Eric Flint's Blog, page 276

Sanctuary – Snippet 06

Sanctuary – Snippet 06

“I did,” she said curtly. “Do as you’re told.”

She was half-expecting an argument, but all she got was a smile. An instant later, Lavi Tur was moving up the mountain.

She followed, after taking a long look behind to make sure nothing was pursuing them. Nothing she could see, at least. Because of the folded terrain, she could only see a short distance. There might be an entire army on their trail, for all she knew.

But she thought it was unlikely they were anywhere near. Liskash generally did not move as quickly as Mrem. That was true even in the hot lowlands. Here, in the cold heights, they would be more sluggish than usual.

Sebetwe

Sebetwe was cursing his own sluggishness that very moment. Liskash were not cold-blooded, in the way true reptiles were. But they were still more susceptible to low temperatures than Mrem or other mammals. In high altitudes like these, they needed to absorb sunlight after dawn in order to get moving quickly, and they needed to rest more often than they would in the lowlands. That was so regardless of the difficulty of the terrain — which, if it was arduous to travel across, required still more often and longer rest periods.

Not a big problem, perhaps, for someone taking a leisurely hike simply to enjoy the scenery. But when you were hunting gantrak…

He tried to raise his spirits by reminding himself that gantrak, while they lived in the mountains, were not mammals either. They too would be sluggish this early in the morning.

The thought was not very cheerful, though. Sluggish in the morning or not, a fully grown gantrak would weigh half again what Sebetwe did, had talons three times as long as his own, fangs that made his teeth look pitiful — leaving aside the scaly armored hide and the thick bony ridges guarding the creature’s skull.

Not far now, judging from the sounds being made by the hatchlings nesting somewhere above them.

Achia Pazik

Elor Zeg almost slipped off the narrow ledge, he came back down in such a hurry.

“Liskash — up ahead!” he hissed. “Chefer Kolkin sent me back to tell you.” He hesitated briefly, and then added: “He wants to know what you think we should so.”

From the slight frown on his face, it was clear that Elor Zeg had his doubts about the propriety of a noted and veteran warrior like Chefer Kolkin seeking instruction from such a young dancer as Achia Pazik. But, thankfully, he kept whatever reservations he had to himself.

She suspected those same reservations had distracted Elor Zeg from passing along the critical information she needed to make any decision.

“How many are there?” she hissed in return, trying to speak as quietly as possible. “And are they warriors?”

Elor Zeg grunted slightly with embarrassment. If he’d neglected to include that information in a report he’d given Chefer Kolkin himself, the older warrior would have berated him. Pretty savagely, too.

“Only three, that we can see. And we’re not sure if they’re warriors. Exactly.” He seemed a bit confused. “What I mean is, they’re carrying weapons. I guess. Of a sort.”

Achia Pazik was getting exasperated. Neither of the Zeg half-brothers was exactly what you’d call a mental giant. “What do you mean, ‘you guess’? What sort of weapons?”

“They’re more like snares than weapons. Ropes mostly, attached to poles, with odd loops at the end. They also have big knifes, but those are still in their sheathes.”

Ropes with odd loops…

Some of the Mrem tribes used devices called lassos, she knew. Her own people didn’t, because the animals they herded were too big to be held against their will by mere ropes. But there were tribes whose herd animals were a lot smaller and more manageable.

So far as she knew, though, the lassos were simply ropes designed to be cast in such a way as to loop around the necks of their targets. She’d never heard of any attached to poles.

Then again, she’d never actually seen a lasso. Her knowledge might simply be faulty.

But this was no time to let her thoughts stray. There was a decision to be made.

“They’re above us on the mountain?”

“Yes. Climbing still higher, too. They haven’t spotted us. I don’t think they’re paying much attention to anything below them.”

They must be hunting something, then. Whatever was making the hideous shrieks?

Possibly. But it didn’t really matter, one way or the other. If the Liskash were pre-occupied, the small band of Mrem could pass them by without being noticed.

Hopefully.

“Tell Chefer Kolkin to stay on the trail.” Tiny narrow treacherous ledge would have been a more apt term to use than trail. But everyone’s spirits needed to be kept up.

Elor Zeg left without a word.

Or anything else. Warriors taking orders from their superiors were normally in the habit of making a small gesture when they did so. A sort of hand-clenching coupled with a forward thrust of the fist. But Achia Pazik was not about to insist on formalities. It was enough that no one was openly challenging her authority.

Well, almost no one.

By the time Elor Zeg and Achia Pazik had finished their little conference, the rest of the party had crowded up the trail and come close enough to overhear the last exchange.

“I think we ought to attack them,” said Lavi Tur brashly.

Before Achia Pazik could reply, Aziz Vardit spoke up. She was the oldest of the females in their party.

“Thankfully, you are not in charge,” she said. “Achia Pazik is. So be quiet.”

Sebetwe

They were almost there. Close enough to separate the tones of the hatchling screeches. There were two of them.

No adults. By now, they would have made their presence known. Gantrak did not tolerate much in the way of obstreperousness from their offspring. If there had been an adult in the nest above, she or he would probably have silenced the noisy hatchlings.

That was the good part. The bad part was that gantrak hatchlings wouldn’t be making that much noise if they weren’t hungry — which suggested, at least, that an adult might be returning with food soon.

But there was no way to know, and they couldn’t possibly stay on the mountain for another night. Not this high up. At least one of them would die, and quite possibly all four.

Sebetwe glanced around. Nabliz was also in position. He couldn’t see Herere because the big female had moved far enough around the slope of the mountainside to be out of sight. But whatever her other failings, Herere could be counted on to be in position also. In the field, as long as the task didn’t involve subtlety and indirection, she was extraordinarily capable.

Time, then. Being careful to keep his snare out of sight of the hatchlings above — that involved an awkward extension of the pole, sticking out almost directly behind him — Sebetwe began creeping up the final stretch.

He never once thought to look down the mountain behind him. If the adult gantrak were returning to the nest they’d either be coming from the other side of the mountain or they would have already spotted the Liskash advancing on the nest. In which case there would be no need to scour the mountainside looking for signs of them coming. Their screams of fury would have been heard already. Gantrak were even less given to subtlety than Herere.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 05

Sanctuary – Snippet 05

Chapter 2

Sebetwe

The hatchlings might be too old. That much was already obvious from the volume of sound being emitted from the nest somewhere above and still not in sight.

“At least two, maybe three,” Nabliz said softly.

All four of them were huddled together under an overhanding rock on the steep slope. The vegetation was getting very sparse now and there weren’t many places to find concealment.

“Too old,” grunted Herere. She had the odd quality of being pessimistic as well as aggressive. The combination often irritated Sebetwe — as it did now.

He started to say something but Aqavo spoke first. “Maybe not, Herere,” she said. “Sebetwe is very –”

“Powerful,” Herere interrupted, impatiently and a bit sourly. “Yes, I know. This is still not magic.”

The word Aqavo had actually been about to use was bradda, Sebetwe thought. The term was subtle and while it had much in common with gudru — “powerful” — it suggested more in the way of influence and persuasion, even charisma. The fact that Herere did not understand the distinction was much of the reason she herself had never risen very far in her ranking as a disciple.

For Herere, all conflict came down to strength against strength. That had served her well enough as a child at establishing her mastery over creatures like tritti and even paqui.

But today they faced great gantrak of the mountains. No Liskash disciple, no matter how great their gudh, had any chance of simply dominating such monsters. You might as well try quenching a bonfire by force of will.

There was no point trying to explain any of this to Herere, though. No mentor of the Krek, not even Meshwe, had ever managed to do that. So Sebetwe simply shifted his shoulders in a slight shrug and said: “Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. We’ll find out soon enough.”

Another chorus of screeches came down from above.

“They’re hungry,” said Nabliz. “We’d better move quickly.”

He was right. The mother would be away, hunting for her brood. The father… could be anywhere, but there was no point in worrying about that. Male gantrak were every bit as protective of their brood as females, but they had little of the same territoriality. The brood’s father might be a mountain range away.

Or could be asleep in the nest itself. With males, behavior was hard to predict.

“Let’s get going,” Sebetwe commanded. “I’ll continue directly up the slope with Nabliz. Herere, you take that little draw to the left. I think that’ll bring you above the nest.” A little diplomacy here. “You’re the strongest, so you’ll have the best chance of handling the mother if she returns.”

“And me?” asked Aqavo.

Had he been fully honest, Sebetwe would have replied: “You stay here, because you’re only a novice, not yet a full tekkutu, and won’t be any use to me in the capture. And you won’t be any more use if we have to fight.”

But he liked Aqavo as much as he disliked Herere, so he coated the answer. “Stay here and make ready the harnesses. We won’t have any time to spare.”

“How many?” she asked, sounding a bit relieved.

“Only two. If I can capture any at all, it won’t be more than that.”

Aqavo started rummaging in the sacks they’d all unloaded when they reached the overhang. Herere was already out, heading for the draw.

“Ghammid be with you,” said Nabliz after her.

Aqavo whistled softly. “Don’t let Meshwe hear you say that or you’ll get a lecture.”

Sebetwe grunted his amusement. It was true enough. He could hear it already. The so-called “God of Good Fortune” is simply another manifestation of the Godhead as we can perceive it. No more a real deity than the sun or the moon — and you have as much chance of improving your luck by invoking her as you do of changing the dawn or the tides by invoking Huwute or Ishtala.

Sebetwe didn’t doubt Meshwe’s teaching. Not for a moment. Still…

“Ghammid be with us,” he murmured, and headed up the slope, shaking his catchpole slightly to make sure the noose was not tangled.

Achia Pazik

“What is that thing?” hissed Chefer Kolkin. The warrior’s grip on his spear was tight enough for his knuckles to stand out in sharp relief — quite unlike the veteran’s usual relaxed manner when handling his weapons.

Part of his tension was due to the unearthly shrieks coming from somewhere above them. Most of it, though, was simply due to the uncertainty of the moment. Should they fight? Flee? Hide? And looming behind all of those questions was a still greater one — who was to decide? Which of them was to give the order, whatever that order might be?

By strict seniority, Chefer Kolkin himself should perhaps be in charge. But as doughty a warrior as he was, Chefer Kolkin had never displayed much in the way of leadership in the past.

Neither had the other surviving dancer, Gadi Elkin. Besides, although she was older than Achia Pazik, she did not match her in skill — and rank among the dancers was based mostly on ability, not age.

