Eric Flint's Blog, page 277

Sanctuary – Snippet 02

Sanctuary – Snippet 02

****

The work was done, all their belongings back in their packs. Sebetwe straightened and gazed up the mountain. They still had a long way to go before they reached their destination. The trek up the slope would be arduous. The thin and cold air of the mountainside would sap their energy, making them more sluggish as the day passed.

That was how Knest had died, in late afternoon of the previous day. His brain had become dulled; so dulled that he had not noticed the filaments of the grek wadda lying in wait against the rocks until the monster struck.

They would have to be careful — and ever more so as they neared their goal. The gantrak of the mountains guarded their nests fiercely.

***

Achia Pazik

Lavi Tur slid down the slope to come to rest beside Achia Pazik. Despite the peril of the moment, the dancer was amused by the young male’s graceful flamboyance. Because of his age, Lavi Tur was not formally a warrior yet — a fact that aggravated him no end because he felt, probably rightly, that he was as strong and agile as almost any warrior in the clan.

“Probably” rightly? Achia Pazik asked herself silently. The question was a bitter one. After the disastrous outcome of the battle three days ago with Zilikazi’s army, Lavi Tur was almost certainly as strong and agile as any warrior in the tribe. She didn’t think there many left who weren’t dead or captured or so badly wounded that they were unavailable for any more fighting. For a time, anyway. And the casualties among the dancers had been worse than those suffered by the warriors.

Zilikazi had targeted the dancers from the very beginning of the battle, sending massed units of mounted warriors at them. The mind power of the Liskash noble who lorded it over the lands bordering on the great southern mountains had been incredible. No scaled noble they’d encountered before had been nearly as domineering.

The dancers had been stunned, the warriors even more so. The battle had been over within two hours. Only small groups of the tribespeople had escaped; the rest, killed or enslaved. Most of those who had escaped, Achia Pazik thought, had fled back in the direction from which they’d come, to the northeast. But she and the handful with her wound up, in the chaos and confusion, being separated from all others and making their escape to the south. They’d apparently moved completely around the huge Liskash army, although they’d had no conscious intention of doing so.

But it was too late now to do anything more than continue south. Trying to retrace their steps would surely be disastrous. Achia Pazik wanted no further contact with Zilikazi until and unless she could figure out some way to counteract his incredible mental force. And how was she supposed to do that, with no more aid than could be provided by one other dancer, five warriors, one not-quite-a-warrior, four other females — one of them elderly, albeit hale and vigorous — and three kits?

Their only chance was to make it into the mountains. Hopefully, the dropping temperatures would deter Zilikazi’s soldiers from pursuing them. Liskash didn’t like cold; it made them sluggish.

“Chefer Kolkin says the way is clear as far ahead as he can see.” Lavi Tur spoke in a hissing whisper, which Achia Pazik thought was a bit dramatic given the very content of what he had to say. If the way was clear, why worry about being overheard?

But she didn’t chide or tease him. Like most younglings, Lavi Tur was sensitive to criticism.

“All right,” she said. “Pass the word to the others. We’ve rested long enough. We have to get higher before nightfall.”

After Lavi Tur left, Achia Pazik looked up the slope. She was in a slight depression and couldn’t see the peak of the mountains whose side they’d been climbing. But she knew they still had a long way to go.

A screech somewhere in the distance caused her to tense. That had been made by some sort of animal, not a Liskash scout. A big animal, from the sound.

What animal? She had no idea. To the best of her knowledge, no Mrem had ever gone into the great southern mountains. There had been no reason to. Mrem were more resistant to cold than the reptiles, but they still didn’t like it — and with the plains available, why go into the mountains?

But the plains weren’t available now. There might never be again. Not those plains dominated by Zilikazi, at least, and they were the only ones within reach.

So, up they would go, no matter what dangerous animals might live up there. Achia Pazik didn’t see where they had any choice.

***

Zilikazi

“Kill the injured,” Zilikazi said. “Any who can’t move without assistance.”

He gave one final glance at the huddled mass of Mrem captives, and then decided he’d better qualify that. His underlings were prone to interpreting his orders excessively. He could hardly complain about that tendency, given that he’d fostered and encouraged it himself. But he saw no reason to waste captives unnecessarily.

“By ‘assistance’ I mean any who need to be carried on a litter. If they can walk with the support of one or two other Mrem, we’ll keep them alive. For now, at any rate.”

He didn’t bother to wait for his lieutenants’ gestures of assent before turning away and moving back toward his pavilion. That abruptness was another trait he’d fostered over the years. For him to wait to accept an underling’s sign of obedience would suggest there was a possibility the underling might not obey Zilikazi, which was unthinkable.

Zilikazi’s dominance resulted mostly from his immense power. But he’d buttressed that innate ability with shrewd methods of rule as well.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 24

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 24

Chapter 24.

The misshapen creature – a deformed, monstrous hopclaw, he thought – shrank back as the moaning blade cut through the air. But Condor leapt completely over it, cutting off its escape. One clawed arm flew off, trailing blood. The other. The creature was screaming in terror and pain now, but Condor merely grinned and continued. Try to ambush me? Learn what you pay in pain!

Finally it was over – too soon, Condor thought. This unending trek through Rivendream seemed like a nightmare, no rest, nothing safe, even the insects more vicious than anything he’d ever encountered. So he’d become harder in return. Take your amusement as you can. It’s for sure nothing else will amuse me here!

It dawned on him that the forest rising up before him was warmer, with more scent of wet and growth. A spurt of triumph went through him. “I made it!” he heard himself say. “I’m in Moonshade Hollow!”

The words, however, reminded him that no one had ever returned from this trip. And he was following someone who undoubtedly had gone deeper into the Hollow.

Phoenix.

He had only a vague idea of what Phoenix looked like – basically a description of the Raiment the Phoenix wore. But it didn’t matter. A shivery, hot hatred and joy rose in him at the thought of what he would do to the unsuspecting Justiciar when he caught up. His hand caressed the hilt of the Demonshard and he thought he heard a second laugh echoing his own.

Was that a tree reaching towards him? Even as the laugh trailed off he drew the Demonshard and swung in a single motion; the black blade carved through reaching branch and yard-thick trunk as though they were barely there at all, and he stepped aside as the twitching, roaring forest giant crashed to the ground. “Any others wish a taste of my blade?” he demanded. The rustling was one of fear, of things that would flee if they could. He smiled. “I thought not.”

The power of the Demonshard never ceased to amaze him. The sword supported him when he grew weary, gave him strength in battle, even guided his actions. Now he knew that he could defeat the Phoenix, even if they had been able to kill Thornfalcon. Why, once he’d mastered this blade… perhaps Thornfalcon’s old patron could be removed as well…

He made his way through the forest, and the news seemed to have traveled before him; creatures slunk from his path, the trees themselves leaned away.

The problem was finding Phoenix. Being even a few days behind the rogue Justiciar and any allies Phoenix might have meant that any trail they left was effectively gone, erased by weather and growth and other creatures. But there had to be more here than just jungle; if he could just find someone, or something, to talk to…

Suddenly, in the slowly-falling gloom of night, something huge loomed up before him. He paused, squinting, then as his eyes adjusted realized that it was a wall – an immense barrier, smooth and hard, stretching as far as he could see to right and left.

“Well, now, that is certainly promising!” he said to himself. Anyone who could build a wall like that would know a lot about the region… and, just maybe, would have seen someone else passing by…

The problem was going to be getting in. There was probably a gate somewhere along the wall, but no telling how far away – or what guards might be there. He didn’t want to necessarily announce his presence; if Phoenix had made contact, well, there was a good chance that he or she had also made a good impression. Might even, possibly, have told people about the Justiciars.

Better to get in secretly, scout things out first. Try not to kill anyone he didn’t have to; that could be inconvenient.

The wall was small by some standards, he supposed, but fifty feet of greenish stone was more than enough of a barrier to daunt most people or monsters.

But most people were not Justiciars – real or false, both had vast power. And as Condor…

He felt a great… weight, a pressure that impeded his ability to draw on the power of his station. He gripped Demonshard and power flowed through it, into him, and he felt himself rising into the air. This place actually fights against the power our patron gives us. What is Moonshade Hollow, and how is this possible?

Still, he was rising into the air now, rising to the top of the wall. Not too high. Just above, dart over and drop down. Be as hard to spot and track as possible.

Level with the wall, he gathered himself, glanced to both sides to make sure there was no sign of an observer atop the wall, and then concentrated. Full speed ahead –

The impact with empty air was a shattering, tearing thing, something clawing at him with disorienting, vertiginous might that nearly sent him weaving away. Confused, unable to understand what was happening, he simply drove forward, trying to overpower this intangible, inescapable barrier of whirling, dizzying nausea and battering, insubstantial resistance.

With a sensation like tearing through a bramble hedge and a whirlpool simultaneously, he hurtled through, out of control, spiraling towards the ground; he was vaguely aware of smoke streaming from him, of agony burning through his entire body and soul. The ground rose and smashed into him like a bludgeon and he rolled over and over, trying clumsily to absorb the force of the fall and, mostly, failing.

He lay still for long moments, feeling the pain of burning and bruises and cracked or broken limbs. For a few breaths it felt to him as though he had come down in some vile swamp, a place filled with such foulness that it nearly choked him. He cried out and struggled vaguely, as though he could somehow push the air away from him.

