Eric Flint's Blog, page 279

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 15

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 15

Chapter 15.

“I have absolutely no idea what is going on now,” Tobimar said bluntly. He rubbed his temples, in the vain hope that the pressure might force the ridiculous situation to align into something he could understand.

Poplock, who had finished checking the rooms to make sure there were neither magical nor mundane spies, bounced his agreement. “This makes no sense.”

Kyri sank into a chair as her Raiment flowed off, leaving her clad in simple pants and shirt. “I wish I could explain it. Your people were driven out of here, by demons that hounded you all the way across the continent, right?”

“And whose curse still follows us; Xavier, Poplock and I found that out the hard way, yes. So you’re sensing the same thing I am?”

Kyri nodded in disbelief. “This … place. It practically sings. You don’t think it’s the effect of getting out of that vileness that was in the forest into a place that isn’t vile?”

“You mean, like stepping out of a cave into sunlight? The way it dazzles you for a bit, seems brighter than normal sunlight?” Poplock said. “No, don’t think so. I think it’d be almost as shocking going just from Evanwyl to here. This place… it even tastes different.”

“I agree,” Tobimar said, and forced his brain to start working on the problem. “There’s a purity here, something way beyond the ordinary.”

Kyri reached into her pack, sitting next to the chair where she was sitting, and got out a bottle of water. “Let’s test that, anyway. This is perfectly good water, in a preservation bottle I bought in Zarathanton; filled it just before we left Evanwyl, and it should be just as good now as the day I left. They have running water here, yes?”

Poplock bounced into the bathroom which adjoined both rooms. “Hmmm… there’s a spigot with red and blue gems on the sides… yep, I touch them and get water at different temperatures.”

“All right, come back out and I’ll do a little test.”

Kyri came out a moment later carrying two of their water cups, both filled with water. “Here, Tobimar. Taste them.”

He reached out and took the cups. “Which is which?”

“Not telling you. That’s the point. I want to know if you can tell the difference.”

“Right.” He took a sip of the lefthand cup. Cool, sweet water, very nice, just as he remembered from the Vantage estate. He swallowed that, then took a sip of the righthand cup.

The cool flow danced through his mouth, invigorating, replenishing, as though he had gone half a week without drinking and now, finally, was given the chance. The water washed away some of the tiredness of the road, the fear and tension of their journey through the savage jungles of Rivendream Pass and the exterior of Moonshade Hollow, and lifted his spirits as though he knew his homeland lay just outside the window. He stood stock-still, astounded, then put both cups down. “It was the one in my right hand.”

“Yes. So it isn’t an illusion of our perceptions.”

“Most definitely not,” Tobimar said emphatically, then considered. “I suppose it could be an illusion of a more sinister sort. We have heard of spirits and monsters – and especially demons – which can construct a pleasing illusion, even a seeming of paradise, for unwary travelers, and as they think they’re sitting down to a great feast or bedding down in a fine inn for the night, they’re actually approaching their own destruction.”

The little Toad gave a bounce-shrug. “Well, we weren’t exactly unwary. But a powerful illusion can catch even the wary. Still, I haven’t noticed anything that tells me this is illusion.”

“How could we tell?” Kyri asked reasonably. “If the illusion’s good enough…”

That’s a scary thought. How can we tell?

“Creepy,” Poplock said, almost as though reading his mind. “And while I’ve got magic, it’s… well, mundane magic, if you know what I mean. It’s not something unique and special.”

Tobimar caught the hint. “Meaning that the two of us do have something unusual. You’re right. Kyri should see if Myrionar will grant her the Eyes of Truth, and I will see if the High Center will reveal anything to me.”

“Fooling a god should be pretty hard,” Kyri agreed. She began a quiet prayer.

Tobimar closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Even if it is illusion, the illusion leaves me my self, and it is the self that gives me the power of my skill, the martial art that Xavier and Khoros call Tor. If I can meditate, it matters not where my body truly is; my mind will find the truth of it.