Of the other four soldiers, the half-brothers Tsede Zeg and Elor Zeg generally kept to themselves, to the point of being almost rude. Zuel Babic was too young — not more than two years past Lavi Tur’s age — and Puah Neff was cut from the same hide as Chefer Kolkin. Brave and fierce in battle, capable at other tasks, but not suited to lead more than a handful of warriors.

So… it would have to be Achia Pazik herself who took the position of leader. Until now, she’d been able to avoid that task, because they’d simply been fleeing. The only decision to be made was this way! or that way! and any one of them could do that much.

There was no need to make a formal proceeding out of the matter, though, even if they had the time to do so.

“I think it’s more than one thing, whatever it is,” she said. She pointed to a narrow ledge that moved up the side of the mountain to their right. “I think we can follow that around, and stay away from… whatever they are.”

Chefer Kolkin nodded. “I will take the lead.” He moved off, crouched over so as not to show his profile above the terrain. Not until he had taken eight or nine steps did Achia Pazik realize that the warrior had displayed as much adroit skill in tacitly accepting her leadership as he had in moving up the mountain. Apparently, there were subtleties beneath than stolid exterior.

She stayed in place, waiting for the other warriors to reach her. As they did, she passed along the same instructions: Up the mountain using the ledge. Follow Chefer Kolkin. No one disputed her authority, either because they accepted it on its own terms or because they supposed Chefer Kolkin had made the decision. Again, there was no point in forcing a formal agreement, even if they had the leisure time. Hopefully, as time passed, the warriors would come to accept the situation without quarrel.

She expected no dispute from the other dancer — and, indeed, Gadi Elkin did as she was told without hesitating. So did the four females and their kits.

Lavi Tur brought up the rear. And he, of course, raised the issue. Being quick-witted at his age was a very mixed blessing.

“Who put you in charge?” he demanded, in a tone which was both challenging and amused.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 27

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 27

Chapter 27.

Tobimar tensed, and began to bring up the High Center. If things go bad, we will need all my skill. I don’t know exactly what Kyri was doing there, but I could tell she just pushed herself a long ways.

Poplock scuttled up his leg, even as Reflect Jenten spoke. “You imply that I –”

Kyri stepped between the house and the Reflect. “Both of you, pause a moment, before accusations and fear drive you to actions that will end in tragedy. Please – let me see if I can untangle this, for I think the truth is more strange than any of us know.”

As Kyri continued, Poplock relayed his information about the children. Locked up and restrained? What possible reason could this man have for such actions?

The crowd murmured, and there was a dark tone to their words. A faint sound from the cabin, perhaps inaudible to any save Tobimar as his senses extended, told him that the ex-Color had drawn a large blade. The Reflect’s eyes were narrow; but he only left his hand on the hilt of his weapon, and did not draw it, as he studied the three figures before him.

“As you will, Phoenix,” he said finally. “But bring your light to this swiftly, for I have no patience for those who would accuse me of atrocity, and none of us have any for those who harm children.”

“I thank you, Reflect, and I understand,” Kyri said. Her voice was respectful and cautious, the tone of someone walking on eggshells. This isn’t like Evanwyl, where everyone had known her since she was a child, would give her any benefit of the doubt, and she knows it. “First, while I wish to be clear that I do not suspect you, I think you should realize that even in the scant evidence the three of us have heard, there is some just reason to wonder. May I present those points to you, understanding that I mean only to point out the potential for such a perception?”

The Reflect’s eyebrows rose. “Truly? You think you have heard evidence that could be taken against me? Very well, speak.”

Kyri stood taller, and her demeanor was now more of a judge reviewing evidence and measuring the accused. “For the initial disappearance none could give evidence as to exactly when or where it occurred. But of the other four, what can we say? If I believe the testimony I have heard, there is this: the last one to have claimed to have seen Demmi alive was you, Reflect Jenten, who said that you had seen her go into the woods alone; Hamule was said to have disappeared between her home and your home, Reflect; the fourth child, whose name I have not yet been told –”

“Minnu,” Cirnala said, looking thoughtful.

“– Minnu, then, disappeared from within your house; I do not know if there is a connection to you with the last child, Abiti –”

Now a few of the crowd were looking at the Reflect, and Jenten’s own face was less confident and sure. “Yes,” said the woman with the huge axe. “Nimelly – the one who told us that Zogen had taken Abiti – is Jenten’s Head of House.”

Now pale, Jenten glared at Kyri, and Tobimar’s grip tightened on his swords, even as the Skysand prince started to see the entirety of the pattern. “You said you would not accuse me, yet your words seem woven to do precisely that!”

“Hold, sir,” Tobimar raised one hand. “She simply wished to show that it would be easy for someone looking at the pattern to come to the conclusion that you were to blame. But there is more to it – much more to it – than that. Especially in the first few instances, the children were off with others – who specifically denied being there, later. Yes?”

Jenten and the crowd shifted, realizing that Kyri had meant her words and that there was no immediate accusation of their leader. “Yes,” Cirnala said.

“And is it possible that Jenten was with the children during those times? Or is it not the case that Reflect Jenten has far too many responsibilities to be able to be absent from view so often?”

Startlingly, Zogen replied from within his cabin. “That… that is exactly the case. The Reflect would have been often busy, with many people around him, on the days that the children were playing in the woods.”

“Yessss, “Hiriista said, nodding. “And consider; at least three of our victims spoke of meeting someone else, several times. A different ‘someone else’, for each child, over a period of time. Even the other disappearances did not happen instantly, but over a period of time.” He looked sharply at Cirnala. “Tell me, the depthshade that was killed – had it taken any adult creatures – aged, crippled, otherwise easy prey?”

The others blinked at this sudden shift of questioning, but Cirnala simply looked up and away, thinking.

The connection was suddenly clear to Tobimar, and he felt Poplock’s grip on his shoulder tighten. Kyri’s expression became marble-cold.

“No,” Cirnala said finally. “No, Magewright; only young animals.”

“And each separated by at least a week of time.”

“Yes,” the Reflect said, understanding coming into his voice. “Are you saying what I believe you are, Magewright?”

“That this is a continuation of the same problem? Yes, I think so. Creatures such as the depthshade are like many other such creatures; they wait in ambush and take the unwary, the unprotected, the alone. They do not choose only one sort of creature, it matters not to them. And while sithigorn chicks are often numerous enough in a brood that they are likely to be caught alone, both forest antelope and your usual herd animals keep the young and mothers to the center of a herd. The opportunities to take such young prey are very limited unless… unless you had the ability to convince your prey that you were not a predator.”

“But it was the depthshade!” burst out another man, tall and gaunt. “We set the watches, caught it as the little calf came down to the water.” Then he paused. “Came down to the water… alone. Without its mother, without any others of the herd.”

Exactly. “Then what we are dealing with,” Tobimar said with growing conviction, that feeling of rightness that his Tor training provided emphasizing his words, “is a creature that targets the young, that can trick others into perceiving them as one of their own kind, that requires some level of time and preparation of the victim – at least by preference – and that uses other creatures as its agents. The depthshade was such an agent or, in truth, a victim, as is whoever the thing is using now.”

“But why just the young?” the Reflect asked. “And how is it that this thing was using the depthshade?”

“What happened to the depthshade’s corpse?” Kyri asked, cutting short a desperate poking of Tobimar’s neck by Poplock. I guess she’s asking the question the Toad wanted asked.

“Brought to my home to be prepared for mounting as a trophy for the village,” the Reflect said, “Immediately after the kill.”

“And was there anything unusual about the corpse when it was being prepared?”

The Reflect shrugged, then looked into the crowd. “Nostag, you were preparing it for display.”

The tall, dark, broad-shouldered man nodded emphatically. “Indeed I was, sir, once the immediate prep had been done by your household. There was one oddity. Rear of the skull, remember?”

“Ahh, yes. We thought it had been injured there not long before, explaining why it decided to stay here and try for easy prey.” He looked back to their party. “There were three small holes at the base of the skull, and some a bit lower down on the spine.”

Exactly. “We are dealing with something like an itrichel, as my people call them – I’ve heard them called mindworms and brain-riders, too,” Kyri said, echoing Tobimar’s own realization. “But this one’s worse, with abilities I’ve never heard of. I can’t imagine why –”

“Enneisolaten,” Hiriista said bluntly. “The great lake is not named ‘Sounding of Shadows’ for no reason; there is great beauty about its shores, and nearby, but it seems great darkness lurks somewhere in its depths. Abominations sometimes crawl from below, and indeed are they often versions of other monsters made worse. Finding a way to cleanse the shadows from the lake is one of Lady Shae’s great quests.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kyri said. “Not now, anyway. The important thing is that someone in your household, Reflect, ended up the next host of the itrichel. I don’t think it can be you – it would most likely be one of those involved in the handling of the depthshade immediately after it was captured and killed. But if what I’ve heard of these monsters is right, we know why it went after young animals and children.”

“Incubators,” Hiriista said, the last s trailing off in a hiss. “It uses the young’s strength and growing spirit to provide the perfect environment to grow its brood.”

“By the Light,” Cirnala said, and the faces around showed their horror. “That means that the children –”

“You have it!” Zogen shouted, and the door swung open. “They’ve been sick, all of them, but they’ve been getting violent –”

“You have the children and you never told us?!” the Reflect’s hand went to his sword-hilt.

“I didn’t know if I could trust anyone!” Zogen snapped back.

“Come on!” Kyri said, striding towards Zogen. “Enough time for recriminations later! We have to help those children now, before it’s too late!”

Hiriista and Tobimar followed, but Hiriista’s tense walk and muttered words gave Tobimar a cold feeling. “For some, it has been many weeks. If the brain-rider has had so long to grow and be established…”

“I will not let children die,” Kyri’s voice was cold iron. “If they still live now, then I say that Myrionar will forbid them from dying. It would be unjust for us to have solved the riddle and still fail to save them.”

Beneath Zogen Josan’s cabin was a surprisingly large basement, hewn by impressive effort from the rock and earth below and well furnished. The furnishings, however, had been hastily rearranged, and five cages were arranged on the far wall. They were well-made cages, and cushioned, not rudely fashioned or uncomfortable, but Tobimar could see they were strong and secured on the outside by locked steel clips.

Kyri glanced grimly at the children restrained within them, and suddenly went pale. “U…Urelle?”

The far right cage had a young Artan boy in it… but at the same time, Tobimar felt a… pressure that had no physical source, a push inside his head that came up hard against the discipline of High Center, but though there was a momentary blurring, a hint of other features, he saw only the young boy. At the same time, Kyri’s expression showed that she saw someone she recognized. Which was of course impossible.