Then something snapped within him, and abruptly – despite the very real pain of his fall – he felt himself more clearheaded than he’d been in… was it weeks?

The air about him was not foul; no, it was fresh, fresher than any he’d breathed in memory. Just the taste of the air in his lungs, the feel of the soft, warm breeze lifted his spirits, made the pain recede. He reached into his pack, found a healing draught, drank it down. As his injuries receded into memory, he took stock of his situation. On the ground, surrounded by ruined greenery, that’s not a surprise. Stars visible overhead. No sign of hostiles… and none of the feeling of menace I had in Rivendream Pass or that forest outside the wall.

Condor stood slowly. Night birds sang softly, and the trees nearby did not move; they were stately and massive, radiating a feeling of stability and safety. It was a change as sharp as though he had stepped through a door from winter into summer, and he couldn’t imagine how this was possible.

At the same time, it made him feel…

Suddenly a recent memory flashed through his mind: the cowering hopclaw, being carved apart… a laugh…

Aran, the Condor, found himself on hands and knees, the sharp, repellent stench of vomit rising from the ground before him. What in the name of the Balance…? What was I doing? What was I thinking?

The strain of travelling through the monstrous Rivendream Pass had been great, but he’d walked through Hell – and then through the gates of the actual Black City itself. He hadn’t turned into someone who would torture helpless creatures then, so…

He reached up, and realized the scabbard over his shoulder was empty. Of course. I had the Demonshard in my hand when I came over, and then I crashed.

It took only a few moments to find the great black sword, point-down in the ground about twenty yards off. Nearby, the grasses were black, and the night-noises went silent. He could feel the malevolence radiating from the ebon-glowing blade, and understood.

“You were changing me,” he murmured angrily, and reached out, yanking the Demonshard from the ground.

Instantly a cold, hostile presence entered his mind – as, he now realized, it had been doing all along, for all the time he’d held it. But here, in this place of incredible purity, he could sense it clearly for the first time.

No, he said to the Demonshard.

It raged at him, then pleaded and bribed, reminding him of its strength, its powers, everything it could do for him.

“You will give me your powers. On my terms.”

Now it cast aside any pretense, and Aran found he could not release the sword’s hilt as dark, malevolent power trickled into him, oozing into his mind, seeking to surround and crush his will and make him back into the monster it had designed – that Kerlamion, he now realized, had designed him to be.

The fury at being used was a cleansing fire, and he drove back the Demonshard’s insidious attack. “I am not your tool. I am not a pawn in anyone’s game anymore! This is my vengeance, this is my mission, and you are here to serve me!”

The Demonshard did not, exactly, speak, but he could understand its outrage and contempt. “No, I’m not going to destroy my homeland, or anyone else’s. I’m after the Phoenix, and that’s all I’m after. When I go back to the Justiciars, I’ll do it as myself, and if I decide I want to clean that house up, you’ll help me do that, too!”

The Demonshard bent all its will against Aran’s, and it was like bearing up the weight of an entire world, crushing down on Aran Condor as though there was no possibility of resistance.

But he remembered Shrike, the hidden gentle smile now gone to dust; he remembered his own anger and hatred of himself when he dared not act; he remembered the devastated face of Kyri Vantage and his own regrets that he had never spoken to her as he wished, and grabbed regret and anger and beauty and pulled it into himself, made himself greater and stronger with the oath to never yield, never give in, never compromise again.

“I gave up everything,” he growled through gritted teeth. “I let them lead me on until I was a mockery of what I knew should be. So be it. But I was still myself, and I am still myself, and I will remain myself, no matter if you or your own dread maker and master were to try to undo me.”

Slowly, one finger rose, loosening its grip on the hilt of the Demonshard.

“You are a weapon. You are my weapon and you will serve me, Demonshard! I am no one’s tool!”

Two fingers, and the weight of the great blade made it tremble, near release. Desperate, the fragment of the sword of the King of All Hells exerted its full strength, trying to take control of Aran’s body directly.

But that, too, would not work; Condor met that attempt with contemptuous anger and venom at being tricked, lashed it with his driving will until, without warning, his hand opened and the Demonshard fell back to the ground.

He glared down at the weapon, his mind now entirely free. “I am the master here. Acknowledge me!”

The Demonshard shimmered and the distant howl of obliterated air filled the space all about. But the anger of the sword faded before Condor’s unwavering fury. “I need a weapon. But a weapon that thinks to wield me I do not need. Choose swiftly, or I shall leave you here and take my chances alone.”

Slowly the Demonshard went quiet. Then it rose up and presented its hilt to him in silence. This time when he grasped the sword, he felt no hostility; only a grudging respect and concession.

“Good,” he said. “Remember this well, Demonshard. For this is your last chance. If ever I suspect you are attempting to play me again, I shall dispose of you forever. There will be no more chances. Am I understood?”

The sensation was now more cowed and cautious.

“Good.”

He sheathed the great bastard blade and looked around. The question now was … where to go?

After a moment’s thought he shrugged. Without any other indication, why not just head straight away from the wall? The wall had to surround something, so heading towards the center should bring him towards at least some part of whatever the wall protected.

Even though the jungle here was little less dense than outside the wall, or on the other side of the mountains, it felt far different. Making his way through this wild tangle somehow did not drain him as it normally would; he felt as though he were taking a walk in a stunningly huge garden. The very idea of “danger” seemed distant indeed, and he wondered what kind of a place this was.

After almost an hour of walking, he saw the undergrowth thickening, but with signs of opening up beyond – the usual pattern near a clearing of some sort. Shoving his way through the dense border, Condor popped out of the jungle and found himself at the edge of a broad roadway, of carefully maintained stone, that ran roughly East-West, if he read the stars right.

Even as he made that judgment, he became aware that there was movement approaching him.

The moonlight made colors hard to make out, but he could see clearly that it was a small woman, a girl really, almost skipping along the road. Her hair was fair, probably golden blonde, and she wore peculiar-looking armor of crystal with other garments of a light and translucent material. She suddenly halted, staring, and then… well, bounced was the only description for it, she bounced forward, smiling broadly.

“Well met,” she called out, and gave a strange, sweeping salute that caused the bow in her hair to bob. “Light Miri of the Unity greets you!”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 47

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 47

“I thought the dons had locked away their private possessions to protect them from us coarse soldiery,” Allenson said, noting the college coat of arms decorating the china.

“Did they, sar?” Boswell asked. “The lock on the senior common room door must have been faulty because it opened with just a little push.”

Trina covered her mouth but Allenson knew she was grinning from the sparkle in her eyes.

“You can put the tray down. I’ll ring if I need you,” Allenson said, wishing he hadn’t asked.

“I enjoyed helping you, quite like old times,” Trina said, sipping her tea. “You know, I’m glad Hawthorn has turned up.”

“Really?” Allenson asked, skeptically.

Trina waved a hand.

“I’ve never pretended to like the man. I admit I was not unhappy when he took himself off. Where did he go, incidentally?”

“Apparently he was running a Rider trading station deep in the Hinterlands.”

Trina nodded.

“I assumed it would be something like that. Imprisoned in a labor camp under an assumed name was the other possibility.”

“I thought he was dead,” Allenson said.

“I never did,” Trina replied. “The Hawthorns of this universe aren’t so easy to kill. As I said, he was never my favorite but I’m glad he’s back. He’s devious, violent, ruthless and suspicious to the point of paranoia. He’s also utterly loyal to you. I can’t think of a better man to watch your back.”

“He’s running a spy network inside Oxford.”

“Really, I would love to see what he’s found out.”

Allenson unlocked the file and let her flip through it.

“Astonishing,” she said. “Where’d he get all this?”

“Well…”

“On second thoughts don’t tell me. I suspect I don’t want to know the sordid details.”

“What do you think?” Allenson asked, pouring her another cup of tea.

“The same as you I expect,” Trina said neutrally.

“Humor me; I would value a second opinion.”

She grimaced.

“If these reports of the Brasilian build up in Oxford are true and I suspect we are losing the logistic war. The balance of power is inexorably shifting in their direction.”

Allenson sighed. “I agree.”

“Presumably they’ll attack out of the city when they have a sufficiently favorable force ratio.”

“I would in their position but they may be content simply to make the city impregnable while letting us stew.”

Trina thought about that while she sipped her tea.

Finally, she said, “Yes that makes sense so why would you attack if you were the Brasilian commander?”

“Because the new pan-Colonial state consists of just two institutions, the Assembly and the Army. Of these the Army is by far the most important. The Assembly haven’t even managed to decide on a Declaration of Independence. They could never hold things together without the army. Brasilia can stop the revolt dead in its tracks by destroying the field army. It’s a hostage to fortune pinned down here outside Oxford. The Assembly by contrast is a shambles.”

“Then you have to break the log-jam immediately, Allen. Your situation isn’t going to improve.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Allenson replied, sharply. “Sorry Trina, I’m angry at my own lack of foresight, not you.”

“Look,” she said, “have you tried making a list of your assets and liabilities in the hope it might stimulate something. Come on, I’ll help.”

“Very well.”

He slipped his notebook out of a pocket and fished around until he found a pencil.

