous. And it was coming straight for the section of the ledge where she thought Chefer Kolkin had reached.

Chefer Kolkin

Achia Pazik’s assumption was mostly correct — that was the portion of the ledge Chefer Kolkin had reached, moving ahead of the other warriors. But it was no longer a ledge. That section of the trail had broadened out into a small terrace. Almost a meadow, except the only things growing on it were lichens and a few scrubby little bushes.

Chefer Kolkin heard the bodies tumbling down the slope before he could see them. And when he did see them, it was at the last moment — in what seemed like a mere instant, he was knocked to the ground by the collision.

A moment later, three bodies separated themselves out from the jumbled pile.

Chefer Kolkin himself, a bit bruised but otherwise unharmed.

An unusually large Liskash, who seemed to be covered with gashes and wounds but was still alive and conscious — barely.

And…

Some sort of hideous monster. It reminded Chefer Kolkin vaguely of a flat-bodied crested lizard he’d once seen in the desert, except its limbs weren’t splayed out — and it was easily thirty or forty times as big as any lizard he’d ever seen.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 51

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 51

All through the afternoon they intermittently bombarded the port mostly achieving little other than chipping tiny fragments of syncrete out of the aprons. One of the tramps lifted off but the other stayed. Maybe it was inoperable. Pynchon didn’t manage to hit it but he did smash holes in a number of the port buildings and facilities.

Allenson buttonholed the man in a short break in the bombardment while his men recharged the batteries.

“Major Pynchon, I believe we will rotate the artillery crews this afternoon before it gets dark. I don’t want to lose any more men in that damn mud.  With the benefit of hindsight moving the equipment at night was overly cautious. There’s not a damn thing the Brasilians can do to stop us short of attacking through our siege lines and sealing off our supplies from the land. Colonel Buller would love them to try that.”

“Very good, general.”

“You may as well take your people back as well, Hawthorn. There’s no need for a security detail here.”

“Oh, I think we’ll hang around for a mite longer, Allenson,” Hawthorn replied with a cheery disregard for military lines of command.

“As you wish,” Allenson replied, avoiding giving a direct order which would not be obeyed.

Allenson slept badly again that night. Hawthorn silently observed him in the morning drumming his fingers in an irritating manner on a power supply casing.

“Okay,” Allenson said, conceding the unspoken point. “I’ll go back with this afternoon’s shift.”

A civilian freighter phased in over the sea and started its descent into the bay. Pynchon opened the bombardment as soon as he had the ship in range. By chance he scored a lucky hit on the hull not long after it settled into the water to wait for the tugs. This captain didn’t attempt to unload but simply relifted and reversed course.

A few tramp ships made fast blockade-runs into the port dumping boxed and barrels on the syncrete before scuttling out. Pynchon failed to hit any of the relatively small targets but it was not for want of trying.

“You know something, I think we’ve done it,” Allenson said to Hawthorn, resisting the urge to destroy his credibility by dancing a jig.  It was damn difficult keeping the gravitas of a general when matters went well: easier somehow in the midst of catastrophe.

“The Brasilians can’t survive on anything like that level of supply. There’s not enough there to support the civilian population let alone the army. We’ve only damn well cut their logistic line. Now they’ll have to break the stalemate by attacking our siege lines and we’ll have all the advantages of a dug in position. Their only other choice is to ask for terms.”

“If I was the Brasilian General I would think about driving unnecessary mouths out of the city,” Hawthorn said, thoughtfully. “We should of course refuse to let them pass our siege lines. It’s not in our interests to lessen the pressure.”

Allenson sighed.

“That’s logical but we couldn’t do it. Suppose the Brasilians simply barred the city to refugees leaving them to starve on the peninsulas? Think of the message it would send to other colonial communities and the legacy of bitterness and hatred it would incur down the generations.”

He shook his head firmly.

“No in the event of an expulsion we’ll take in anyone who asks. We’ll find them food and accommodation and we’ll make sure everything is publicized here and back in the Homeworlds. If nothing else we should be able to claim the moral high ground and get some propaganda use out of the situation.”