“Unless your ‘Urelle’ is an Artan child, she’s not there,” Tobimar said quietly.

Kyri shook her head, then glared at the end cage. “So. The last evidence we needed.”

“That’s new,” Zogen said. “Tirleren was the worst off, but projecting a different seeming? No.”

“If it can do that, it is nearing maturity,” Hiriista said bluntly. “I am afraid the host is … unsalvageable.” His voice was cold, filled with anger and helplessness.

“We are not separate,” Tirleren said. “We are one, now. If I leave him, he will die.” The smile that suddenly appeared was more a rictus, something aping the expression but not quite familiar with how it was done. “Of course I will leave soon anyway.”

“Soon,” agreed a little human girl in the third cage. That must be the second victim, Demmi.

A third child, a Child of Odin, looked vague, puzzled, as though there was some thought or idea that was just coming to them, while the other two were horrified. “No, no, I don’t want to have something in my head!” the little boy – Minnu? – said tremulously.

“Don’t worry,” Kyri said, taking off her helm and putting it down. “I’ll take care of it. It’s going to be all right. Even for you, Tirleren.”

For an instant, Tirleren’s face showed a flash of horror and hope, and then went back to cold watchfulness. “Separate us and he dies. I will not.”

“Whether or not he does die,” Reflect Jenten said, “I assure you, you will die, no matter what tricks you might have to escape. Correct, Zogen?”

The ex-Color straightened. “Correct, Namuhuan,” he said, using the Reflect’s first name in return.

“Hiriista, do you have anything that could help?”

The mazakh swayed his head doubtfully, but pulled out a red vial of liquid, and fished a particular green-glittering amulet from within his assortment of jewelry. “This may suffice for the least-affected. But I very gravely doubt that anything can be done for Demmi and Tirleren, save to… end this.”

Cirnala turned away at those words.

“Try,” Kyri said. “Try, and I will do the rest.”

“What can you do, if even the Magewright believes it is impossible?” Cirnala said, his quiet voice filled with hopelessness.

Kyri’s head came up, and Tobimar saw a faint golden glow about her. “All I can do is have faith. But what I have faith in is Myrionar, and I do not believe It will allow such injustice this day.”

Hiriista gazed at her, then sighed and nodded. “I will require each of them to drink a portion of this restorative. To get at least those two to drink will require force.”

Tirleren’s eyes narrowed, and his eyes momentarily showed a yellowish cast, even a faint glow. “Oh, yes, try that.”

“Don’t let him intimidate you,” Kyri said. “The itrichel isn’t yet full grown. If we hadn’t forced the issue, it would not have revealed itself – just used its powers to get Zogen to release it and the other four once it was full-grown.”

Cautiously, Zogen opened Tirleren’s cage.

As the door came fully open, Tirleren’s arms tore free of their bindings and whipped out, sending Zogen tumbling away. Tirleren leapt from the cage, shredding the bindings on his legs, straight for Kyri.

Kyri’s gauntleted hand caught the mindworm-possessed Artan in midair and held him high, with scarcely a sign of effort as he hammered uselessly at Phoenix’ hand and forearm. I’d forgotten how strong she is. That’s the legendary Vantage strength they talk about in Evanwyl – and if he can’t break her arm through the Raiment, he’s got nothing to give him leverage. “Now.”

Tobimar had already increased his own strength and speed, and saw both Zogen and the Reflect stepping up to help. Between the three of them, they were able to use leverage of their own to restrain Tirleren and force his mouth open. Hiriista poured a small portion of liquid from the vial into Tirleren’s mouth and poked the throat in a fashion that forced a reflexive swallow.

Instantly Tirleren went nearly limp, twitching. Hiriista looked grave, but had them repeat the maneuver for Demmi. Hamule, the little Child of Odin, was able to force herself to sit still for the dosing, and while she looked to be in terrible pain didn’t seem in as much distress as the other two; both Minnu and Abiti took their doses easily.

Then Hiriista took up the green-stone amulet. “By Ocean and Forest, let impurity be banished!”

Emerald light blazed from the stone and exploded into the five children. Hiriista held the stone in a deathgrip, scales standing up around his hand from the tension, and drove the power forward.

All five screamed, but those of Demmi and Tirleren were shrieks of tearing agony. Something rose up in that forest-green light, five somethings struggling and scrabbling with multiple pairs of legs to hold on as they were rejected by the bodies they had inhabited, creatures not entirely solid nor entirely immaterial being ripped from the napes of the childrens’ necks. Tirleren’s was the largest, the length of Tobimar’s forearm and giving vent to its own high-pitched keening of pain and fury; Demmi’s was only slightly smaller.

Shades paler than normal, Zogen Josan and the Reflect stepped forward as one, and blades leapt from their scabbards; the floating creatures were sundered instantly in a pair of mirrored strokes.

Hiriista’s light faded. Minnu and Abiti lay crying, Hamule was barely conscious, but the other two were sagging down as though nothing was left.

Kyri caught the two before their heads hit the floor, gazed at them, and put her hands on the two. “Myrionar, hear me. Heal these children, innocent victims of monsters who sought more than their mere deaths.”

The golden, singing light of Myrionar answered her, and Tobimar once more felt the rush of awe that power inspired. He had seen it more than once, but there was something different about it that made even great magics less impressive by comparison. You knew that you saw the power of a god in action.

But in his current state, seeing with the High Center through his trained senses, he saw something else; Kyri’s power poured into the two bodies, and most of it was pouring out again. “Phoenix! Something’s wrong!”

Kyri’s shoulders tightened. “I… see it. These monsters… wove into their souls, not just their bodies. These are soul wounds, their very essences ripped apart. I should have suspected it.”

“Then …”

“Then I have to do something else.”

The auric aura flared higher, filled the entire room with the tingling power of Myrionar, and he could see something else happening; a weave of golden energy, extending from Kyri, twining about the shining but tattered, ripped spirits of the children. By Terian, what’s she doing? How can she be pulling that much power from Myrionar here, when –

No. Oh, by the Light in the Darkness, she’s not getting it from Myrionar…

“Stop, Phoenix!” he shouted, barely keeping himself from using her real name. “Stop! You can’t tear your own soul apart to –”

“I swore I would not let this happen! And it can work, I know it can! I saw the Arbiter –”

He remembered her story – and that the Arbiter was still, a year later, hurt and weakened by the attempt that ultimately had failed.

No. She’s going to kill herself doing this! Maybe they’re not as hurt as her brother was, but one soul can’t possibly bind –

One soul?

He reached out and put both of his hands atop hers, resting on the heads of Tirleren and Demmi. “Let me help, then. Take from me.”

A blink, a hesitation…and then a rush of understanding and gratitude.

Tobimar could not restrain a grunt of agony as the tearing began, ripping delicate strands of his very soul carefully away from the edges, sewing up the ruptured spirits of the children they were saving.

And then there was another presence. “I cannot allow you to take all of the risks for my own people,” the Reflect said.

And another. “We are comrades, are we not? Let a Magewright support you as well!”

And a third, touching hesitantly then clamping down with decision. “And can I do less who was once a Color?” asked the voice of Zogen Josan.

And even Poplock bounced to her shoulder – wordless, of course, so as not to give himself away – but Tobimar knew she would understand the offer as clearly as if it were spoken.

Kyri looked up and her smile lit the room more than her own power.

Myrionar’s power mingled with their own and stripped pieces from all of them – but among so many, six souls to heal two children, Tobimar could tell that the damage was so much less, that Kyri would not die, would not even be crippled from this attempt, that they were supporting her, giving her the strength that she could never have survived tearing from her own soul alone.

Even as he became aware of another commotion behind them, the blazing gold-fire detonated around the six of them, all flowing and channeled by the power of Kyri Victoria Vantage, the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar. A towering, shining sword-balance burned in the air, visible above and through the cabin as though the walls were made of clearest crystal. “Myrionar, by the sacrifice of the willing and bindings of pure soul, by the power of mercy and of justice, and by my will and your wisdom seal these wounds, heal these souls and let these children live again!”

The concussion of power scattered them across the floor like pebbles, yet Tobimar felt no more pain, only tired exaltation. He blinked, clearing fiery afterimages from his eyes.

Tirleren and Demmi lay still in the middle of the floor, Kyri collapsed beside them. And then Tirleren slowly raised his head, Demmi as well, and suddenly began to cry – tears of pain and fear, yes, but also clear tears of relief and joy.

From the floor, Kyri opened her eyes and looked at them all, a smile on her face. She looked past him and her exhausted smile widened.

Crowded around the bottom of the stairs, mostly fallen from the same final shock of the ritual that had felled the five involved in it, were half a dozen of the villagers – and, still standing but staring with impossibly wide blue eyes, was Miri, Light of Kaizatenzei.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 50

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 50

The heavy duty pipes that linked the machinery had to be bolted on manually as the use of power tools constituted too great a hazard. Each of the three engines consisted of three separate modules: a power supply, a hydraulic pump, and a catapult with twisted steel torsion bars.  Connecting the modules involved a great deal of sweat and general cursing. Kiesche constructed the gear in situ on any available bit of flat surface so each installation was laid out differently. Heavy steel cables attached to pylons driven into crevices in the rocks by double-handed hammers locked down the catapult sections.

Allenson and Hawthorn had little to do but stay out of Kiesche and Pynchon’s way. Allenson amused himself by observing the port and city. The port was already awake. A trans-Bight civilian freighter had landed during the night on the waters of the bay. Tugs pushed and pulled the vessel up against the dockside where laborers waited by the unloading chutes and cranes. A couple of smaller tramps sat on the concrete aprons.

Over in the town it was still quiet. One or two early birds hurried through the streets but the majority of the citizenry snored on. He examined the lasercannon towers carefully. From his vantage point in the swamp he could see they were made from preassembled modules like giant scaffolding, which explained how the Brasilians had erected them quickly. He had wondered whether they could be toppled but the lattice arrangement of supports would be difficult to hit. Knocking out just one or two struts would have little impact on the integrity of the structures.

A flash of reflected sunlight from one of the towers caught his eye. He jacked up the magnification on the scope as high as he could go without losing all detail in hand-shake. The scope’s stabilization function helped enormously. A figure hunched over an observation device that was pointed in the direction of the expedition.

He nudged Hawthorn.

“We’ve been spotted.”

“They were bound to clock us sooner or later,” Hawthorn replied.

“I suppose so.” Allenson chuckled. “They must wonder what the hell we’re up to.”

After another hour Kiesche approached Allenson, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction like an excited schoolboy.