“Your notebook. This is getting serious,” Trina said.

“Somehow the act of physically writing on organic material rather than dictating at a hologram fires my imagination.  I used to use it to write poetry.”

He laughed.

“Very, very bad poetry.

“I know,” Trina replied. “I sneaked a look at it when you weren’t around. So what are your assets?”

Allenson jotted down notes as he went along.

“OK, let’s see, I outnumber them in light infantry, my troops are reasonably trained and enthusiastic, I’ve a few mortars and laser cannon, my logistical tail is uncutable and I also have some hydraulic pumps for what they’re worth.”

“Liabilities?”

“My army is green, brittle and I’m desperately short of heavy weapons.”

“And their assets?”

“Professional troops who will withstand losses, a position damn near impregnable to light infantry behind a poisonous marsh, and a major port facility for shipping in supplies and reinforcements.”

“Their liabilities?”

“Everything has to be transported in through the Continuum but as I can’t stop them…”

He shrugged.

“I’m not sure this is helping.”

“Give your mind time to dwell on the matter,” Trina said. “You made your reputation in the Terran wars by not doing things the proper way. We can’t defeat a Homeworld by playing the game according to their rules. You showed how to beat them by changing the rules and doing the unexpected.”

She looked him directly in the eyes.

“It seems to me Allen that you need to stop wallowing in self-pity and start thinking around the problem. You have to find an indirect approach.”

#

Hawthorn drank on his own at the end of a rough bar in a small village outside Cambridge. He was not exactly a social drinker; actually he was not exactly social under most conditions. The bar was almost empty. It had more patrons when Hawthorn arrived but the clientele drifted away as the evening progressed. The barman made an attempt or two at conversation with Hawthorn but gave up after repeated rebuffs. He moodily wiped a glass with a dirty cloth that probably added more smears than it removed. He approached Hawthorn.

“Anything you require, master,” the barman asked, tentatively.

“Another bottle.”

“Will you be drinking it here or shall I wrap it to go?”

Hawthorn fixed him with piercing blue eyes but didn’t answer.  The barman placed the container carefully on the bar and found something to do elsewhere. Hawthorn poured himself another slug from a bottle of tonk sporting a brand that was new to him. He took a pull. It was no better or worse than any other but then he hadn’t expected it would be.

The pub door opened. Hawthorn had his back to it but was able to monitor who came in or out in a mirror hung behind the bar.

The newcomer paused to check out the room as if looking for someone. He was splendidly attired in voluminous purple pantaloons and an electric blue cape. The man came and stood by Hawthorn.

“If you’re here to keep me company then you can bugger off, Boswell,” Hawthorn said, without turning round.

Boswell signaled the barman with a raised finger and ordered a plum cider. He said nothing until the barman provided the requested beverage and departed.

“No offence, colonel, but drinking with you is not my idea of a relaxing night out.”

Hawthorn grunted, amused.

“I need to tell you something and I wanted to do it where we couldn’t be overheard. In fact I didn’t even want anyone to know we had a private conversation.”

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 23

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 23

Chapter 23.

Tobimar saw Kyri freeze, and her posture alone showed that Hiriista’s question had struck home. For his part, Tobimar was mystified. He hadn’t noticed anything to be wary of – although, to be fair, he hadn’t been looking hard this morning. They had been pretty sure that whatever they were looking for wasn’t in the immediate area.

A quick glance at Poplock, and the little Toad gave a whole-body shrug. He didn’t notice anything either.

Finally Kyri took a deep breath. “I suppose it would be useless to pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A faint hiss of amusement. “I am afraid that you are not terribly good at hiding your surprise, no. Perhaps you can dissemble well when prepared – I know several such – but without warning, no.” The hunting look was back. “So, Phoenix, will you answer my question?”

The embarrassed tone when she answered told Tobimar that even without the firelight Kyri’s already dark cheeks would have been touched with rose. “It was just a… stupid impression. Probably nothing.”

“Then it does not matter if you tell me.”

She looked around, then smiled sheepishly. “I suppose not. There really isn’t much more to it, to be honest. I just felt there was something … off about him.” She paused, lips pursed, and he could almost see her mind working.

“All his words and overt actions were exactly what I would have expected from my brief contact with him,” she said finally, “and my prior contacts – when we first arrived, and later at the party – didn’t have this funny feel to them. But this morning… it felt almost as though he was playing himself, an extremely good actor, but one who was really much more competent and controlled, not confused or innocent or overawed or any of those things.”

Hiriista let out a long, satisfied hiss and bobbed his head. “Precisely so. You have the instinct, young Phoenix; you just have no training that tells you why your instinct says what it does.” He glanced down to Poplock. “Do you comprehend what I am saying?”

Poplock closed one eye, wrinkling his face, and then the eye snapped open. “Ohhh. What we talked about before. The language of the body.”

“Correct. I have never met anyone else who noticed – or, to be more precise, who would admit to noticing this… anomaly; I believe that there are a few others who have, but they, like myself, have been afraid to speak of it, for it seems so impossible that there could be something wrong with these, our protectors. Yet I have seen it many times, a subtle – a terribly subtle – shift in posture, in facing, in the way an arm is held, a spine straightened, a head tilted, and suddenly one of the Colors seems not himself at all to me, even though not a single word or action is obviously out of place. And often this happens shortly before they go on a patrol or mission.”

“You said one of the Colors,” Tobimar said. Hiriista bared some of his teeth in a humorless grin as Tobimar went on, “but Danrall is a Shade. Are you implying…”

“I imply nothing. I have seen this behavior in Colors, Hues, and Shades. Not – so far – in the Lights, but in honesty I will say that my contact with the Lights other than Miri has been limited.”

Kyri looked more carefully at their companion. “Why do you bring this up? Why tell us, rather than Miri, for example?”

“Well, firstly,” the mazakh said with a note of grim relief in his voice, “because until now I had found no confirmation of my senses. I am, perhaps, by far the most sensitive person in Kaizatenzei to such things, but that meant I had no one to compare my impressions with – at least, no one who would dare speak to me of these impressions. You, as independent forces with no knowledge of anything here, were perfect subjects. The fact that you instantly picked up on the same anomaly… that is tremendously important.

“Secondly, the mystery appears to touch upon most of our guardian forces. If it has not affected the Lights, I cannot discount the possibility that it will affect them – whatever it is. Yet who could I possibly find that would be formidable enough to survive the investigation – if there indeed is something wrong – and not already a part of the potential problem? Few other people of such skill and power are found here in Kaizatenzei who are not part of these forces.” He gestured around the camp. “But you three… ahh, you are outsiders, unique, unknown, but – I now know from both my own observations and those of Lady Shae – of good heart and will. Thus I trust you, and hope you will trust me.”

“Not to be a complete cynic,” Poplock said, “but how do you know you can trust Lady Shae’s judgment?”

Hiriista looked momentarily offended, then laughed, a hiss that echoed through the forest. “I suppose I should consider even that possibility… but no. In this case her judgment merely affirmed my own, and she had no way of knowing what I was looking for. I have my own ways of judging people, as you know. If she herself is the source, or a victim, she was not subject to it at that moment, and so I trust her senses; you are not agents of destruction but protectors.”

Tobimar had been thinking while they spoke, and he didn’t like where his thoughts were taking him. “If you’ve seen this on three of the four levels of your…”

“… Tenzeitalacor, or Unity Guard,” Hiriista supplied helpfully.

“… Unity Guard, yes. If you’ve seen this on three of the four levels, is it your assumption that it affects most, if not all, of the people on those three levels – that is, most or all of the Colors, Hues, and Shades?”

“It is. I have seen it frequently enough that if I make some basic assumptions – drawn from my experiences – about how often the situations occur that cause this shift, then at least eighty percent of the Tenzeitalacor below the Lights are affected.”

Tobimar nodded slowly. “I guess the next question is… do you have any reason to believe this is actually a problem?”

Hiriista opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped, his mouth still hanging open for several seconds before he slowly closed it, hissed, and then bobbed his head in a rocking motion before finally speaking. “I… confess that I do not, in fact, have any evidence that this is a problem. It feels wrong. I have no explanation for this that makes sense and is innocuous. Yet… no, I do not have any actual reason to believe that this anomaly is a problem, save only my own instincts.” He hissed again, a whistling chuckle, and his own posture was turned inward, embarrassed. “I find myself most discomfited by this realization.”

“You’ve never confronted any of them when you felt this… difference.” It was a statement, not a question, and Kyri’s voice was deadly serious.

“No… no, I have not. Both uncertainty and caution stayed me from that course of action.”

“Instinct isn’t something to be disregarded,” Tobimar said. “If Phoenix sensed the same thing, and it made her uncomfortable too…?”

“It did,” Kyri said emphatically. “I felt almost as though someone … or, even, something… much, much more aware and intelligent was watching me through Danrall.” She frowned. “It was … familiar, almost. Balance, I can almost get it, but it’s dancing just out of reach.”

Hiriista cocked his head, more alert. “What? You have had this feeling before?”

“I think so. I think so.” Kyri rapped her forehead as though to loosen something stuck there.