Hawthorn shrugged.

“I suppose you’re right. It wouldn’t concern me but lots of things upset other people that don’t bother me much.”

There’s an old saying that when you force the enemy into a corner where he has only two possible choices, the sensible one or the stupid alternative, then you can rely on him doing the third option that you’ve failed to consider. So it was at Oxford.

Pynchon kept up an intermittent bombardment of the port more to remind the Brasilians that the ‘Stream artillery was still there than with the hope of hitting anything vulnerable. Allenson took a rest on a rock on the side of the peninsula facing the port so he could observe events.

While he cogitated, a man rushed up breathing heavily through his mask. He stumbled over a jagged projection until Allenson caught him.

“Steady son, this has been a near bloodless operation so far and I’ve a mind to keep it that way,” Allenson said

“The guvnor says you should come quick boss,” the man got out.

Allenson translated guvnor as Hawthorn, whose security men had a cavalier attitude to military terminology.

“I’m to tell you that the bastards in the town are up to something.”

Having discharged his duty the trooper sat down hard and bent over to catch his breath.

Allenson gingerly threaded his way over the treacherous slippery jagged stone to the Oxford side of the peninsula. Hawthorn studied something intently through a scope.

“What’s up?” Allenson asked.

“Not sure, three boats have put out from behind a pier below Oxford. Have a look yourself.”

Hawthorn handed Allenson the scope.

It took a moment for Allenson to adjust the binocular to his eye width, Hawthorn had a narrower face, then another half second to find the boats and up the magnification.

Small launches bounced over the waves in ragged line-astern formation. They had squared off bows and flat bottoms judging from the way they flopped over a swell. Strangest of all, large air fans at the rear pushed the launches over the water. Box-like rudders behind the blades controlled steering. It all seemed incredibly inefficient.

“What the hell are they?” Allenson asked.

“I’ve been asking myself that,” Hawthorn said faithfully. “Never seen anything like them before but I suppose they would be useful in shallow water.”

“They’re crammed with men,” Allenson said.

“Yeah, I noticed that,” Hawthorn replied, dryly. “I suspect the boats are bigger than they look in the scope. The bloody thing tends to foreshorten shapes. I reckon they could have a dozen or more men in each hull.”

“That’s damn near thrice our strength but surely they can’t get to us. Flat-bottomed or no they still would get stuck way out in the marsh where it’s mostly liquid.”

“Yeah I agree but they don’t look like a fishing expedition. Perhaps the Brasilians are treating their men to trips around the bay. Can you see ice creams or amusing hats?”

“No,” Allenson replied, curtly.

Hawthorn’s sense of humor could be ill placed.

The launches turned in line, sliding sideways in wide arcs that suggested they had no keels at all.

“Shit!” Hawthorn said. “Come on.”

The boats began to run in towards the marsh. Allenson and Hawthorn scrambled back up to the artillery modules.

“Kemp, where the hell are you?” Hawthorn shouted.

Here gov,” replied an anonymously masked man.

“Get tooled up. We’re about to be attacked.”

“Righto gov,” Kemp replied emotionlessly.

Hawthorn might have asked him to fetch lunch for all his reaction.

“I don’t understand,” Kiesche said, shaking his head. “How do they expect to get through all that liquid mud?”

“I don’t understand either but I know an attack run when I see it,” Allenson replied.

Hawthorn produced a wicked looking dagger with a curved point and a serrated edge from a pocket in his suit. From another he extracted a similar blade which he offered to Allenson.

“Thanks, I didn’t bother to bring a weapon,” Allenson said.

“I guessed,” Hawthorn replied.

Various unpleasant devices appeared as if by magic in the hands of Hawthorn’s security detail. Kiesche removed one of the recharging levers from a power model and swung the heavy object, presumably to test its utility as a club.  Pynchon chose a heavy wrench used to tighten the bolts on the hydraulics.

At the edge of the marsh muddy water transformed imperceptibly into watery mud. When they reached it the launches kept going.