“They’re done and I’ve dry tested the systems. The power supplies discharged a little overnight but I’ve got men replacing the lost energy.”

“So I see,” Allenson replied.

A man stood over each of the three power supplies pumping backwards and forwards on a lever. Manual recharging was the only sure way to replenish power into the sealed batteries without risking an explosion.

“We’ll have to set up a rota with a frequent change over. The men won’t be able to stand that level of work for long in these damn masks.”

Allenson walked gingerly across the rocks which were slippery with some disgusting slime-mold like growth. He was naturally clumsy at the best of times. On this surface a fall could damage more than just his dignity. Pynchon bent over one of the pumping modules intently watching a pressure gauge crudely welded onto the case. He looked up when Allenson approached and switched off the pump.

“Morning, sir, just powering up one of the engines. I intend to try a few shots to calibrate tension against range before we open up with the full battery. Do you have any particular mark you’d like me to try to hit?”

Oddly enough, Allenson’s attention had been so fixed on getting their home made artillery into position that he hadn’t given the matter much thought. He looked across the bay allowing himself the luxury of choosing a target.

“You see that big bugger tied up against the dock,” Allenson said, pointing to the newly arrived freighter.”

“Yes, sir,” Pynchon replied with a grin.

#

Pynchon measured the range with his datapad. He carried out a quick calculation before running the pump for another five minutes or so. The torsion bars on the third module imperceptibly tightened causing the engine to make sharp clicking noises as various components took up the load.

Pynchon adjusted the rake of the carbon fiber and steel tube that served as a barrel before signaling to the loaders. Two men carried a heavy iron ball to the muzzle and rolled it down the barrel where it lay on a striker connected to the torsion bars.

“Stand clear,” Pynchon said, testing the various cables anchoring the module to the rock one last time.

The artilleryman fired the piece by flipping a lever as they didn’t want to risk a remote. A mechanical delay gave Pynchon a valuable half second to put a couple of meters between himself and the device before it released. The catapult emitted a great clang and thumped against the ground. It bounced a few millimeters into the air before being caught on the cables. Allenson winced, thinking of the strain on the pressurized pipes connecting the pump.

“Would you look at that,” Hawthorn said in wonder.

The ball soared majestically into the air, clearly visible to the naked eye. It described a high parabolic curve before dropping into the bay with a visible splash. Unfortunately it fell well short of the ship.

“I was concerned that we wouldn’t be able to see the fall of shot,” Pynchon said, half to himself, “but that isn’t going to be a problem. The equipment is less efficient than our initial tests suggested. No matter, we’ll try another round with ten percent more pressure.”

The last was directed at a technician on the pump who pressed a large red button to reset the safety and switch on the apparatus. It took ten minutes to re-tension the catapult. Not a devastatingly fast rate of fire, Allenson reflected but the targets weren’t going anywhere. No one in the port appeared to have noticed the attack.

Pynchon fired again. This time the ball sailed clean over the ship and kicked a chip from the tough material of the syncrete. They certainly noticed that in the port but didn’t connect it with Allenson’s little band. Dockers stood curiously around the crater alternating between peering down at the damage and gazing up at the sky.

Pynchon’s third shot hit the water just in front of the floating ship and bounced into the hull with a crack that could be hear across the bay.

“Skipping stones,” Allenson said delightedly, imitating throwing a stone across the water with a flick of his wrist.

“I remember your brother Todd was a demon at that,” Hawthorn said with a grin.

“Happier times,” Allenson replied, regretfully.

He turned to the engineering officer.

“That completes your part in our enterprise, Major Kiesche. You and your technicians may as well walk back and get a decent meal and rest. I expect you’ll be glad to get these damned masks off and enjoy a hot shower”

“I’ll send my men back, sir, but with your permission I think I should stay just in case a problem arises with the equipment.”

Allenson grinned within his mask. Kiesche didn’t fool him for a moment. The man wouldn’t miss seeing his inventions in action for anything.

The artillery proved to be horribly inaccurate. Only one in three shots managed to hit even such a large target as the freighter but they had plenty of time and plenty of iron. The solid shot inflicted limited damage but you can erode granite if you flick enough water drops at it.

It didn’t take the Brasilians long to join up the dots and work out the source of the bombardment. They reacted by raking the area with lasercannon fire. Fingers of green punched into the air in front generating opaque clouds. Acid rain fell into the swamp in heavy drips. When they realized that they weren’t getting results, the enemy’s next tried focusing a group of lasercannon on a single spot.

Boiling energy reached deep into the vapor but the extra power was counterproductive. All it did was spawn a massive chemical reaction that completely shielded the rocky outcrop. None of this affected Pynchon’s bombardment. Not being able to see the target was little disadvantage as the catapults didn’t exactly have sights anyway.

The green fog slowly dissipated over half an hour finally allowing Allenson to see the fruits of their efforts. A dockside crane jib hung over at a crazy angle, swaying from side to side. The container being unloaded had half slipped out of the lifting cables so that one corner was smashed on the ground. Dockers swarmed around the wreckage trying to make it safe before the whole thing collapsed.

The Port defenses were on automatic, firing at each iron ball as it left the protective screen of marsh vapors. The Brasilian lasercannon were quality kit and the artillery rate of fire glacial so the energy pulses repeatedly hit and lit up the shot. Defenses like these easily destroyed artillery shells and missiles. Lasers wrecked their delicate fuses and thrusters and set off the various unstable chemicals in the warheads. On the other hand, heating a lump of iron white hot before it smashed into you was not all that much of an advantage. The Brasilians eventually worked this out and shut their lasercannons. The civilian laborers not unreasonably took this as a sign to abandon work.

The captain of the freighter inevitably lost patience with the situation. The freighter was valuable private property and he was responsible to the owners for its safety. Tugs maneuvered the ship away from the dockside. As soon as it was clear the ship extended pylons and lifted off. The artillerymen raised a cheer, well more of a squawk actually because of the masks, but the sentiment was clear.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 04

Sanctuary – Snippet 04

For them, so far as Njekwa had been able to determine, the Godhead was more in the way of a disembodied universal power than anything she or her shamans would call a deity at all. The Kororo even went so far as to claim that all the goddesses and gods — even mighty Huwute herself! — were illusions. Figments of the imagination; names given to a mystery so vast that no mortal mind could ever grasp more than a shard at a time. And that shard was more likely to be distorted than true.

Quite interesting concepts, actually. In certain moods — usually after one or another misfortune — Njekwa found herself half-agreeing with them.

Some of them. The notion of a genderless Godhead was preposterous, of course.

“So what should we do?” Litunga repeated.

Njekwa gave the usual answer. “For the moment, nothing.”

***

Meshwe

“Couldn’t I try first with a huddu?” asked Chello plaintively. “Or maybe a mavalore?” Squatting on her haunches with her hands splayed on the sand, the youngling stared apprehensively at the tritti sprawled a short distance away in the little arena. For its part, the horned lizard stared off to the side. To all outward appearances it seemed oblivious to Chello’s presence.

But tritti could move very quickly. And their fangs might be short but they were very sharp. As small as they were, their venom was not fatal to a Liskash, even a youngling. But it would hurt. It would really, really hurt. For a long time. And if it bit her in the wrong place, Chello might lose something like a finger.

Maybe even a foot. One of the older females, Kjat, had lost three toes because of a tritti’s bite — and that had happened in an arena just like this one. True, Kjat was pretty dim-witted and should probably never have tried to become a tekkutu in the first place.

Still…

“No, you can’t try first on a huddu or a mavalore,” said Meshwe. “It wouldn’t do any good. No animal whose life is guided by fear can serve your purpose. Only in a ferocious mind can you find the strength you need. You know all this, Chello. It has been explained to you often.”

His tone was patient. The mentor had been through this many times over the years. Most younglings trying to become tekkutu were afraid the first time they went into the arena — usually, many times thereafter too. Tritti bites hurt, sure enough, and the little predators were quite willing to attack creatures much larger than themselves if they felt threatened.

Which they did, of course, when they found themselves trapped in a small arena whose walls were too high for them to leap over and too smooth to scale.

“Now, concentrate,” commanded Meshwe. “Find the hunter’s mind and merge with it. From the hunter, take its fierce purpose. To the hunter, give your own serenity. Out of this exchange, surround your mind with impervious walls.”

****

Fierce purpose, the tritti surely had. Unfortunately, Chello’s serenity was as shaky as that of most six-year-old younglings. She started off rather well, but then got anxious and fumbled the exchange. The hunter reacted as such hunters are prone to do when their little minds are penetrated by strange and unsettling sensations. (You couldn’t call them thoughts, really; not even notions — a tritti’s brain is quite tiny.)

Strike out — and there was only one visible target.

“Aaaaah!” Chello began capering about, shaking her leg frantically. “Get it off me! Get it off!”

Tritti transmitted their venom down grooves in their teeth, not through hollow fangs like serpents. So they had to chew for a bit where a snake would strike and immediately withdraw. But not for all that long. By the time Meshwe could climb over the wall into the arena the horned lizard had already relinquished its hold and fallen back onto the sand.

The mentor lifted Chello over the barricade and passed her into the hands of a healer who’d been standing by. Then, drew the trident from its sheath on his back and turned to face the horned lizard.

The creatures were really very ferocious, given their size. The tritti leapt forward again and bit Meshwe on the ankle.

Or tried to. The mentor, unlike the youngling, was not clad in a light tunic. His upper body was unarmored, but his legs and feet were encased in thick boots that reached almost all the way up to his groin.

The fangs were unable to penetrate. Frustrated, the monster fell back and gathered itself for another leap. But the trident skewered it to the sand.

Meshwe waited for a while, as the tough little creature thrashed out its life. It was too bad, really. This tritti was fearless even by the standards of its kind. Had Chello’s attempt been successful, the hunter would have made a splendid familiar until she was ready to graduate to a greater challenge.

But, she’d failed. And now the tritti would be inured to any further such attempts, either by Chello or any other youngling. It would simply attack instantly if it found itself placed in the position again.

Chello was still wailing. She had a very unpleasant few days ahead.

Too bad also, of course. But the Kororo Krek had never found any other way to raise up tekkutu.

They’d been left in relative peace for years, here in their mountain sanctuary. But it wouldn’t last. Any attentive youngling could learn the basic precepts of the order. Only a few of them, however, would manage the task of achieving tekku. And only tekkutu could hope to withstand the mental domination of the nobility.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 49

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 49

Chapter 16 – The Battle of Oxford

Allenson adjusted the mask over his face until it covered his mouth, eyes and nose. It supplied metallic air that tasted like an iron based tonic wine. A thick cable ran to a box strapped over his left hip that acted as an artificial lung. It filtered out undesirable vapors and pumped in nitrogen and oxygen. Exhaled air evacuated through a valve in front. Something in his humid warm breath reacted with the marsh vapors to create a white smoke that strung slowly into streamers in the light breeze.