“It’ll come to you,” Tobimar said. “As I was saying – if she felt the same thing, and it worried her, then I think you’re right to be cautious. We knew something was wrong in this place when we came here. I’d hoped it was something in the forest outside –”

“No,” Hiriista said decisively. “No, I do not think so. Lady Shae believes so, but – in honesty – she almost has to believe that. She watches for threats outside; I think she does not believe, nor want to believe, that within Kaizatenzei itself there could be true evil. I myself do not want to believe it, but even the rather … edited version of events you have told us implies that your adversary Thornfalcon had an actual contact here, one who could supply him with the monsters you fought. No such organized power has ever been sensed, or even suspected, outside our walls. The only organization we know of… is here.”

“Then seems to me that we have to assume the weirdness in your Unity Guards is probably linked to what we’re looking for,” Poplock said. “And that it’s not a good thing. So, if you’ve got that far, you must have some suspicion. It’s either something working its way up through the ranks, bottom up, and nearing the top, or something sitting at the top running things. Which, I hate to say it, puts Lady Shae and Light Miri right at the top of my suspect list.”

“I think you are only half right,” Hiriista said, obviously restraining himself from further outrage on behalf of his ruler. “My suspicions are of something much worse, in a sense. Although having our most trusted ruler –”

“THAT’S IT!” Kyri shouted.

“What?”

“Trusted ruler, that’s what. I used to feel exactly this kind of thing around one other person. I even told you about it, remember?”

A chill went down Tobimar’s spine. “The Watchland.”

“The Watchland. Watchland Jeridan Relion, the ruler of Evanwyl, most trusted man in the realm, a man I trusted almost without reservation… except on the days that I didn’t feel I could trust him at all.”

“Fascinating,” Hiriista said. “The same feeling?”

“Almost identical, I would say.” She shuddered suddenly, and Tobimar touched her arm in support. “Every so often I would feel that he was saying the same words, offering the same help, the same advice, and yet there was nothing true or real behind those words, just something else, cold and watching.”

“And your Thornfalcon had a portal that led somewhere to here, from which came monsters. A definite connection between the countries.” Hiriista looked out into the darkness, and despite his inhuman face Tobimar could plainly read his discomfort and fear.

“Master Wieran,” Tobimar said.

Hiriista nodded with another hiss. “The aloof power neither above nor below. The creator of our Servants. The one – it is said – who helped devise the training of our Unity Guards. That is who I suspect – the one I must suspect – of whatever has been done to our people. He is in the perfect position, with the perfect knowledge, to tamper with people in such a fashion, and…”

Poplock tilted his body. “… and…?”

Hiriista looked down, then up. “And I have met him, twice. Both times he seemed reasonably courteous and attentive… but his body language radiated impatience, a complete lack of interest in the political and social interactions about him. It was very much as though he was given a script – or, more likely, had given himself a script – to appear the wise elder statesman, but had no more understanding of what such a person would really be like than would a nalloshoth.”

He said no more immediately, and he didn’t have to. If the ancient genius whose works were spread throughout Kaizatenzei – whose Servants performed half the work of the cities or more, whose training guided its defenders, whose other works commanded the respect of its rulers – was actually a monster who would work with Thornfalcon…

… then it wasn’t just Kyri and Tobimar who were in danger. Not just Evanwyl.

It was all of Kaizatenzei, too.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 01

Sanctuary – Snippet 01

NOTE: THIS STORY WILL APPEAR IN BILL FAWCETT’S ANTHOLOGY, BY TOOTH AND CLAW, COMING OUT IN APRIL.

SANCTUARY by Eric Flint

Chapter 1

Sebetwe

Knest died toward the beginning of the durre kot, the witching time before sunrise.

It was a dangerous period. Not as dangerous as midnight, but still perilous — especially this early into durre kot. Knest’s soul would have to withstand the assault of pejeq and milleteq and whatever other demons might be lurking on the great mountainside until the sun finally rose above the horizon and Huwute’s brilliance drove the demons back into their lairs.

Even the strongest disciple would be hard-pressed to survive that long. As the sky brightened, the demons would be driven to greater and greater fury in their assault on Knest’s soul. That was especially true of the pejeq, who were undoubtedly in great numbers at this altitude. Milleteq were often sluggish, but not their hungrier and more ethereal kin — and the greater danger the pejeq faced when Huwute’s rays began piercing the heavens would make them frantic toward the end.

Only the firmest disciple’s soul could hope to pass through that ordeal intact. And Knest….

“He was a weakling,” Herere said harshly. “He won’t last even halfway through the durre kot.”

Aqavo stared down at Knest’s corpse, hissing softly as her eyes traced the long wound left by the grek wadda. The venom had left the flesh pale, putrid-looking, altogether horrid. Fortunately, the plant’s venom rendered its victim unconscious before it began its deadly and hideous work. Knest had at least not died in great pain.

The fourth member of the party, Nabliz, gazed at the horizon where — much too late — Huwute would finally rise. “Herere is right,” he said softly. “You know she is, Sebetwe.”

Sebetwe did know it, but he hesitated to give the order. Aqavo, probably the kindest of the group, put his reluctance into words. “That would be the true death for Knest. His soul gone forever.”

Herere shifted her weight on her haunches. “When his soul is taken by a demon he will also suffer the true death — and we will be at great risk ourselves.”

She was right. A pejeq riding a captured soul or a milleteq enlarged by devouring one would be able to attack them throughout the night. At dawn and dusk also — any time except when Huwute’s glory filled the sky.

“We must do it, Sebetwe,” said Nabliz.

Aqavo said nothing, but her slumped shoulders indicated her agreement. Herere glared at Sebetwe, then down at the corpse of Knest. After a moment, she drew her knife.

Sebetwe raised a hand. “I will do it,” he said. “Aqavo, start the fire.”

He drew out his ax. It was typical of Herere that she would think to use a knife to cut open a skull. The huge female was always prone to displaying her great strength. Sebetwe, average size for a male Liskash, would use a more reliable tool for the purpose.

Delay was dangerous. So, with none of the ritual formality he would have preferred, Sebetwe smashed open Knest’s skull. Two more blows of the axe were enough to expose the narrow brain case. Then, using a taloned hand, he scooped out the brain. He laid it on a bare rock, since Aqavo’s fire was only starting to build.

While he was busy at that task, Herere sliced open Knest’s chest and abdomen. With Nabliz’s help, the dead disciple’s heart, lungs and liver were soon removed from the body.

The heart and lungs, they would eat, to keep what might be left of Knest’s valor and spirit in their midst. Could they have done the same with the brain, they might have been able to save Knest’s soul as well. But that would be perilous. Devilkins usually infested the brains of dead people; not powerful ones like pejeq or milleteq but sly and malicious ones who sought to infest those who ate such brains.

So the brain would have to be burned. Had Knest died at home, or at least in safer surroundings, they could have performed the rites and embalming rituals that would have preserved his soul long enough for it to pass into a newborn.

The liver would also be burned, lest whatever sins and evils had lurked within Knest should escape into the world with his death.

****

By the time they were done, Huwute had fully risen. The goddess’ splendor was still dim enough that one could gaze upon her without danger, but that would not last long. Huwute was vain and thus dangerous, as deities so often were.

Sebetwe knew that most Liskash tribes actually worshipped Huwute. Primitives, not much more than savages, who could not distinguish the manifestations of the Godhead from itself. In truth, it was sloppy thinking to visualize the sun as a “goddess,” though most disciples did it anyway.

Sebetwe knew that Huwute was not really a deity, simply the manifestation — not the only; but certainly the greatest — of the Godhead’s self-consideration. Dangerous, not in the way that a conscious beast is dangerous but in the way a fire or a rockslide is dangerous.

It was not always easy to remember the teachings, though. Sebetwe found it hard not to resent Huwute’s stately and self-satisfied progression. Could the goddess not have hastened her steps a bit, to keep Knest’s soul in the world?

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 46

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 46

Chapter 15 – The Indirect Approach

A few days later Allenson slumped in his office wrestling with the endless and insoluble problems associated with logistics when there was a knock at the door. Military historians like to write about battles and stories of great daring-do. Real soldiers spend most of their time organizing supplies and trying to prevent their men dying of various foul diseases, malnutrition or boredom-induced accidents.

“Yes,” Allenson snarled, irritated at the interruption when he had almost worked out why the camp bakery was churning out loaves wholesale but no one had any fresh bread. Apparently the quartermasters demanded that the old stale bread be eaten up first. The end result was that the troops’ bread was always stale no matter how much fresh bread was baked.

One of Kemp’s men cautiously put his head around the door.

“There’s a lady to see you, boss. I told her you’d ordered not to be disturbed but she was pretty damn rude about it.”

Kemp’s goon had a nose that had been broken at least twice and a vivid-white knife scar that ran across his left cheek. Allenson’s imagination baulked at imagining what he would consider rude.

“You had better show her in,” Allenson said, intrigued.

“Yes, gov., but she also refuses to be searched,” the goon said plaintively, “in fact she told me to stick my detector up my…”

“I get the picture,” Allenson replied.

The goon momentarily retracted his head. It reappeared on the right hand side of a lady in travelling clothes consisting of a lined green cloak and boots. His associate goon on her left hand side fingered his lasercarbine as if escorting a ferocious carnivore who might turn on them without provocation.