“They’ll bog down soon,” Kiesche said, in disbelief.

But they didn’t! They didn’t even slow down. The launches penetrated deeper into the marsh until they reached the first mud flat whereupon the front runner rode over the bank spraying ooze in all directions as it came down.

“Shit,” Kiesche said. “They’re hovercraft.”

“What?” Hawthorn asked.

“Hovercraft, they ride over land or water on a cushion of air.”

“Terrific,” Hawthorn replied.  He raised his voice. “Stand by to repel boarders. Stay up where we have the advantage of height, stay close, and keep them off the guns.”

“I guess we aren’t the only ones with inventive engineers,” Allenson said.

He was furious with himself because he should have anticipated something like this. Thank heaven for Hawthorn’s instinctive paranoia and indiscipline. At least they still had his security detachment with them.

The launches spread out. The lead vehicle headed straight for the guns on the peninsula while the other two spilt off to the right and left to enfilade. This was normally good tactics if you were equipped with guns but Allenson couldn’t imagine how splitting one’s force could help in a brawl. Soldiers, like ordinary people, tended to revert to what they knew under extreme stress when the forebrain shut down. That was why you trained troops hard so the right reactions would be instinctive. The problems were that standard reactions were designed to cope with standard situations and this was anything but.

The rudders on the lead launch went hard over when it was a few meters off the rocks. The craft spun on its axis, sliding sideways towards the promontory on its cushion of air.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 28

Ryk has decided that this will be the last snippet of this book. Also, the eARC is currently available at http://www.baenebooks.com/p-2666-phoe...

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 28

Chapter 28.

Miri stepped into her guestroom at the Reflect’s mansion and closed the door, leaning against it heavily. I’m shaking! Shaking like a terrified human!

Her current body was human, in a way… but in all the centuries she’d been in such bodies, she’d never had such a reaction. Miri held her arm up in front of her, watched the trembling of the delicate hand, the imprecision of its movements, with stunned fascination; it took twice as long as normal to set the wards and seals of privacy.

In a way, she could understand it. So many shocks, one after another. First, stepping into that cabin and seeing the true power of a god unleashed – through the constant oppressive interference of Moonshade Hollow which impeded even her kind – and the incredible, heart-wrenching beauty of that power and the Phoenix, tearing her own soul and the voluntarily offered souls of the others so she could patch together the shredded, dying spirits of two children, and beyond. Though Phoenix had not realized it, her power had flowed even beyond the two most wounded, touched upon Hamule and bound her wounded spirit just a touch, eased the pain and memories for all five.

Miri found a wondering smile on her face at the thought, then banished that expression with shock and panic.

It didn’t hurt. Why didn’t it hurt?

But that question hadn’t occurred to her right away. She had been uplifted, confident, and helped Phoenix to rise. It was agreed by all three – herself, Phoenix, and Tobimar – that the master itrichel had to be dealt with immediately, and that it had to be in the Reflect’s household.

And they’d been right; Nimelly, his Head of House, had been the host of the creature. Once she realized she was cornered, she had fled, with the three of them in close pursuit. Tobimar had outdistanced them for a few moments and brought the itrichel to bay…

And that was the second terrible shock.

Tobimar had faced the itrichel – Nimelly with a serene face, a transcendent look in his eyes, twin swords held parallel before him, and she knew that pose, that stance, remembered the terrible gray-eyed calm that had advanced through the armies of Kerlamion as though the demons were blades of grass before his vengeful hurricane, in the days after the Fall. That Art is not lost, and does that mean that … He… is returning?

She had stumbled, but somehow – though the terror was nigh-overwhelming – caught herself, regained control, only for yet another shock to overtake her.

For the itrichel had snarled, “How do you resist?” as her blade rang against Tobimar’s.

“Yield and you may learn. Fight and you will die,” Tobimar had said bluntly. “For my companions are here.”

Nimelly then leapt back, with an agility far beyond human, and came on guard, watching all three. She smiled. “But are they companions you can trust?” she had asked… and for a moment the narrowed eyes had flickered yellow-green, looking directly at Miri.