The mask design assumed the limited oxygen requirements of a man doing no more exercise than a gentle stroll. Unfortunately Allenson took his turn at pulling on a line attached to a sledge loaded with hydraulic equipment.

The sticky ooze sucked at his feet making each step a struggle. He tried to remember which idiot had decided that it would be easier to drag sledges through the mud at the side of the peninsula rather than manhandle the loads along the rocky on top. He couldn’t recall but he did remember which idiot had approved the idea – him.

Not that he had much choice. He had explored the concept of modifying various vehicles to run along the peninsula but it was full of jagged rocks. Sooner or later there would be a catastrophe letting explosive fumes into the motor.

He took another deep breath, sucking in air against the resistance of the equipment and exhaling so hard that pressure built up in the mask. It lifted slightly. When it snapped back into position the merest trace of acidic vapor entered around the edge, stinging his eyes and nose. He resisted the urge to cough. The pressure pulse would probably let in more of the toxic whiff and crease his eyeballs for good measure.

Steadying his breathing he took another step and heaved on the line. Something under his foot squirmed. The locals assured him that nothing bigger than a bacterium lived in the swamp so the movement must just be a release of gas. An unconvinced part of his mind toyed with pictures of large amorphous things with tentacles and parrot beaks. Get a grip, man, he thought forcing his imagination back to sleep.

The officer in front of him was on a rest period. He held a nightscope, one of the handful of devices that Kiesche approved for use in the swamp. Hawthorn ruthlessly strip-searched each soldier before they started, discarding anything with a power source that just might create a spark if it malfunctioned. Allenson insisted on being publically searched first to set an example.

Guns were the first to go. Hawthorn personally chose each person for the security detail and muscle part of the expedition but it was still astonishing how many tried to smuggle in a pistol. Each one assured Hawthorn that he only had it as a safeguard for unforeseen circumstances. Hawthorn ignored it all. If you let people carry guns then sooner or later some fool will panic and blow us all up, was his only comment to Allenson.

He encouraged the troopers provide themselves with a variety of sharp-edged and blunt instruments as personal choice dictated. Allenson could not imagine any circumstances where they might prove useful but such primitive weapons could do no harm and were a sop to morale. Many of the people Hawthorn selected were from the ranks of his security group rather than the line soldiery. This no doubt explained their attachment to clubs and the like.

“About a hundred and fifty meters to go,” the officer with the scope said breaking into Allenson’s thought processes.

The small speaker in his mask made his voice squeaky, like someone who inhaled helium as a party trick. Allenson nodded to save his breath for pulling. There was enough ambient light cast across the swamp from the port and the city for Allenson to see the officer as a dark outline. Theoretically anyone training a scope on the swamp from Oxford could spot Allenson’s small expedition but why would they bother? There was damn all they could do about it anyway.

The expedition pulled five sledges in all, three carrying equipment and the other two supplies. It took another hour to yomp the last one hundred and fifty meters as everyone was close to exhaustion. One man fell face down in the slime. Unfortunately he panicked and pulled off his mask when sediment blocked its valves. One breath was all it took. His companions got the mask back on him but by then he was still. They piled him on a sledge but Allenson suspected that the trooper was already dead.

The soldiers were so knackered when they reached their destination that Allenson told them to climb up on the low jumble of rocks and wait for dawn before unloading. He sent back a coded message signaling the party’s safe arrival before wedging himself uncomfortably between two boulders. Rather to his surprise, he dozed off almost immediately.

#

Trina and Ling watched the operation from Allenson’s office via a secure line to a nightscope positioned in the siege lines. Trina’s hands clenched when the trooper slipped into the ooze but she showed no other sign of the stress she was under.

“That’s not the general,” Ling said confidently. “I can quite clearly see him at the front.”

“I believe you are right,” Trina replied.

They both lied. All the scope showed were struggling silhouettes barely distinguishable from the background. Her knuckles stayed white until the signal arrived, the precise form of the message indicating that all essential personnel were in place which must of necessity include Allenson. In her relief she talked more than she would normally have considered necessary.

“I don’t understand why Allen had to personally undertake this operation,” she said. “It’s not like he knows anything about engineering.”

“Strictly speaking that is true,” Ling said carefully. “But the strike is critical so I expect he wanted to be on hand in case unexpected developments required an immediate response from him personally.”

“Like what?” Trina asked.

“Well, um, anything I suppose,” Ling replied, evasively.

Trina glared at the Chief of Staff.

“Give me an example?” she asked, remorselessly pressing the point.

“The, ah, Brasilians might, well….suppose…”

His voice trailed off.

“That’s what I thought,” Trina said crushingly. “There is no good reason for my husband to hazard himself.”

“It’s the first offensive move by the army so I expect he wanted to set an example by leading from the front,” Ling said loyally.

“Ridiculous and you know it,” Trina snapped. “Generals make plans but their combat officers carry them out. He’s just being irresponsible because he can’t bear to stay away from the sharp end. It never seems to occur to him that he is as mortal as anyone else and what will happen to his precious army if he gets himself killed? Answer me that? People die in wars. They die stupidly, pointlessly by sheer chance.”

Ling stayed silent.

“Sorry, Colonel Ling, I’m just worried about him. I shouldn’t embarrass a gentleman by inviting him to criticize his superior officer’s ludicrous behavior even if it is just privately to the man’s wife.”

Ling muttered something

“What?”

“I said it will soon be light.”

“Really? I thought you said: especially to his wife.”

“The difficult part is over. There’s nothing now the Brasilians can do,” Ling said reassuringly.

Trina would have none of it.

“I don’t pretend to know anything about war, Colonel, but I do understand business. It’s exactly when you know your competitor can’t counter your move that he does so anyway.”

“Colonel Hawthorn is in charge of the operation and I’m sure he will take good care of the general. From what I’ve seen I would say the Colonel is a most effective officer.”

“Oh he has many competencies,” Trina said tonelessly.

Ling glanced at her sharply but her mouth was set in a hard line as she watched the scope. She clearly didn’t intend to expand upon the point.

#

A figure danced in the flames, his head thrown back, his mouth open soundlessly screaming. His hair blazed like molten lava. Allenson reached out to try to pull him from the flames but the figure shook him off. The shaking went on and on.

“Rise and shine, General,” Hawthorn said and shook him again.

Allenson licked his lips inside the mask. He put his head close to Hawthorn’s so he could speak quietly.

“I wasn’t, you know, saying anything odd, was I?”

Hawthorn looked at him sharply.

“Have the nightmares started again?”

Allenson shook his head. The mask disguised his features. It was easier to lie just by body language although he doubted if Hawthorn was fooled. He levered himself awkwardly to his feet. One of his knees had frozen and his back felt as if a regiment had marched up and down it.

“Too many nights sleeping in a soft bed,” Hawthorn said with a grin.

Allenson told him to commit an act that a double jointed teenage acrobat would have found demanding and surveyed their surroundings. Rosy light filtered over the horizon flooding the green tinge of the marsh with a pastel pink. The first flicker of the sun gleamed where the sea met the sky.

Breakfast consisted of a tube of nutrient fluid with added stimulants squirted through a valve in the mask. It tasted like salted baby food. Kiesche was already up and with his engineering crew to supervise the assembly of his apparatus. He hopped from installation to installation like an overworked midwife dealing with three simultaneous births.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 26

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 26

Chapter 26.

The echoing, many-layered murmur ahead of them was unmistakable; they had heard something similar on the day they had – with Xavier – confronted Bolthawk and Skyharrier. It was a crowd, perhaps a mob.

Hiriista broke into a trotting run, his tail held high, head maintaining a steady level to guide him. Kyri sprinted alongside of him. Please, Myrionar, let us be in time!

The forest opened up ahead, and a cluster of buildings – a moderate-sized mansion to the far right on a rise, houses and small shops a bit below it, docks and boathouses and other buildings at the edge of a rippling sheet of water that extended and widened to the north, more forest closing in beyond the town they could see.

Filling the main intersection, a sort of rough rectangle, was a mass of people; Kyri guessed it at over a hundred, and all of them were armed. As they approached, she could hear murmurs and shouts in which Zogen Josan’s name was recognizable, and not in a good way.

Cirnala stumbled up behind them, pushed past as the two slowed. “Let me… tell them you are here…”

The Artan took a deep breath and shouted, “LISTEN!”

His voice was startlingly powerful for his slender frame, and heads immediately turned in their direction. A murmur went up, and, gratefully, Kyri heard the angry rumblings subsiding, giving way to surprise and curiosity.

“Cirnala! You’re just in time!” The speaker was a tall, very handsome human who appeared to be in his late 50s, with his greying black hair and sharp black eyes that glanced in the direction of the other travelers before returning to the exhausted Artan. “We were just about to go confront Zogen.”

“I’ve brought… help,” Cirnala said, still catching his breath. “To solve the mystery.”

“No need to solve it anymore,” said a woman with dark brown hair, hefting an axe that looked almost as large as Shrike’s had been. “Saw him, Nimelly did – Zogen Josan, running into the woods with Abiti under his arm!”

“Abiti! Oh, Light, no.” Cirnala was momentarily stunned.

“That’s why we can’t wait any longer,” the older man said. “But we’ll be glad of any help.”

Hiriista bowed to him. “Magewright Hiriista of Sha Murnitenzei.”

“I have heard your name, Magewright. Reflect Namuhan Jenten; I welcome you to my small village.”

Kyri had suspected this was the Reflect from the way the others had instantly parted to let him through and he seemed naturally in charge. She thought his bow was a trifle stiff and hurried, but given the circumstances that wasn’t surprising.

Hiriista gestured to them. “My companions are guests and welcomed as equals by Light Miri and the Lady Shae herself, for they have come to us through the Pass of Night from the world beyond.” Eyes widened and breaths caught at that statement, as the mazakh magewright continued, “Warrior of Justice and Vengeance, the Phoenix, and her companion, Tobimar. They are here to assist as well.”

“As I said, welcome indeed. I will not pretend that the thought of assaulting a former Color of the Unity is less than tragedy… or less than terrifying.” The others were getting restless, but the Reflect held up a hand. “And justice and vengeance surely is what we need here.”