“Stand down, men,” Allenson said. “Although undoubtedly highly dangerous the lady has had plenty of opportunities over the years to assassinate me at her leisure. Hello Trina, what are you doing here?”

Trina waited for the honor guard departure before replying.

“Really, husband, getting a little paranoiac aren’t we?”

“Um, well, it’s not me. My Head of Security is overzealous.”

“Yes, I heard Hawthorn was back,” Trina said, neutrally.

“What are you doing here?” Allenson asked. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you,” he added hastily, getting up to hug her in case she got the wrong impression.

“Yes, well, you should be flattered that I bothered,” she said, mollified. “You know how I hate travelling.”

Allenson pulled up a chair for her and, after a suitable inspection of its cleanliness, she sat.

“There are stories circulating that morale in the army is not all it might be.”

“There are always moaners,” Allenson replied, somewhat defensively.

“Yes, but the complaints are increasing in letters home and not just from the usual suspects. I decided to bring a deputation of officer’s Wags to boost them out of it.”

“Wags?” Allenson asked.

“Wives and girlfriends: we’ve formed a club”

“What? How many? What am I going to do with them?”

Trina raised an eyebrow.

“Do? You? With them? Nothing I should hope, husband. No doubt we can leave the various couples to sort out their own arrangements to everyone’s satisfaction.”

Allenson blushed. Trina looked stunning. No, she looked like Trina but she behaved with more energy than she had shown for years.  Being thrown back on her own resources to run their demesne obviously agreed with her. He had tried to take the weight off her shoulders after they had married, perhaps too much. He knew he had an unfortunate tendency to take over down to the smallest detail. Had he stifled her? She smiled at him and he forgot about the self-obsession.

He opened the office door and yelled out.

“I’m in conference if anyone asks and I do not expect to be disturbed by anything short of a Brasilian major assault.”

He slammed the door and walking back to his desk touched an icon that sealed his office suite from prying. He lifted Trina’s hand and touched it to his lips.

“You must be very tired after your long journey and there is a comfortable couch in my private room. Why don’t I show it to you? You may want to lie down or something.”

He ushered her into the back room with an urgency that he hadn’t shown for some time.

#

“Did I teach you nothing about project management?” Trina asked rhetorically. “What do you think you have a staff for? Hmmm? I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re back to your old habit of letting your juniors pass their problems upwards.”

Allenson mumbled something about duty that didn’t sound very convincing even to him.

“You must be the only general in the world who tries to micromanage the bread ration.”

“An army marches on its stomach,” Allenson countered, trying to remember where he had heard the cliché.

“This army won’t be doing much marching anywhere if their commander continues to confuse his role with the chef. Pass the order down the line that you expect the men to have freshly baked bread each day and that you’ll be carrying out snap inspections with a view to making an example of someone. Better still send Hawthorn. That should spread some fear and loathing where it will do most good.”

“It might at that,” Allenson said feebly.

Trina ignored him.

“Come on, get the files open and let’s go through them to decide who’s going to get dumped on – I mean delegated to.”

For the next two hours Trina reorganized his workload. She used a mixture of blackmail, threats and flattery to parcel tasks out amongst various officers. After a token protest or two he let her get on with it and by the end his burden had been significantly reduced.

“There, now you have time to think,” Trina said with some satisfaction.

“That will be something of a novelty,” Allenson replied.

He buzzed for Boswell who appeared in the doorway within seconds which suggested he had been expecting a summons. Trina did a double take at the servant, possibly because of his attire. Today it involved fluorescent orange shorts down to the knees and a shirt decorated with hypnotic whirlpools.

Allenson didn’t turn a hair. He’d seen it all before.

“See if you can find two tolerably clean cups and make us some café, please.”

“Yes, sar, or I can make tea if Lady Allenson would prefer it.”

“Where did you get hold of tea?” Allenson asked.

“Oh, well you know, contacts,” Boswell said vaguely.

“Tea would be most welcome,” Tina replied.

“Right you are, ma’am.”

Boswell disappeared.

“Does he always dress like that?” Trina asked, faintly.

“No, sometimes the colors clash horribly,” Allenson replied. He thought for a moment.  “How did he know who you were?”

Trina laughed. “If you want to know what’s really going on in a house you visit the servant’s hall. Their intelligence service is second to none.”

Boswell reappeared almost immediately with a silver tray holding a rather decent tea service including an ornate tea pot. A small plate of Garibaldi biscuits accompanied the refreshments.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 45

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 45

The first mortar bombs exploded over the edge of the siege lines. The laser cannon picked them off but the fast rate of fire from the simple artillery weapons moved the intercept barrier closer and closer to the town. The centralized fire control of the lasercannon prioritized which targets to defend once the defenses started to be overwhelmed. The selection chosen by the weapons defending Oxford suggested that these priorities included the gun towers themselves and certain strategic assets but not civilian property.

The rain of fire continued until hits registered on Oxford roof tops and in the streets. The light bombs caused but slight damage. A single hit on the side of a tower chipped off small fragments of syncrete.

“Cease fire, we’re just wasting ammunition,” Allenson said. “Even when we get a strike we barely scratch their paintwork.”

Buller tapped his pad and the mortars wound down.

Todd said hesitantly, “I suppose we could make larger rocket-fired guided missiles with armor piercing warheads.”

Buller dismissed the idea.

“We could but it might be more useful to set up a catapult and throw rocks at them. At least rocks would take more than one laser pulse hit to knock out unlike your rockets and we have plenty of stone. Bloody fool suggestion.”

Todd’s face reddened. Allenson wasn’t sure whether it indicated embarrassment or anger. Perhaps fortunately the Brasilians chose that moment to switch their cannons to manual and sweep the ridge with laser fire. Impacts washed over the siege lines like dragon’s breath. Earth fused into glass. Ground water converted into superheated steam exploded the heat-crystals like a firework display. Allenson might have found it rather beautiful if he hadn’t got his face pressed into the ground.

Fortunately Buller had the besieging units so well dug in that the laser cannon barrage was little more than a gesture of defiance. A few bits of vegetation not yet completely scorched by earlier attacks caught fire. Greasy black smoke drifted into the air.

Allenson noticed an odd phenomenon when laser bursts overshot the peninsula into the marsh. The pulses flashed bright green and created rods of thick green vapor in the air like giant fingers pushed into blancmange. The laser fire penetrated only a few meters as if fired into fog.

Crushing his curiosity he examined the town through the scope. Bodies lay scattered amongst the wreckage where a mortar bomb had hit a market stall in a square. He noticed the bright colors of women’s and children’s clothes among the fallen.

“There are to be no more artillery demonstrations without my written permission,” Allenson said.

#

Two weeks later and nothing had changed. The Brasilians settled into a garrison force. Allenson’s concern that he would have to be the one to break the strategic log jam hardened into certainty. The ‘Stream Army was at the peak of its preparation for battle. The only direction for the army’s efficiency now was down. People began to lose interest as marked by a rise in the desertion rate. He was required to demonstrate that service was not voluntary by making examples.

Bored men rapidly become malefactors of one sort or another. The root of the problem often involved alcohol. He considered declaring the army dry but Hawthorn strongly advised against such a course.

In desperation he called an open meeting of all officers for a brainstorming session.  The junior officers expressed enthusiasm for a simultaneous dawn assault by foot along both causeways coupled with a low altitude frame attack to the flanks. Morton was the prime mover of this plan. He spoke most eloquently in its support.

Buller heaved himself to his feet and repeated his objections to an assault with his usual pithy tact. Allenson noted the detrimental effect Buller’s comments had on the other officers and intervened.

“Thank you Colonel Buller for your contribution,” Allenson said.

Unfortunately, Buller carried on as if Allenson hadn’t spoken.

“And our green army of amateurs is not going to be able to take casualties. They’ll break and run and they won’t stop until they reach home.”

The fact that the comment was possibly true made it all the more unwise, particularly when garnished with Buller’s normal contemptuous sneer.

“Sit down, Colonel Buller,” Allenson said, curtly.

Mouth dropping open, Buller sat. Army to his core he obeyed the voice of command before remembering that he didn’t respect amateur generals.

“If I have understood the intelligence reports properly,” Ling said, inclining his head respectfully in Hawthorn’s direction, “the issue is the naval lifeline into Oxford. Cut that and we have the strategic initiative.”

Allenson could have kissed him. The intervention came just in time to stop Buller saying something stupid.

Morton piped up. “My unit could attack the ships out in the Continuum, General. We could do to the Brasilians what you did to the Terrans in the last war.”

Allenson shook his head reluctantly.

“I only had to deal with a single slow moving convoy of lighters moving down a chasm. I knew exactly where to find them and could attack any time I liked. We didn’t have to destroy the convoy just slow it down. Even then it was a close run thing who collapsed with exhaustion first. You’d have to maintain standing patrols around a hostile base and engage purpose-built gunships. The Brasilians could hit your patrols at times of their own choosing until they wore you down. I have better uses for your men, Morton.”

“What about using artillery?” asked a captain who clearly hadn’t watched Buller’s demonstration. “Landed ships would be sitting ducks.”

“Won’t work,” a major said.

“Major Pynchon, commander of artillery,” Ling said quietly to Allenson.

“Our mortars are too light and we don’t have enough,” Pynchon said.