It knows what I am! It could betray everything!

She had launched herself into the air, even before her course of action was clear; by the time she reached the apex of the leap, she had known what she must do. The two companions must believe she was their ally and friend, which meant she must somehow save Nimelly – and absolutely, permanently silence the itrichel before it could reveal the truth.

She unleashed a Shardstorm, impaling Nimelly in multiple yet non-vital points with the glittering blue-ice fragments. The itrichel, realizing it was trapped, had abandoned the body, tried to flee, but in doing so gave Miri a clear opportunity, and the Hammer of Thunder obliterated every trace.

And even then there was no respite from the tension; for what if Nimelly remembered what the itrichel knew? She hadn’t… but there were also other itrichel out there by now, matured from the sithigorn and other young animals. If they knew the truth…

She sat down on the bed, trying to clear the confusion and panic and elation and fury, to get some kind of idea of what she actually felt, to make sense of it all. I cannot have felt joy at the Phoenix’ ritual. I cannot! That would mean…

She drove that thought out with sheer terror and denial. For if that was true, then somehow the thing she had resisted for millennia, that had been trying to eat away at her self for all the time they had been here, was finally overcoming her, now, just when complete victory was in her grasp. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. It was the persona she had adopted, that was all. “Miri” would of course be awed and overjoyed, fascinated even, by such a miracle. And miracle it was; not all the magic of Kaizatenzei could have saved those children, but the Phoenix of Myrionar had made it look easy – though as Miri had seen, it was certainly not.

In a sense, that was good; attention was entirely on the emissary of the God of Justice and Vengeance, and for once that meant that people downstairs weren’t all crowded around Miri, so she had been able to get away without drawing attention to herself. And she needed this time alone.

And there were people she needed to talk to. Oh, yes, immediately.

The golden scroll was instantly out of her pack and set up. Miri found herself bouncing her knee in nervousness as she waited for the other person to answer. Stop that! I must not show any such weakness in front of him.

But that was easier said than done. The problem was that she was feeling entirely too many things right now, some good, some bad, and some just confusing, and that made her twitchy and annoyed. Which wasn’t at all a good thing to be in conversation with Him.

Even as she drew a breath and tried to focus on calming herself, on dealing with the mission, the golden scroll darkened and cleared to show the ever-pleasant features of Viedraverion’s current form. “Emirinovas! Always a pleasure.”

She decided that his infuriating cheer needed to be dealt a bit of a blow, and that would also help cheer her up. “You treacherous little nyetakh.”

Instead of looking taken aback, the smile widened. “And as always I can rely on your unswerving politeness! What is it that –”

“The so-called ‘key’ is a Tor master!” she snapped, feeling again the chill and shock that had nearly overcome her.

“What?” The surprise on the face was genuine. A moment later, the smile returned, this one of chagrin. “Ah. Of course, I should have guessed, given his instructor.”

She felt the blood leave her face and dizziness assailed her. Curse this human body! “Are… no, you cannot be saying that He has returned, is instructing –”

“Oh, no, no, not him. I have not seen him, nor sign that he…” Viedraverion paused. “Or perhaps I have. I must think on this. But in your particular case, no. But that is little comfort, I think, because his instructor was Konstantin Khoros.”

“Khoros!” She spat the name out like a curse – which, indeed, it was. “And you did not see fit to warn us?”

The infuriating smile was back. “You asked for me to watch for certain things. I watched for them. I think you would still want your key even with this complication, yes?”

Calm. Calm. It was hard, much harder with the turbulent confused emotions within her, but she forced herself to clarity and some measure of calm. “Yes. Yes, we would. So… enough of that. However, there is the matter of his companion.”

“Oh?”

“She is the channel of a god!” Anew she saw the towering golden Sword-Balance, blazing up and through the cabin, rising above the trees, and felt again that strange chill and warmth, the power of a deity manifest in the girl who was sacrificing part of her own soul, as well as those of others, to save two children she had never before met. “A full channel, not some random priest! I have never felt such a thing, not even from the Stars and Sun!”