An opening. “Then allow me to go first, sir. I am the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar, and my god’s first directive and highest duty is to apply wisdom and mercy to arrive at justice, and when justice demands, to deliver the vengeance of the gods. I have seen the things your Unity Guard face, and I have survived the forest that surrounds Kaizatenzei; my friends and I may survive a confrontation with this Zogen Josan far more easily than would your people, who are – if I see a right – mostly unused to such combat.”

The head tilted slightly, but then nodded. “You see truly. We have a few warriors… but none trained with the Unity Guard, and what little we know of Zogen is fearsome. Very well; if Cirnala has come so far, so fast, to bring you here, and you are vouched for by the Magewright and the Lady herself, I yield gladly the forefront. But I hope you are ready –”

Kyri was already striding in the direction of the forest; she could tell that Tobimar and Hiriista were right behind her. “Children are missing; of course I am ready.” Cirnala had told them roughly where the retired Color’s cabin was, and as she expected the Artan quickly jogged up to guide them.

The villagers – not so much a mob now, thank the Balance! – trailed close behind, with the Reflect leading them. “This Abiti – boy or girl?” she asked.

Cirnala closed his eyes as if in pain briefly. “Daughter of Genata and Ivilit – they run the local tavern, great favorites of everyone as you might guess, and Abiti was… is a charmer. Fearless girl, helped track the depthshade just a few weeks before this happened.”

The “depthshade”, Kyri remembered, was the local name for a crocodilian monstrosity which was equally at home in water or on land, with legs suited for running as well as swimming. It had been lurking around Jenten’s Mill for weeks, apparently, ambushing sithigorn chicks, young forest antelope, and herd calves until someone noticed the reduction in livestock and a hunt was organized – a hunt that cost more than just the life of the monster.

One more reason for us to go first. If hunting even a local predator is dangerous enough that some of the locals get killed, fighting a trained warrior of this Unity Guard would be so much worse.

She remembered that Hiriista had said Zogen might kill all of those who came after him. That puts him up on our level, maybe better. And I am weaker here.

She concentrated, dragging the power down through whatever monstrous resistance it was that nearly blocked her connection to Myrionar. But drag it she did, and she felt the strength building up within her. I’ll be prepared as well as I can by the time we get there.

“Zogen will be expecting some kind of assault from the village by now,” Tobimar said quietly. “Wouldn’t you say so, Cirnala?”

A reluctant nod. “Probably, yes.”

Kyri understood what he was getting at. “Then can you and the others stay back? Not only will it be safer… but if anyone can somehow talk to him, get some sense out of him, won’t it be someone he doesn’t think is pre-judging him?”

Cirnala’s face wrinkled in surprise. “Well… I hadn’t thought of that. But –”

“I can understand reluctance – and obviously the Reflect and the rest of you have a feeling of responsibility. But if you’re right, he has at least one child now, perhaps still has the others. If it begins with an assault, might he not use the children as a defense?”

The Reflect had overheard them. “A grim thought, but true enough. But if you take too long, he might do more.”

“If we can keep him talking, he will be less able to do anything else, I think. Especially if he is trying to understand who we are and what we’re doing here,” Tobimar said.

The Reflect hesitated, then took a pained breath. “My heart screams out that I must run forward… but your words ring true.” His dark eyes measured both of them. “Very well. We shall wait at the gray stump – it is well out of sight of the cabin, but if battle is joined we can hasten to your aid in moments. I cannot guarantee how long I can hold my people back, you understand.”

Kyrie grasped his hand impulsively and bowed over it. “Thank you, Reflect. I understand entirely. Honestly, if we cannot reach him, or find some advantage, in a relatively few minutes… I think there will be no need to hold any back.”

His startled face creased in a momentary smile, and his returning grip was powerful. “Then I wish you luck; I hope for a way out of this horror.”

The three of them – four, counting the generally-unnoticed Toad – moved forward past the stump; while there were some murmured protests, Kyri felt great relief as the crowd stopped, many of them looking relieved themselves that their confrontation with an ex-Color was postponed. Myrionar, show me the way. Let us find a way to prevent any more deaths. Let us find a way to save that child, or all the children if they still live.

“So, want me to do some scouting?” Poplock said as soon as they were out of earshot.

Hiriista blinked, even as both Kyri and Tobimar grinned savagely. “I did not fully comprehend the other advantage of your size, little Toad, but now I do. While we confront Zogen, you will gain entrance and find out the truth within.”

“If that’s Phoenix’ plan.”

“It is exactly Phoenix’ plan, Poplock. If we can get his attention, get in, find out what you can, and get back fast. We’ll keep him talking.”

“Got it.”

She turned to the mazakh. “Does Zogen know you?”

“Oh, certainly. We weren’t close friends, but casual friends, good acquaintances and colleagues in a way; I have been one of the major consultants for the Unity Guard as they traveled through Sha Murnitenzei for the last, oh, twenty-five years, and often travel with them for various missions.”

“Good. Good. That might just give us an opening.” They could see the retired Color’s cabin now – a large construction of logs with multiple sections, obviously several rooms. Pretty good-sized house.

“How do you mean that?”

Kyri felt her face going cold. “I was thinking on the way here. What could make a man like Zogen Josan, the one you described at his retirement and evidently the one they saw here for a while, change, retreat like that? And after our other conversations, the first thing I thought of was… what if he felt there was something wrong with him?”

A slow hiss. “You mean… what if he somehow sensed or acknowledged whatever it is that we have noticed in the others. He is retired, no longer active. Perhaps in the slow passing of peaceful days, with no activities to distract him… yes.”

“A good thought, Phoenix,” Tobimar said. “And you have a plan?”

“Sort of. I’m playing this by heart, not head. Just… follow my lead.”

He touched her arm and smiled. “Always.”

She smiled back, then turned to the silent cabin. “Zogen! Zogen Josan, once-Color of the Unity Guard, I would speak with you!”

Her voice echoed through the forest, more powerful than any ordinary human voice, and forest-sounds momentarily quieted in its wake.

A moment went by. Two. Then, as she was about to call again, a voice answered from the cabin, a deep but weary voice. “You are not from the Mill. Surprising. But perhaps no less enemies, for that. Who are you?”

“I am the Phoenix, Justiciar of the god Myrionar, patron of Justice and Vengeance.” As she spoke, she saw a tiny flicker of motion, a scuffle of leaves; Poplock was on his way.

“Myrionar… I have not heard that name. And a strange title you have. As to justice, alas, I fear no justice can be found here.”

She beckoned to Hiriista, who stepped fully into view. “Zogen, do you know me?”

“M.. Magewright? Magewright Hiriista? Could that be…?” The incredulous voice suddenly hardened. “But no. It would too glad a coincidence, too fine a chance.” The voice wavered, hope and fear evident. “But if you are… If you truly be Hiriista, then tell me, what words did I speak to you in Sha Alatenzei, when we stepped from a particular drinking establishment?”

Hiriista tilted his head, then suddenly gave vent to a steamkettle laugh. “You opened your mouth, yes, but it was not words that came out! And then you fell nigh-senseless and I had to carry you to your room in the Steamvent Inn.”

There was a faint sound, as of a man dropping heavily into a chair. “Light… it is you, isn’t it? But…” the suspicion was back. “Those with you… they must be Unity Guard, then.”

“Do we look like Unity Guards?” Tobimar asked quietly.

“No… no, you do not. There is something strange indeed about you. I know not the workmanship on your armor, Phoenix, nor the pattern of your clothing, young man.”

Kyri shook her head, trying to make sense of this. His voice is tense, exhausted… near the edge of a breakdown. Yet he does not speak as a madman. At the same time, there was a witness to him actually abducting a child.

“That,” Hiriista said, “is because you see before you far travelers indeed: Phoenix and her friend Tobimar hail from beyond the great mountains, through the Pass of Night; Lady Shae herself has looked into them and seen their truth.”

Truth. That’s it! I’ve never tried it…but I know it can be done. She concentrated, let the power she had been gathering flow into her. Myrionar, give me your eyes and ears. Let me see what truly is, not what others desire I see, nor what my own beliefs would like to see. Let me hear the truth, and be deaf to falsehoods.

She sagged as though a massive weight had landed on her; the power she had gathered before was suddenly all needed merely to support her as she was forced to reach out, grasp the distant power, yank it towards her, an effort like dragging granite boulders. Myrionar, I had never realized… the POWER needed for the truth-sight. Only the mighty prayer and miracle she had called forth on the night of her defeat of Thornfalcon, when she shattered a mystic Gateway and evaporated an almost uncounted host of foes, had demanded more focus and power from both her and Myrionar. And it was harder here, even harder than it had been in Rivendream Pass, harder even than her sensing for hidden evil in Sha Murnitenzei, for truth-telling meant discerning the secrets hidden in another soul without injury – in short, seeing into that strange place beyond the living realm where the real and the possible intersected and tracing those threads, rather than seeking to break the target’s will. That suppressing power is stronger, much stronger here. And it is darker here, not even merely less good. This is a dangerous place.

Zogen Josan had recovered from the expected surprise. “This is truth? Do you swear it, Hiriista? Swear by the Light that these are no Unity Guards nor any of their servants, but new-come heroes from beyond the Pass?”

Hiriista’s voice was puzzled, but at the same time she heard relief in it – relief that his old acquaintance seemed willing to talk, might be able to be reached. “I swear it, in the name of the Light in the Darkness, the Seven Lights and the One Light, by my Oath and by my Family.”

“Then… then I believe you. I have to believe someone can be trusted. But… but I think it is too late, far too late.”

“Maybe not, Zogen Josan,” Kyri said, the power finally come into her. She saw the world now as though it was both brighter and darker than before, flickering with strange fire, whispering hints of words. “But I must ask you. Did you kill any of the children that have disappeared?”

“No!” The voice was emphatic. “I have killed no children! I would never do anything like that!”

The first part was true; she could hear the truth in it, the rightness in the statement like the beauty of a pitch perfect note. But the second part sounded a hair off, the glow was dimmed, grayish. Why would he say he has killed none of them, yet be less sure of what he would do? Does he doubt himself?

“But you were seen taking a child today.”

“To protect them!” Zogen said emphatically. He had come forward, and she could now see him, a tall black-haired man with a haggard, drawn face that must normally be quite handsome. “Though I fear there is nothing I can do to save them.”

And the truth, twice more. She knew she could not keep this power up much longer.

“What are you afraid of, Zogen Josan?” she asked finally. “What makes you fear to trust your comrades, your Reflect… and yourself?”