What Khoros – and his friend Xavier – called “High Center” was the key. It was challenging to reach in combat, but here – surrounded by friends and, at least as far as he could tell, safety – there was no threat to distract him, nothing to interrupt his inner peace. He rose through the Centers and Visions until he stood above himself, feeling the web of probability, the possibility and certainty of the universe’s connection to him, his connection to it.

Tobimar opened his eyes, and he could see. The room fairly blazed in his sight, a solidity of essence that was almost as tangible as steel, as warm as sunlight, as certain as his mother’s love – and almost, almost familiar in a way. He couldn’t be certain, but there was indeed something about this feeling that tugged faintly but insistently on threads of memory.

But more; the song of the world stretched beyond. He could sense the possibility of danger away to the south, beyond the wall, but nothing here. There might – possibly – be a hint of danger to the north or east, but he could not be sure.

Most important was the absolute conviction of solidity. This was no trick or illusion. He was as certain of this as he could be of anything. If this was an illusion, it would be something so powerful that he could do nothing at all against it, so he would assume it was, in fact, real. He released High Center and leaned back. “Real. Exactly as we perceive. As far as I could sense, everything is as it seems to be. If there is anything dark here, it is hiding itself behind a very real cloak of light.”

Kyri opened her eyes and nodded. “I feel the same thing, Tobimar. This is Truth. Enemies could be here – must be here, I think – but they are well-hidden.”

“Hm,” Poplock grunted. “Maybe even using the light of this place almost literally, like shining a light in someone’s eyes so they can’t see what’s behind it.”

Tobimar didn’t like that thought, but it fit all too well with the situation. “You’re probably right, Poplock. We’ll have to be even more on our guard. On the positive side, at least we don’t need to worry about the local environment killing us.”

“I suppose – to be just,” Kyri said, with a smile, “I should look at the other side. Aside from what we assumed coming here, do we have any reason to believe there is something … wrong here?”

Tobimar was taken somewhat aback by the question, but he thought about it. Instead of assuming, based on what they knew coming through the pass, that there had to be something wrong, did he have any actual evidence for that?

“Yep, we do,” Poplock said after a few minutes.

Tobimar felt there was something, but he couldn’t quite figure this out, either, so he shrugged. “All right, Poplock, what have you got for us?”

“They can talk to us.”

Kyri looked askance at the little Toad. “And? I can and have talked to people from Evanwyl all the way along the Great Road and off it, and so have you.”

“Ahh,” Poplock said, lifting a finger in such a scholarly way that Tobimar couldn’t repress a small snort of laughter, “but those places are all connected. Remember that Miri said that as far as they knew, nowhere outside of this ‘Kaizatenzei’ was habitable. The Chaoswar was about twelve thousand years ago.”

Now the Prince of Skysand understood, and he could see that Kyri was starting to grasp it. “Language changes,” Tobimar said slowly. “It’s said that after the Chaoswar, when the peoples emerged from the catastrophe and started to find their neighbors, the farther they went, the harder it was to understand them. It took centuries for language to re-stabilize. There’s enough contact all through the Empire of the Mountain and the State of the Dragon King so that we all keep roughly the same language… but there’s no way they just happened to keep the same language. All I hear from Miri is an accent, no worse than Kyri’s or yours.”

“Or yours,” Kyri pointed out, “from our point of view.” She nodded. “So they should have developed their own language –”

“They did,” Poplock said. “Let’s look at that map, shall we?”

Kyri spread the map out on the table and Poplock hopped up to get a better look.

“Sure, look at this. Name of this country is ‘Kaizatenzei’, and they asked what Sha we were from. These things are all labeled Sha, so I’m guessing that means “city”, or something like that. And the city names… Murnitenzei, Vomatenzei, Alatenzei, Ruratenzei… all with a theme. Not sure what “tenzei” means, though… she said Kaizatenzei meant, um, Unity of the Seven Lights, so Tenzei could be Unity or Light, or even Seven I guess.”

“Seven? That wouldn’t make sense.”

Tobimar snorted again. “Wouldn’t it? It would make sense for us, you know. That is, Skysand. Now if –”

Suddenly he broke off, staring, thinking. Can’t be… but it fits. It fits so well.