The blond-haired form leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Well, yes. You have dealt less with the gods and their powers than I, so you do not understand the difference. In the Stars and Sun of Terian, you have a vast power, yes, but they are, in the end analysis, merely containers for power, not the Light in the Darkness himself. That does not of course mean they are safe, as you well know, but they are not themselves the Will of the Deity made manifest.” He gazed into a distance she could not see. “Even if they were – say if Terian had been called forth to activate them – there would be a difference. Terian has immensely many shrines, temples, priests, worshippers – scattered across the entire continent, some even within your own valley. He is many places at once, always.

“Myrionar, however… has only the Phoenix. Oh, there is one priest, but even he looks to her as the example and symbol. You felt the power of a focused, even desperate god providing what it could to its one remaining champion, and that, I have no doubt, was a magnificent sight indeed to one of our perceptions.”

“Oh, it was magnificent!” She caught herself before she went any farther. This part I play is becoming too real. I must remember it is only a seeming, not an actuality… or it might become actuality. “But also dangerous.”

Viedraverion shrugged. “If you make too many mistakes, yes. She is a very formidable young woman. But you have the power, you have the allies, you have the advantages. I trust you will be able to handle her and your key.”

“As long as Khoros isn’t directly intervening.” She didn’t even want to think about that. Emirinovas was powerful, yes, but she knew that going up against a Spirit Mage of Khoros’ age and power would be a foregone conclusion, and not one in her favor.

“No, of that I can be sure. My… sources tell me that he has actually been seen serving as advisor to the new Sauran King as they prepare for the counterassault against our beloved father.”

That was something of a relief. But… “Does Father know?”

“I presume he does. He has his own spies.”

She studied him. “You don’t seem concerned. I thought you had an interest in this Phoenix.”

“I have an interest in how her journey ends – in victory or in failure. I won’t tell you cannot deal with her in any fashion that suits your needs.”

“Indeed?” He nodded. “Well… all right. Also, I did intercept your other visitor, Aran Condor, and sent him the other way around the Necklace. I’m arranging for sightings and rumors of the Phoenix along the way, so he’ll stick to the trail and never wonder about it all the way there.”

“Really? Well done, little sister. I commend you. Exactly as I would have asked.” He looked off to the side. “I must be going; other responsibilities call, and I believe we have… cleared up our misunderstanding?”

“Sufficiently. Farewell, Viedraverion.”

“And you, Emirinovas.”

She put the scroll away, checked the seals and wards again. Not that she expected anyone to try to spy on her – the Phoenix certainly would never even think of such a thing and she doubted Tobimar would either, and none of the others in Jenten’s Mill would dare – but only a fool trusts unreservedly.

Once she was sure that things were still secure, she removed the farcaller from her pouch and placed it on the table. “Lady Shae,” she said.

The image of Kalshae’s human form materialized almost instantly; she was in her own chambers, so there was no need to delay. “Miri. What is it?”

Now she had someone to really vent her tension on. “I would ask rather what is this?” She held up one of the itrichel corpses.

Kalshae blinked in startlement. “Where did you –”

“Jenten’s Mill. An infestation that came up out of the lake – how very surprising,” she let sarcasm fill the last words for a second or two before continuing, ” and then when the townsfolk stopped depredations on their young livestock the thing took over one of the townsfolk and started abducting children!”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, but –”

“Unfortunate? You fool, Kalshae! You and Wieran play with all these clever little inventions but you never see the way the game has to be played, and you have too little respect for the danger! They sent for help and found our key and his party – and naturally they came right away.”

Finally Kalshae was giving her undivided attention to Miri, and Miri began to feel – slightly – better. “Now it was bad enough that it was hurting the town; as long as we’re running a kingdom we need stability, not fear and uncertainty. But far worse was the fact that it was one of yours.”

“How do you –”

“How do I know? How do I know?” She leaned forward, glaring so fiercely that Kalshae actually stepped back a pace. “Because the Father-damned thing almost gave me away! The only thing that kept the whole situation from going straight to the Light was that the master itrichel got fancy and instead of just telling them what I was, hinted and looked at me in a way I couldn’t possibly mistake; I could tell it expected I would betray them at that point. I finished it instead.