“Surely the lasercannon…”

“Only if you want them smashed by direct line of sight counter-battery fire,” Pynchon said, patiently stating the sheer bloody obvious.

The captain sat down red-faced.

Hawthorn rose and walked to the situation hologram in the center of the horseshoe-shaped amphitheater. The display lit up in yellow and green giving him a ghostly appearance. He pointed to a third peninsula that jutted into the bay. It was considerably lower and shorter than the other two, terminating in the marsh well before the open water.

“How about we dig in here and put laser cannon in fire pits deep enough to keep them out of line-of-sight to counterbattery fire but just shallow enough to light up incoming ships. The end of this peninsula should be close enough to the open water to give us a working angle of fire.”

There was dead silence and Ling inspected the ceiling as if it had been painted by an artist of singular talent.

“Look, I know laser cannon are ineffectual against military transports and large ships but they could scare off the tramp ship captains,” Hawthorn said, clearly surprised at the lack of response.

“I can see why you might think so,” Ling said carefully “but it won’t work.”

Hawthorn showed his exasperation. “Why the hell not?”

Ling explained. “The marsh, you see, surrounding the peninsula, has a peculiar biochemistry. Vapors given off by the mud ignite from laser shots. The resulting hydrofluoric acid steam mix is highly corrosive.  You’d be lucky to get off three or four shots and the pulses wouldn’t get out of the swampy area before dissipating into heat.”

“So that’s what I saw down on the siege lines,” Allenson said, recalling the laser pulses ending in bright green flashes. Now he thought about it they hadn’t actually made contact with the sediment but ended in the air.

“So how come these vapors aren’t a problem for people on the causeways to Oxford and the port complex?” Hawthorn asked.

“It’s a matter of height, the gasses being heavier than air. Occasionally conditions coincide to cause the causeways to be submerged but that’s hardly much of a problem. People just hop over the top using frames or wear a ‘breather’. The vapors aren’t dangerous unless you inhale them or ignite them with a spark or some such.”

“Have you never thought of draining the marsh?” Allenson asked, curious as to why Oxford allowed itself to be almost cut off by useless and potentially dangerous swamps.

Ling shrugged. “People have thought about it and even tried to raise money for land reclamation projects. Nothing has ever got very far. Sooner or later there’s an accident taking out the pumping gear and, well, land’s cheap around Oxford.”

“So we just sit here until the Brasilians have stockpiled sufficient materiel to attack us,” Hawthorn said impatiently.

“Unless you have a better idea, colonel,” Ling replied.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 22

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 22

Chapter 22.

“Gemcalling,” Hiriista began, “is a combination of one’s personal magic, alchemy, symbolism, and the channeling of power outside oneself.”

“Whoo. Sounds complicated,” Poplock said. The four of them were seated near the cookfire; Tobimar and Kyri were taking turns watching the food as it cooked, but they were old hands at this sort of thing and clearly didn’t need to focus much attention on it.

“Complicated in concept, yes, and challenging if you do not understand the methods and requirements, but not terribly complicated in practice if you have the requisite tools. First, you need to have the basic talent for magic; I understand this is true of you, perhaps less so for your friends.”

Poplock glanced up at Kyri and Tobimar, who nodded. “I was told I could be a… mediocre wizard, depending on what path I chose,” Kyri said. “A decent summoner, maybe. Tobimar?”

“My… master,” Tobimar said, “told me that I had considerable magical potential but my best course did not lie in that direction. I guess I use some of that in the practice of my other skills, the combat arts he taught me.”

Poplock knew that Tobimar was talking about the manipulative magician Konstantin Khoros; given reactions to that name elsewhere, he didn’t blame Tobimar for evading that potential pitfall. “So yeah, I’ve got pretty good magical talent and I’ve been learning a lot about it,” he said. “What would I have to learn to be a Gemcaller?”

“You will need a Tai Syrowin, a Calling Array, first,” the mazakh answered, with a teeth-baring smile that seemed a challenge.

With that hint, plus the name of the discipline, Poplock understood. “Ha!” He bounced over and pulled on the various pieces of jewelry Hiriista wore. “Can I borrow one of them, then?”

“Excellent. You grasp the meaning instantly. Not all of these are Calling Arrays, but many are. Yes, I in fact have thought about this and I do have one Array that I may give you.” From a pouch Hiriista took a bright silver and gold ring with an empty setting for a large gem – Poplock guessed it would hold a gem between ten and fifteen carats – and handed it to the Toad.

Studying the ring up close, Poplock could see several unusual features. The setting itself was complex, with magic he could easily sense; by pushing at the prongs with his various tools and concentrating his own magic into the tools, he quickly realized that the setting was designed to accommodate gems of virtually any shape meeting the size limitations. The prongs themselves had tiny lines of a brilliant blue tinged with gold – a color that made him blink, then bounce over to check out Kyri’s Raiment. He glanced up. “Thyrium. There’s thyrium channels through that ring.”

The crest drooped and rose in appreciation. “A very good eye you have, Poplock. Yes, the thyrium channels are an integral part of the Calling Array, providing a link and channel between your own power and that of the selected gem.”

“Ooo, so you need magical gems to do this?”

“Yes. I am not sure I have –”

“Maybe we do. Tobimar?”

“What am I, a bank vault?” his friend said humorously. From its usual place under his outer clothing, Tobimar produced his secure pouch of gems that he had brought with him from Skysand – a country with a widespread reputation for the variety and quality of gemstones it produced. He poured the contents onto one of the plates they already had out.

Hiriista gave an appreciative hiss that approximated a whistle. “I was unaware you carried such wealth on you.”

Tobimar gave a wry grin. “I don’t advertise it. Unwise in most places. So, would any of these do?”

The mazakh magewright bent over the sparkling mound. “For beauty, these would be nigh-unmatched. For power…” He dug through the gems carefully for a few moments, then bobbed in decision. “This. An Ocean’s Tear, I think?”

The large, teardrop-cut gemstone was a beautiful blue-green and shimmered with light of the same shade, rippling like the ocean on a sunlight day. “Yes, one of the best I’ve seen,” Tobimar said.

“This will be ideal.”

“Hey,” Poplock said. “How do you know what an ocean is? I mean, all you’ve got is that big lake there.”

Hiriista’s hiss was a laugh. “Do not discount Enneisolaten so swiftly; it is an inland sea, in a way. And while it is true we have never seen such a thing as an ocean, some ancient stories and tales remain which speak of such things… and the names for these stones echo those legends, I think. Now, to our business again. As one might expect, this stone’s power will be related to water. Can you fit it into your Array?”

It took Poplock several minutes – he was unfamiliar with the exact mechanism, and it was obviously intended for use by people with larger, stronger fingers – but eventually he was rewarded with a snap! sound and the blue-green gem was securely set in the ring. Immediately he could see a faint shimmer of ocean-colored light rippling along the thyrium traces and even glimmering on the inside surface of the ring.

Hiriista picked it up and noted the same phenomena approvingly. “Well set, and the Array has already synchronized to it nicely.”

“So, how do I use it?” Poplock slid the ring onto his upper arm, where it fit fairly well. He could feel a tingling sensation, a ripple of mystical force.

“Not that simple, no, my friend. We will have to teach you to become attuned to the Array, and then to the stone itself. We will work on this, and I am sure it will not take overly long, but it will not be done this evening.”

Kyri looked at the ring and then at the multiple other gem-inset objects Hiriista carried. “So once attuned, what can you do with gemcalling?”

“Many things – perhaps not as many as a … free-standing spellcaster could do, if such were able to explore their fully capabilities, but many. Here, allow me to demonstrate with a gem similar to that which your friend has.”

Hiriista stood and raised one clawed arm; a green stone on his bracelet suddenly blazed with emerald fire, which rose up and became a wave of deep sea-green that thundered outward, raging through the forest, toppling smaller trees and stripping larger ones of their bark, scouring the ground bare, an unstoppable raging torrent that ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Oh, ouch! That would have hurt! “That’s impressive!”

Hiriista bowed; his own body language indicated slight embarrassment. “Well, yes, but I have practiced for many years indeed, and I have been attuned to that gem for over a decade; we are old friends, one might say. In addition to such crude offensive capabilities, different gems may protect, enhance, or heal. That was what we call an Essential Call – it calls forth a force based on the essence of the gem. If I attuned myself differently to that or a similar gem, I could use an Essential Call to bring it forth as an enhancement to let me travel unimpeded through water, or to heal and rejuvenate those who are tired or injured.”

“And what’s the other kind of calls?” Poplock asked.

“Summoning Calls. Not the same as the work practiced by actual summoners, who bargain with various beings and spirits – you understand?” At Poplock’s nod, Hiriista went on, “Good. A Summoning Call is in a sense similar to an Essential, but the gemcaller is not trying to call out the essence of, oh, the overt elemental or magical force, but a personification of the force within, and usually for that you need something that has a connection to the personification. You are familiar with suncore?”

“Mystical amber,” Tobimar said promptly. “Either formed from the sap of some extremely rare trees, or from ordinary resin exposed to extraordinary magical forces. It’s rare and hard to work.”

“Precisely so. It turns out that, just as ordinary amber may trap objects and even insects within it, suncore can trap a mystical… trace, or echo, or remnant, of a power that manifests nearby. This may be a representation of a powerful animal, a nature spirit, or something more powerful. You can call forth that echo and have it assist you for a short time.”