The former Color’s breath caught; the gasp was audible from where they stood. There was a long, long pause. Then, finally, he spoke, in a voice so low she could barely hear it.

“Sometimes I would look in the mirror and not know, exactly, where I had gotten the bruises I saw. And then I would forget them, and not wonder. And other times, I would remember doing something, yet the memory did not always ring true, as though I had seen it, but was as though I had stood outside myself, watching.”

Ice trailed down her spine, for she recalled the Watchland’s own words: “…for many of the last few days I have felt almost outside myself, watching what I have been doing…”. And the Truth of Zogen’s words was undeniable.

“And,” he continued, “and sometimes I have seen my friends, and for a moment … wondered about them. Wondered if they were as they seemed. And as I thought of these things, I was more and more sure that many of my deeds were just shadows of truth, and I have had nightmares of other things. Places of terror I have never seen in waking, things that hide behind faces I trust, but are not what they seem. And I know now that one of them is here.”

The Sight was gone now, but she was sure that he was telling the truth as he knew it. “How do you know, Zogen?”

“I knew there was something wrong, even before Tirleren vanished, so I started watching the children in the woods. Watching, making sure they were safe, I thought… but I didn’t understand, not then. Only after he disappeared did I guess… but I could not be sure, for I found him too late.”

“Found him?” she repeated, even as she felt something small scuttle up her armor.

“Yes. In the wood, near the town. But I still didn’t know…”

“Five children,” Poplock’s voice said softly in her ear. “Tied up downstairs and secured in cages. But something’s funny about a couple of them, I think. Didn’t dare poke around long – there were all kinds of weird crystals and things that might have been wards and such.”

“What didn’t you know? Zogen, why did you take the children?”

“I found out what was trying to take them. All of them were being brought to him.”

She suddenly connected little pieces of Cirnala’s story and with a sinking feeling in her gut knew what Zogen was going to say… and who it was coming just now up behind her, emerging from the forest…

“They were being brought to the Reflect,” Zogen said, and his breath suddenly caught.

Kyri looked back.

Reflect Jenten stood there, the entire mob just behind him.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 25

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 25

Chapter 25.

“Magewright Hiriista,” the Artan said, his delicate features taut with concern, “I implore you and your companions to give us aid.”

Hiriista cocked his head, and Tobimar thought there was a miniscule smile implied. “Perhaps if you were to state your problem, my companions Tobimar and Phoenix, and I, might be able to say if we can be of any assistance. Your face is somewhat familiar, but I regret to say I do not quite recall…”

“Atcha!” The sound was an explosive one of distress and self-reproach. “Many apologies, Magewright. I have been searching the Necklace for assistance and my mind is not focused or calm. I am Cirnala of Jenten’s Mill.”

“I recall Jenten’s Mill – a village quite some miles north of here, approaching the shores of Enneisolaten – on a narrow inlet from the lake. You are one of Jenten’s – the third of the name, I believe – hunters and warriors at need. Yes?”

“Exactly so!” Cirnala looked much relieved that Hiriista recalled so much already. “We are not large, only a few hundred people, but we have always done well and had no unexpected troubles…”

“Until now,” Tobimar finished. “What is the problem?”

“Children,” the Artan said quietly. “Children have been disappearing.”

That was enough for all of them; Hiriista simply glanced at their expressions and nodded. “Lead on, Cirnala. Tell us the rest as we travel; it will be a few days to reach Jenten’s Mill, and if children are at risk we should waste no time at all.”

Tobimar could hear a particular emphasis in the mazakh‘s voice, and suspected the reason. Hiriista had said that there were so few of his people in Kaizatenzei that they probably would eventually die out; it was likely, then, that their hatchlings were prized even more highly than they were normally. Anything threatening children…

“How did it start?” Kyri asked.

Cirnala’s story was mysterious and chilling. A few months before, his cousin’s son Tirleren had disappeared while playing in the forest near the inlet. A few weeks later, another child, this time a human girl named Demmi, vanished, also while playing. It emerged that Tirleren had claimed to have been playing with Demmi in the days before his disappearance, while Demmi said she hadn’t seen him much beforehand, and that Demmi had claimed she was going off to play with an Odinsyrnen child named Hamule – who hadn’t seen her on that day, or several other days Demmi had said she and Hamule were playing. This was verified by Jenten, the Reflect and grandson of the founder, who had seen Demmi go into the woods on her own, and Hamule’s father, who had been fishing with her all day.

The town had of course immediately tried to keep an eye on all the children, making sure they were always escorted, and searched for any clue as to what could have lured the lost children away and misled them into thinking they were meeting with children that were elsewhere. No traces were found, however, except for a few personal possessions – Tirleren’s fishing rod on the shore of a stream, Demmi’s dagger in the middle of the woods. Tirleren’s mother had descended into complete apathy, having lost her lifemate Siltanji only a few weeks before her son, and the entire village was in a state of near panic.

But panic can’t be maintained forever, and in small villages even children have tasks to complete, so while they kept trying to maintain escort, it was inevitable that at some point they would be out of sight of someone. And a couple of weeks later, Hamule disappeared, between her front door and the Reflect’s own home.

“And you have no clues? No monsters or creatures spotted in the area, no blood or trails, no one acting strangely?” Kyri asked carefully.

“No, we…” Cirnala trailed off. “Well… there is one thing.”

“Don’t hold us in suspense!” Tobimar said, as the Artan paused again.

“There is one person. His home is in the woods, outside of town, and not that far from where Tirleren and Demmi disappeared. He’s refused to come into town during the emergency, and when we sent a delegation to talk to them, he threatened them. But…”

“These hesitations are useless,” Hiriista said sharply. “What is it? Who is this person?”

“Zogen Josan,” Cirnala said reluctantly.

Hiriista stumbled to a halt. “What? What did you say?”

“Zogen Josan,” Cirnala repeated.

Hiriista stared. Tobimar finally nudged him. “What is it, Hiriista?”

“Zogen Josan was once the Color of Sha Alatenzei,” Hiriista answered finally. “It is rare for any of the Unity Guard to retire in any manner than via funeral, but when he reached the age of forty-five years he did so. I remember the occasion well, it was quite an event in the capital – he was thanked for his service and he even gave a short speech, in which he said something like ‘I’m quitting now while I’m still beating the odds, instead of the odds beating me. I hope you don’t hold it against me.’ That was only ten years ago. Always cheerful, like most Colors, a magnificent warrior, spent more than twenty years as the protector of the Earthlight City…” The mazakh shook his head. “That he would not be helping, and instead refusing contact…”

“If you knew him, did you ever notice anything … unusual about him?” Tobimar asked carefully. They didn’t want to reveal their particular concerns, but in this context the question shouldn’t be revealing.”

Hiriista glanced at him with a neutral expression, and only said “Not that I can recall; he was as most others of the Unity Guard in that regard.”

And by his estimation “most others” of the Unity Guard have shown the behavior that he and Kyri noted. So I can take that as a “yes”.

“Now you comprehend our problems, sir. Do you think you can help?”

“I think I must help,” Hiriista said flatly. “My companions –”

“– feel the same way. And if this does somehow involve a former Color, I presume he would be extremely formidable.”

“Undoubtedly why they sent Cirnala looking for help. Alas that the farcallers are so difficult to make; it would be useful to have them in all towns and villages as well as the major cities.” Cirnala nodded.

“Did Zogen Josan only begin acting oddly after these disappearances began? Kyri asked. “After all, I suppose that if mysterious disappearances started happening, some people might get nervous.”

“A former Color? That seems unlikely,” Hiriista said skeptically. “What would you say to a similar statement about one of your Justiciars, Phoenix?”

“A point. Cirnala?”

The Artan hesitated again, then shook his head. “No, Phoenix. I am afraid not.” He looked to the north, as though hoping impossibly to see his village ahead of them. “At first, we were overjoyed at the thought that a former Color would be retiring to Jenten’s Mill. And for the first … oh, year, he was everything we hoped – helpful, multitalented, hard-working. But then…”

He shook his head helplessly. “He just slowly seemed to… fade. Or retreat. Sometimes he’d still come out to help when needed, and he didn’t seem any less capable, but he’d be quiet, not joking or laughing or staying any longer than he had to. Zogen would just go back to his home in the woods and stay there. He didn’t even trade in town much anymore – just hunted and fished alone. The children –” his breath caught, then he continued, “the younger children, the ones who hadn’t seen him early on… they called him ‘Shadowman’ because he would come and go through the woods like a shadow. He was … their scary story, I guess. Though not scary enough to keep them out of the woods, and several of them said that if they actually met him in the woods he was quite kind – helped them find berries, gave back toys they lost, things like that.”

“Did he get any worse?” Tobimar asked, guessing what that poke from Poplock meant.

“Recently, yes. Jenten went by to see how he was after we’d had one nasty incursion, just a few weeks before all this started, and he reported that Zogen threatened him – even loosed fire at him – to keep him away from the cabin.”

The three exchanged glances. It sounded like a case of mental deterioration – someone who started out reasonably sane but something went wrong and then they steadily and unstoppably degenerated until they were completely insane. In the State of the Dragon King or even in Skysand there were usually ways to stop or even reverse this, especially with the help of the priests or mages, but here that didn’t seem likely.

Especially – now that he noticed – that the supernal rightness of Kaizatenzei was fading. We’re between cities, where their influence is weakest, where the Seven Stars did not reach.

Where there can truly be monsters.

“Were there any more disappearances?” Kyri asked after a moment.

“Another little boy – one that, as you might guess, Hamule had said she was playing with, disappeared the day before I left. He was with his parents visiting with the Reflect and his family, and vanished while he was playing inside the mansion. A side door was found open and running footprints going into the forest could be distinguished on the ground. There were some other marks on the ground farther in but they could not be distinguished clearly enough to make any sense of them.” Cirnala sighed. “And since it will have been more than a week since I’ve been gone, I suppose another child may have been taken.”

“Tell me truly; they were already speaking before you left of Zogen being the one responsible, yes?” Hiriista asked.

“Yes, Magewright.”

A long hiss escaped the mazakh‘s lips. “Then it will not be long before they overcome their fear of the strength of a Color and decide to use sheer numbers to put a stop to this. If they are wrong and, somehow, Zogen Josan is not to blame, an innocent man will be killed, and if they are right, Zogen will kill many of them… perhaps all of them… before it is over.”

“All of them?” Kyri repeated incredulously.

“It is … possible. If he has fortified his home and is prepared…” Hiriista shook his head and his whole body followed suit.

“Then we’d better hurry,” Tobimar said, and picked up the pace.