“Fortunately,” she continued, overriding Kalshae’s attempt to speak, “they thought that it was simply planning on mind-controlling us – it couldn’t affect Tobimar – and that was why we wouldn’t be able to be trusted. And while they had wanted to capture it and question it about its other nest, they understood my need to act.”

“I see.” Kalshae gazed at her, then finally – unwillingly – bowed. “I… am sorry. It was thoughtless and incompetent of us to allow such a thing free, and I will make no such mistakes again.”

“See that you don’t. You may have more raw power than I do, Kalshae – although not as much as you think – but never forget that I planned this entire thing. You will not ruin it for me.”

“Understood, Miri. Understood.” Kalshae waited to see if Miri accepted her contrition, then, “Now… how many people were killed? The master-itrichel’s host, of course, but how many others?”

“None, actually. I was careful with the Shardstorm.”

“Wait, now. There is no way that you can cure a child ridden by an itrichel for longer than –”

“Oh, yes there is. If you happen to be the chosen representative of a god. Phoenix’ story is one hundred percent true; she was able to pull enough power from her god to heal all five children, including two with nearly full grown mindworms.”

Even as she said that, Miri regarded herself with confusion and disbelief. Tell Kalshae about the soul-tearing! About how Phoenix had to use her own soul and those of others to heal the children! That’s vital information! It tells us that Phoenix – and perhaps Tobimar and Hiriista! – will be weakened for some time! It also tells us about how far they will go to save others!

Tell her!

But somehow she found herself silent, adding no more details, and her face held so controlled that not a hint of additional information was shown on her face. Even as she let that moment pass, she felt that strangeness within her growing, as though the decision had strengthened it. With frozen panic she shoved that very awareness from her mind and focused on the woman before her.

“By the Throne! That’s … frightening,” Kalshae said slowly. “Especially doing it here, where even we cannot pull in more than a fraction of the power that is normally ours. But there is no suspicion of us?”

“None. Especially after our successful hunt. Though there are more itrichel out there to hunt, since not all the missing livestock from the first attacks have been found.”

“Still, if they have not conferred with the master itrichel, they will know nothing.”

“Let us hope so. But I will have to stay here and complete the hunt for all of the things to make sure. Do you understand how much time this will make me waste? If just one person hears the wrong thing and I’m not there to kill them or wipe their minds –”

“Yes, yes, I do understand. My apologies, again.” She tilted her head. “Wait a moment. You said that the master itrichel could not affect Tobimar Silverun. Why?”

Miri couldn’t restrain a nasty grin. “Because he is a Tor master.”

The reaction was everything she could have hoped for. Kalshae shrank back in horror, her foot ran against some object fallen to the floor, and she stumbled. “Impossible! They were eradicated from –”

“I saw him. Just as I remember seeing the Eternal King himself from the walls. I cannot mistake those moves, those stances. And Viedraverion tells me that our key was trained by Khoros.”

Kalshae vented an obscenity that momentarily darkened the crystal. “Are we against Khoros? If so, we must simply abandon this plan entirely.”

“I would not be so hasty… but no. Viedra says that the old mage is advising the Sauran King and will probably be on the front lines.”

“Bad for Father, good for us. All right. Will the key be continuing on tomorrow?”

“I think so. Perhaps the day after; the townspeople are very grateful. I will then catch up with them once the hunting of the other itrichel is finished.”

“I think you should stick with them as much as possible… just to make sure they don’t see or learn anything … dangerous.”

“I’ll do so as much as possible,” Miri said with a smile. Smile? Suddenly I feel so much… lighter! What in the world could be causing that?

“All right. I’ll go deal with Wieran over this… unauthorized release.”

“Better you than me. Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.”

Miri put the crystal away and stood. It’s getting towards dinner time; Phoenix will be wondering where I am!

She set out from her room, a bounce in her step again.