“Wow. So if you had a piece of suncore that was at, oh, a battle between two gods…”

“It is possible, yes, that you would then have something from which you could call an echo of a god to your service. Summoning gems such as that are, of course, rare –”

“I would think so!”

“– but the more valuable and sought after for all that.” He tapped a necklace, on which was a large golden drop of glowing amber. “This is one of the few I have ever seen, and I am privileged to be allowed to carry it with me; it is one of the strategic treasures of Kaizatenzei, for within this drop slumbers a fragment of the essence of Shargamor.”

Poplock dropped the tools he was putting back into their case, and he heard Kyri gasp. Tobimar, who had just been testing one of the dishes he was preparing, managed to gasp part of a spoonful into his lungs and spent the next minute coughing it back out. “A piece of a GOD?”

“An echo of the great power, yes. Not his equal in any way, but nonetheless a tremendous force to have at hand. I have very rarely had cause to use it; I hope I shall never have such cause again.”

Poplock looked with new respect at the assortment of jewelry. Would never have thought it was so powerful. “Well, I have to say, I’m that much more excited about learning this!”

“And I cannot blame you. We shall work on it over the next few weeks, and I am sure you will come to grasp it quickly.” He turned his gaze to Kyri. “But I have my own questions as well, and now that we are alone, it is important that we talk.”

His eyes were narrow and focused, and held very much the essence of the hunter that was the nature of a mazakh. “So tell me, Phoenix: why were you so wary, this morning, of Shade Danrall?”

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 21

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 21

Chapter 21.

Kyri took a deep breath of the morning air, which once more brought that sparkling feeling into her, something beyond the freshness of an ordinary dawn. I wonder how I’ll manage to adapt to the ordinary world when we go back, she mused. Evanwyl will seem dull and grimy by comparison. Even Zarathanton may pall.

The three of them stood at the eastern gate of Sha Murnitenzei, looking at the rolling hills that led off into the golden haze of dawn, Poplock sitting comfortably on Tobimar’s shoulder. Next to them, Hiriista was adjusting a large backpack, jeweled bracelets and necklaces chiming as he did so.

Shade Danrall stood nearby, straight as a column; he was to escort them a short distance as he was going on patrol in that direction. Kyri gave him a narrow glance as he looked away. Something about him’s… different. She remembered their first encounter with the Shade; he had been stunned by their arrival, a bit nervous, instantly ordered away by Miri to run an errand. He’d shown up at the party, too, and been similarly nervous and diffident.

He seemed the same today. Even now, he was being a bit wide-eyed and nervous about escorting them when they’d already shown how formidable they were. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not nervous at all. That he’s completely focused on the situation and not in any way affected by it.

What was really maddening was that this whole situation rang a faint bell of memory and her brain was refusing to come up with the connection. Let it go. The connection will come in time, when you’re not trying to force it. And you may be imagining things.

“You’re not coming with us, Miri?” she asked. “I thought –”

“Yes, I’d planned on at least starting the journey with you, but last night, just as I was going to bed, I got a message that there’s something wrong near Sha Vomatenzei; sounds to me like something got over the wall and is skulking around the farms there.”

“Yes,” Tobimar said thoughtfully, “I suppose that the wall can’t do much to stop things that fly or are really good at climbing or jumping from surrounding trees.”

“Do not underestimate the Tenzei Kendron,” Hiriista said. “Powers are woven into it which prevent easy contact even by the denizens of the surrounding forest, and which discourage and confuse those which attempt to pass above or below it. It takes something of considerable power or skill, or both, to pass it.”

“Which unfortunately means that if something does make it over – or under – the Wall, it’s very dangerous,” Miri said regretfully. “So I’m heading off in the opposite direction. I’ll catch up to you as I can.”

They exchanged bows and Miri impulsively embraced them both; Kyri was startled but returned the hug; there was something inherently lovable about the little Light, and the strength in her arms reminded Kyri that she was no more delicate than Tobimar. “You be careful, Miri,” she said.

Miri looked startled, then smiled brilliantly. “I’m not used to people worrying about me! But I guess if anyone’s got a right to worry about me, it’s the people who crossed the Pass of Night. Okay, I’ll be careful. You too, Phoenix! And Tobimar! I don’t want to have to explain to Lady Shae how we lost our special visitors.”

“And a significant magewright,” Hiriista said dryly.

“And a most significant and beloved magewright,” she agreed with a laugh. “Goodbye!”

Miri skipped away, a casual-appearing gait that still somehow took her down the road back into town so quickly that it was only moments before she vanished from sight.

Hiriista gave a sigh and rattled the feathery spines on his neck; the sound gave her the impression of exasperated fondness. “And there she goes, bouncing like a hatchling. Sometimes I cannot grasp how she can manage her duties half as well as she does.”

“Magewright Hiriista!” Danrall said, a shocked tone in his voice. Yet… it still seems a bit off to me. “How –”

“Oh, pissh!” The mazakh dismissed the comment with a wave. “She’s hardly unaware of my opinion. Don’t worry yourself with the reputation of your superiors, they can well ward themselves.”

“O… of course, sir.” He bowed to them. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Lead on,” Kyri said.

“So,” Tobimar said as they began walking east along the road, “when exactly are we parting ways?”

“I would expect sometime after noon,” Danrall answered. “My patrol’s going to take me out to a particular cross-road that leads south to the Wall, then west along it to the Gate-Post where I’ll spend the night, then continue west about an equal distance until I turn north and join up with the road.

“Shade Ammini,” he continued, mentioning one of the other Shades, a broad dark-skinned young woman Kyri remembered from the Party, “will be leaving about now and going in the opposite direction, but she’ll turn north, then after she reaches Nightshine Rock she’ll go east and spend the night at Rimestump, then patrol east to Sentry Hill and return to the road at about the point where I’ll be leaving it.”

Kyri could envision the described paths easily in general terms – two rectangular loops, one to the south and one to the north of Murnitenzei. “So each patrol takes two days. You do this how often?”

“Dual patrol’s done at least once a week and sometimes twice. The Hues roll dice to determine which day, and sometimes whether it’ll be night or day patrols. That keeps anything from being able to be sure of our patrol timing. And of course the timing shifts if we run into something.”

“Does that happen often? Running into something inside the Wall?”

Danrall spread his hands uncertainly. “Well, it happens. Not very often, but … maybe two or three times a year here. I’d guess it’s about that often in the other cities. Twice a year we send a big patrol – all three Hues and four Shades – along the Necklace –”

“Necklace?”

Hiriista laughed, a hissing sound like a boiling kettle. “Yes, you did not hear that name before? That is the name many people use for the main road that circles Kaizatenzei, through all the Seven and to the One, because it is like a necklace with jewels spaced along it.”

Kyri smiled. “That does make sense. A nice image. So you send patrols along the Necklace twice a year – all the cities do this?”

“Yes. That way there’s a force to clean up anything that’s gotten through and is hiding in the parts between cities, bothering outlying villages but not rooted out by the normal patrols, that kind of thing.”

It sounded like they had a pretty good system in place to maintain the safety and peace. She presumed even the outlying villages had their own ordinary defenders, but the things outside the Wall would require something out of the ordinary. “That still seems like a fairly small force, having seen what lies outside your Wall – each city has one Color, three Hues, and seven Shades, right? So that would be for all seven – no, eight – cities, eighty-eight plus the seven Lights, ninety-five for the whole country?”

“It may seem small, but given our training and abilities, it is enough,” Danrall said with some pride.

“That must be impressive training,” Tobimar said.

“Oh, it is. We are taught…” he shook his head as though catching himself. “… but no, I can’t tell you. Secret, honestly. It is not safe, though.” He looked down, sadness clear on his face.

“You lose candidates in the training?”

Danrall hesitated, then nodded. “Over half… do not make it.”

Myrionar’s Name! Half of their carefully selected candidates die from the training? “You lost a friend or two, I guess.”

“Two. One of them was my best friend since I was three, so long that I couldn’t remember not being her friend. We were all so excited to be chosen, but I was scared too. Khasye kept my spirits up, gave me the confidence… and then…” He trailed off, and for a few moments they walked in silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally.

“Thank you. It was a couple of years ago… but it still hurts to remember it.”

“I don’t know that it ever stops hurting,” she said honestly, thinking of her parents and her brother and feeling anew the stab of loss and anger, “but I can tell you it does get better as time goes on.”

Danrall looked at her with new understanding. “You…?”

“My father, mother, and older brother. Yes.” And a lot of other people, not as close… but just as important.

They walked in silence for a while, and when conversation resumed it was about more mundane things – the types of animals and plants found in this region of Kaizatenzei, what they could expect along the road ahead, and so on. Finally, shortly after lunch, Danrall bowed to them and began walking south along a less well maintained, but still clear and reasonably level, path to the south.

“Finally!” Poplock said as the Shade disappeared from sight.

The rest of them laughed. “Ahh,” Hiriista said, rattling his crest in amusement, “it must truly be a challenge for you to be so silent at all times, Master Toad.”

“Sure ain’t easy, I’ll say that.” He looked over at the mazakh. “So, are people going to think we’re one of these patrols?”