“We will hurry,” Kyri said, and her voice was chilled steel. “And we will put an end to this, before any more innocents are killed.”

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 03

Sanctuary – Snippet 03

As he moved toward the great pavilion in the distance, his palanquin followed in his wake. The four Liskash who bore that palanquin were lucky that Zilikazi was still young enough to be energetic and chose to demonstrate that vigor publicly on most occasions. The palanquin was already heavy due to its construction and ornamentation, even without someone riding in it.

As he walked, the Liskash ruler contemplated his next move in the great conflict that had erupted since the sea broke through the eastern mountains and began flooding the lowlands. The migrations of the Mrem clans had unleashed war all across the lands to the north. Wars between Liskash nobles, often, not simply clashes with the furred barbarians. In the nature of things — Zilikazi was no exception — Liskash nobles were always alert to opportunities to enlarge their domains. A noble weakened by Mrem was like a bloody fish in the water, drawing predators from all around.

Now that he’d crushed the Mrem who had dared to invade his own territory, Zilikazi was tempted to send his army north, to seize what lands he could from other nobles. Keletu was badly weakened, he was sure; so, most likely, were Giswayo and Sakki.

But, in his cold and calculating manner, he suppressed the urge. Unlike most Liskash nobles, Zilikazi had trained himself to patience. His mental power was greater than that of any noble he knew — or had ever heard of, for that matter. So what was the hurry? He was still young; still had plenty of time to forge the greatest Liskash realm ever known. It was better to continue the path he’d always followed; the patient path, that consolidated gains before adding new ones.

That meant he had to anchor his position against the southern mountains before he sent his army to the north. The Kororo Krek probably posed no real danger to him, since the religious order seemed disinclined toward conquest. But who knew what ideas might come into the heads of fanatics?

Their overly complex, phantasmagorical notions belonged in the addled brains of Mrem, not sensible Liskash. If those notions spread more widely, mischief might result. Zilikazi hadn’t been able to make much sense of the prattle of the Kororo disciple he’d had tortured. But one thing had emerged clearly out of the muddle: the Krek placed no great value — perhaps none at all — on the established customs of the Liskash.

Not even the most powerful noble — not even Zilikazi himself — could rule without those customs. If one had to maintain control by the constant exertion of sheer mental force over each and every underling…

Impossible! One had to sleep, after all. What made orderly rule possible was accepted and entrenched custom. Once a noble demonstrated his or her power, those who were inferior acquiesced in their subordination. Willingly, if not eagerly. Thereafter, the nobles needed only to demonstrate, from time to time or in clashes with other nobles, that their power had not waned.

So. The Kororo Krek had annoyed him long enough. It was time to crush them and bring those who survived under his rule. The soldiers wouldn’t like campaigning in the mountains, of course. They would complain bitterly in private to each other. But what did that matter? Soldiers always complained. As long as they kept their grievances to themselves, Zilikazi could safely ignore them.

As for the conditions in the mountains, they couldn’t be that bad. The Kororo had been up there for at least three generations now. And they weren’t a single sub-species which might have become hardened to the environment, either. They were a mongrel breed, accepting Liskash from everywhere. If such could survive up there, so could Zilikazi’s soldiers.

***

Njekwa

“What news?” Njekwa asked quietly, after Litunga entered the cooking tent and came to her side.

“The warriors I spoke to said we are marching south, starting tomorrow.” The old shaman lowered her voice still further. “Zilikazi plans to crush the Kororo, they think.”

Njekwa grunted skeptically. Litunga would have spoken only to common warriors, not officers. Such were hardly likely to be in the godling’s confidence. Rumors were generated and spread in the ranks of the warriors like weeds.

Still…

“What should we do, Priestess?” asked Litunga.

“There’s nothing we can ‘do,’ and you know it as well as I do. What you really mean to ask is ‘what is our attitude’? Do we support the godling or stand apart?”

Which was also a rather pointless way of putting it, thought Njekwa, although she didn’t say it out loud. Zilikazi was barely aware of the Old Faith’s existence. He didn’t care one way or the other whether its adherents considered the Kororo to be heretics — and he certainly didn’t care if they supported him or stood aside when he marched against the Krek. As far as Zilikazi was concerned, the only proper religious belief was the one that recognized him as a god. All others were beneath his contempt.

Nonetheless, the question mattered to the Old Believers. Ever since the rise of the Kororo Krek, a few generations earlier, they had wrestled with the issue.

On the one hand, as members of the Krek themselves freely acknowledged, the Kororo creed had arisen from the Old Faith. It rejected outright the pretensions of the nobility to divine status. Spurned the notion with scorn and derision, in fact.

On the other hand…

The Kororo rejected much of the Old Faith as well. They considered ancestors worthy of respect, but not veneration. They did not seek their enlightenment, much less their intervention in current Liskash affairs. They placed no special status on the female nature of the Godhead — indeed, they argued that the Godhead had no gender at all.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 48

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 48

Hawthorn put his glass down and looked directly at the servant for the first time.

“Now you interest me. Let’s sit over there.”

Hawthorn pointed to a table in a quiet corner. He walked around the table to take the chair with his back to the wall.

“I was in a bar in Cambridge when this bloke started up a conversation about the cider,” Boswell said when they were seated.

“You knew him?” Hawthorn asked.

Boswell shook his head.

“He kept trying to steer the conversation around to the general.”

“Really, what did you tell him?”

Boswell lifted his head and looked Hawthorn in the eye.

“Nothing, I don’t discuss my clients.”

“A good policy,” Hawthorn observed.

“I didn’t think much of it at the time but I found out later that this bloke was in the habit of buying the soldiers drinks and talking about the general. Apparently, one of them had pointed me out as the general’s servant. I dunno, it just seemed odd when I thought about it so I decided to report the thing. Anyway I have so I’ll bugger off.”

Hawthorn stopped him by gripping his arm. He laughed as if Boswell had said something funny.

“Some plum brandy for my friend, here,” Hawthorn said loudly to the barman.

Hawthorn started a monologue about a girl he’d known who ran a burlesque show until the barman had finished serving them.

“I don’t suppose you took any pics of our curious friend?” Hawthorn asked.

“No sorry, but I would recognize him again” Boswell said eagerly. “He had an unusual orange tint to his eyes and a mass of scar tissue on his neck.”

Hawthorn smiled and inwardly cursed. There was nothing better at disguising a face than a few hideous defects to distract attention from everything else.

“No matter, I will arrange a hard cash payment for you in a way that doesn’t look as if it comes from me.”

“There’s no need for that, sar, I don’t need bribing. I pride myself on my loyalty to my clients.”

“If I had any doubts about your loyalty, Boswell, I would have removed you long ago,” Hawthorn said, pleasantly enough but something about his smile seemed to bother the servant. “It’s not a bribe but a bonus for services outside the normal expectation of your duties.”

“Oh a bonus,” Boswell said, brightening. “In that case I gladly accept, sar.”

The way people divided simple acts into classes according to complex social rules had always puzzled Hawthorn. If he fancied a girl and she was willing then he took her. Some ladies had fixed fees for their favors while others required flattery and presents. It was all the same to Hawthorn but apparently the difference was a matter of great importance to the women.

It was the same with people like Boswell, to whom a bribe was an insult but a bonus was a compliment. It was still just money, something whose only value was in its usefulness to achieving one’s goals. No matter, Hawthorn learned society’s rules and how to game them.

He had a rapid change of mind and insisted that Boswell kept him company for the rest of the evening’s entertainment. Boswell had chosen his moment wisely. It was very unlikely that anyone who mattered would ever hear of their meeting but Hawthorn liked to play the odds. He wanted to leave memories of only a couple of pals enjoying a jolly evening. The best place to hide something was in plain sight. Hawthorn was a good raconteur and worked to keep Boswell in stitches. He left a decent tip for the barman when he finally paid up and they staggered off into the night.

Actually Hawthorn was nowhere near as smashed as he looked. He came to a decision. Allenson’s security would have to move up a gear from a defensive reactive posture to a more aggressive proactive strategy. Or, to put it another way, he was going to have to kick arse and get answers.

#

It turned out that Trina had travelled with a number of cases of wine, plum brandy, and even assorted sweetmeats in vacuum packs. Dinner in the officer’s mess that evening was a great success and not just because of the novel varieties of food. The leavening effect of the ladies transformed the mood. Allenson did his best to join in but he was not by nature a party animal and at the moment his responsibilities lay heavy on his shoulders.

Sleep came slowly that night. He lay for what seemed a lifetime listening to Trina’s fluttering breath. When he did sleep it was fitful and much disturbed by dreams. Sari Destry danced in front of him singing a bawdy ditty about the indirect approach. She waved a document but danced out of reach whenever he tried to grab it.

“Too slow, Allen, too slow,” she trilled.

Somehow she disappeared to be replaced by Hawthorn who balanced an impossibly heavy hydraulic pump on his shoulder.

“Can’t wait for you to catch up old son, I’ve got a battleship to build,” Hawthorn said.

Allenson stood on the causeway above Oxford. Laser pulses reached slowly out for him like colored marbles rolling down the channels in a children’s toy. He soared into the air avoiding the fingers of light. His flight path went over Oxford.

“Look that man’s got no clothes on,” yelled a small child pointing up at the sky.

Women and girls laughed and pointed. He tried to cover his nakedness with his hands which caused them to laugh all the more. In desperation he threw himself away from the city, trying to hide amongst the vapors over the marsh.

Trina leaned out of her carriage and shook her head sadly to see him.

“You’re not going to find the indirect approach by rolling around in the mud stark-bollock naked are you, hmmm?”

His stepmother sat next to Trina.

“He’s always such a disappointment,” his mother said to his wife. “The wrong brother died.”

Allenson flushed. He tried to defend himself but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. He sank deeper into the mud. When he tried to climb out his legs wouldn’t work. Hawthorn sat on a stone pier fiddling with his pump.

“Look it works fine even in the vapors,” Hawthorn said.  “I could drain the swamp.”

Kiesche appeared beside him.

“It wasn’t the pumps that blew but something else. Some idiot always disobeys the rules and brings in an unauthorized bit of kit sooner or later. Kaboom!”

Allenson tried to yell for help but his mouth filled with vile-tasting ooze. A strangled scream was all he could manage before the filthy stuff filled his lungs.

He woke and sat up with a jerk.

“What?” Trina said, dozily.

“Just a nightmare, go back to sleep,” Allenson said.

Eventually, he took his own advice. When he woke in the morning he knew just how he was going to capture Oxford.