Hiriista tilted his head quizzically. “In truth, I had not thought of that. But indeed they might; Tobimar and Phoenix are of a reasonable age to be Hues or Shades, and I have been known to accompany such patrols.”

“Does it matter?” Kyri asked. “My sworn duty is to protect and aid any in trouble anyway; even if we aren’t your Shades and Hues, we’ll still be willing to help anyone who needs our assistance.”

“My duties are much the same, as a magewright instructed by Lady Shae herself,” Hiriista admitted. “Then we may consider ourselves just such a patrol, in spirit if not in fact.”

“I’m betting that troubles are most common at the midpoints between the main cities,” Tobimar said. “Given what you’ve all mentioned about the way in which the cities grew and all.”

“You are correct, of course. And sometimes the problems are purely … internal. While none of us like to think of other people being capable of evil, it does still happen on occasion, especially farther away from the great cities.”

“Well,” Poplock said, “We’ll hear about it if we hear about it, I guess. In the meantime, I’ve got a lot of questions that I haven’t been able to ask!”

They all laughed. “I am sure you do, Master Toad,” Hiriista said, still chuckling like a clockwork whistle running down. “But the ones I think you are most interested in must wait until this evening.” He took in Kyri and Tobimar in his glance as well. “We will have much to discuss, I think.”

Was there something else in his voice… a warning?

“I’m sure we will,” she answered, feeling a new hint of caution and disquiet rising within her. “I’m sure we will.”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 44

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 44

#

“So how are you getting on with your new minders?” Hawthorn asked, easing himself into a chair in Allenson’s office and sinking half a glass of brandy.

Allenson glowered at him.

“Not well, the bastards follow me around like randy youths after a girl with a reputation. I had to physically dissuade some of the more enthusiastic from accompanying me to the bathroom.”

Hawthorn snorted into his drink shooting a fine spray across Allenson’s desk.

“Excellent. I must organize a suitable bonus for Kemp.”

Allenson glowered.

“Pleasurable as it is to offer myself up as the butt for your peculiar sense of humor, was there something else you wanted to discuss?”

“Information!” Hawthorn said succinctly. “I take it you are interested in what is going on in Oxford?”

“Very much,” Allenson replied, refilling Hawthorn’s glass.

“The short answer is not a lot. The Brasilian military have hunkered down and are playing a waiting game. The troopers are getting bored. There have already been one or two incidents. Some of the licentious soldiery caused trouble and one or two local hotheads picked fights in retaliation. The General in charge, one Moffat, is old school. He may not be the shiniest cog in the Brasilian military machine intellect-wise but he does have a grasp of discipline. He hung a few malcontents from both sides and publically flogged others as an example so is keeping a tight lid on things. Shame really, a good insurrection and blood bath might have been useful propaganda.”

Allenson winced.

“I suppose it might have given us opportunities in the short term but I’m rather glad Moffat is competent to that degree. I don’t want a civilian massacre on my conscience. The key question is whether they have enough supplies to withstand a siege? Oxford must have depended heavily on a continuous supply of fresh agricultural produce from the surrounding farms. I doubt if they had much in the way of sterile long-term food storage.”

Hawthorn shook his head.

“My informants tell me that the city’s on short rations but there’s not much chance of starving them out. They’re getting a constant supply of material from tramp ships running in from nearby worlds and even some of the outlying areas of Trinity. The price of food in Oxford has doubled and some of our dear, patriotic countrymen can’t resist making a fast crown or three.”

“It’s difficult to blockade a port when you have no navy,” Allenson said. “Of course many ship owners support the status quo rather than the rebellion and many others won’t care much one way or the other. After all, business is business.”

Hawthorn tapped his glass.

“We could turn Morton’s men loose on the food supplies and ship owners, I suppose.”

“We could but that might do us more harm than good in the long run,” Allenson replied. “We’ll eventually need those people for our own purposes, if not during the war then certainly after it. In any case the Brasilians could ship supplies in on military transports if necessary.”

“If we lose I suspect we won’t have to worry too much about what comes after,” Hawthorn said with his usual cynical detachment.

“How long have we got before the Brasilians attack?” Allenson asked.

“What makes you think they intend to? My information is that they intend to sit out the siege until we die of boredom, dysentery or old age. There seems to be some debate as to whether we’ll attempt to take the town by storm.”

“Indeed, does the thought bother them?” Allenson asked.

“The junior officers positively salivate at the thought,” Hawthorn replied. “Anything to relieve the tedium. They foresee promotion and honors all round.”

“Not a morale problem then.”

“No so’s you’d notice, no.”

“How about the senior officers, what’s their opinion?” Allenson asked.

“Publicly they seem confident of being able to resist any assault we might mount.”

“Well they would say that, wouldn’t they? I wonder what they really think?”

Hawthorn shrugged.

“I don’t yet have an agent in place who is privy to the command staff’s private discussions. One of my agents is laying the colonel of artillery. He boasts that he had enough multi-barreled laser cannon to weave an impenetrable shield over both port and the town and still have guns left over to sweep both causeways clear of any attackers on foot.”

Allenson’s heart sank. Fond ideas of using Morton’s light mortars to overcome the defenses melted like summer hail.

“I see. Was he exaggerating to impress his girlfriend?”

“Possibly.”

Hawthorn shrugged again.

“I am going to need some more Brasilian crowns. I’ve spent my own money up to now and I’m running short of ready cash. My agents refuse to accept the Heilbron paper Thalers we pay our troops in.”

“I see your people are not optimistic about our chances,” Allenson said dryly.

He made a note on his pad.

“I’ll make sure you get a plentiful supply of hard currency. Pay yourself back whatever the treasury owes your personal account as well.”

“There was one other point,” Hawthorn said. “A youth in my employ was part of a group hired to entertain naval officers and overheard a rather odd remark.”

“Oh?” Allenson looked up from the pad.

Hawthorn said, “An off-color joke about the size of an officer’s personal weapon involved comparing it to a new über-powerful secret device being developed for the Brasilian Navy. Apparently it’s going to crush us rebel scum.”

“A war winning secret weapon?” Allenson asked, raising both eyebrows. “And how much credence do you put on that information?”

“The same as you: as next to none as makes no difference,” Hawthorn replied with a grin. “But if I start filtering information before you get it then we might miss something important.”

Allenson nodded agreement.

“Historically, that’s always the problem with intelligence. Everyone always gets accurate information about the enemy’s intentions but it’s usually a lone straw hidden in a hayrick of crap. Okay, secret weapon, Brasilian Navy, for the use of. We’ll make a note and file under Doubtful.”

#

“Only a bloody fool would send troops along that causeway. You might as well line them up and shoot them yourself. Save a lot of time and the result will be the same,” Buller said, jabbing his finger in the direction of Oxford.

Buller might be short changed on many of the qualities needed to make a gentleman but he knew how to conduct a siege. Allenson lay on his stomach in a dugout on the reverse side of the slope overlooking Oxford. He surveyed the town through a scope mounted in a camouflaged port drilled through the crown of the ridge. Buller and Todd squatted behind him.

The Brasilians rigged gun towers to give clear fields of fire over the town buildings onto the open causeways leading to the mainland and the ‘Streamer lines.

“The cannon will have excellent low light sensors. I hope no one is under any illusions that a night attack would be any less of a slaughter,” Buller said.

Allenson assumed that to be the case and hardly needed the obvious pointing out but that never stopped Buller. What the besiegers needed was heavy artillery to smash up and breach the defenses and keep the defenders’ heads down during the assault. Allenson may as well wish for immortality while he was on and a plate of warm muffins.

Heavy artillery tended to be metal based and so was incredibly difficult to transport across the Bight. Perhaps that was fortunate as otherwise the Brasilians would have entire batteries at their disposal. None of the ‘Stream colonies had the industrial base to make their own.

Laser cannon were mostly ceramic and silicon crystal-based devices. They were horribly expensive to manufacture but easy to transport through the continuum, not least because they didn’t require metal ammunition. But their properties caused certain tactical limitations, notably direct line of sight fire restrictions. The ‘Stream Army ideally needed weapons that could be mounted safely in artillery pits. Guns capable of lobbing indirect fire at the enemy.

Many of the old militia regiments had laser cannon which were now coopted into the Army. But Allenson was under no allusion about the end result of a war of attrition between direct-fire laser cannon batteries should he choose to start one. The Brasilians could simply ship in more to replace losses. The colonials couldn’t. They couldn’t manufacture new ones either or even carry out any but the simplest repairs.

“How about the mortars captured by Morton,” Todd said. “We can manufacture mortar shells easily enough. Couldn’t the tubes knock out the gun towers just long enough for our infantry to carry the city by storm?” Todd asked.

“I thought some idiot would suggest that so I have arranged a little demonstration,” Buller replied. “Seeing is believing, so I’m told.”

He tapped the small datapad strapped to his wrist. Artillery crews must have been on standby because the blunt cough of the mortars started up within seconds. The laser cannon in Oxford responded with the same alacrity, no doubt on automatic. The light beams were theoretically invisible unless they were aimed directly at an observer’s eyes, in which case the hypothetical observer would soon need a new head. In practice atmospheric dust and water vapor compromised light coherence such that the laser pulses left streaks of incoherent light across the sky.