He became aware that Kyri was poking him. “Tobimar? Tobimar, what is it?”

Tobimar Silverun felt dizzy, lightheaded at the thoughts chasing through his mind, but the thoughts didn’t just make sense, they felt right. “Seven, Kyri, Poplock. Seven Stars and a Single Sun.”

“What… Oh. You mean there’s seven cities plus the big one –”

“More! More than that! By Terian Himself, it’s right here! The Stars were lost! But look on this map! Seven Stars and a Single Sun hold the Starlight that I do own. What if the Stars are here, somewhere? What would a place be like, where the artifacts of the Light in the Darkness were left to themselves? Like this place, maybe?” He reached out and touched the cities marked on the map. “And look. Four cities here. Three here. The capital, Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar, here, between the groups.” His finger traced a slow curve, going around the four, passing through the capital, then around the other three, back through the capital. “These Eight combine and form the One… form the Sign by which I’m known…”

Kyri gasped. “It is. It’s Terian’s symbol!”

“The symbol of the Infinite. They’re here, Kyri! The lost treasures of the Silverun, of the Lords of the Sky! The Seven Stars, and the Sun itself, are here!”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 38

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 38

Chapter 12 – The Camp

After lunch Allenson toured the encampment accompanied by Colonel Wilson, who had finally shown his face, and various staff officers. Wilson was a nondescript sort of man with white in his hair and moustache. Allenson wondered if the hair was an affectation or whether rejuvenation treatments were failing the man. One could only cheat time for so long despite expensive genosurgery.

The camp did not impress. Tents were planted higgledy piggledy in fields separated by low fences. Men lounged around doing nothing in particular.

“Tell me, Wilson, why do you have such a ridiculously large staff?” Allenson asked, observing the long trail behind.

“Ah well, it’s so that each of the militias has a representative at headquarters,” Wilson replied.

“A representative?” Allenson asked, looking at Wilson as if he had sworn in church.

“That’s right,” Wilson said, defensively, “each group of men have an elected representative to present their views and opinions.”

“On what?”

“Strategy, tactics, when to attack, that sort of thing.”

Allenson looked at the man as if one of them was demented.

“Dear God! Well that ends right now, Colonel Wilson. The “representatives” can stay for today so they can carry my instructions, my orders, back to the militia units.”

“But…,” Wilson began

Allenson spoke over him.

“But… I want the entire edifice disbanded and replaced by a streamlined effective staff. I also want proper chains of field command so we can group units into brigades.”

“But you can’t do that,” Wilson finally got out.

“Why not?” Allenson asked.

“Because each militia is autonomous and…”

“Each militia was autonomous,” Allenson interrupted. “As of now they are units in the Cutter Stream Army and as such are subject to such orders and regulation as I see fit to promulgate.”

A voice interjected.

“I’m not putting up with that.”

Allenson turned to find a small man, pugnaciously sticking out a bearded chin

“And you are?”

“Captain Firkin, Rostray Militia,” said the small man. “We’re not demesne servants to be ordered around by some jumped up Manzanitan aristo. You’ll watch your manners around us, sunshine. We have rights.”

“You will address me as sir, Firkin, and you are quite mistaken. You have no rights at all. You only have duties as laid down by military law.”

Firken turned puce.

“That’s what you think. Push it and I’ll advise my comrades to debate whether we should just go home. I think I can guarantee which way the vote will go.”

A small murmur of approval ran through the other representatives. Wilson nodded but said nothing. Allenson realized that he would get no support from his chief of staff. Ling froze and maintained a blank expression. This was the pivotal moment. If he backed down now then the revolution was over before it had started.

Allenson’s mind raced as he considered and discarded options. Attempts to persuade would be seen as weakness and would invite further liberties. Allowing an outright refusal to obey orders would destroy his authority. He had to enforce his will. He could draw a pistol and threaten the man but when it came to it, the only person he could be sure of was Todd.

Hawthorn chose that moment to emerge from behind a tent.

“Desertion in the face of the enemy is an admission of a capital crime under military law. Should I deal with him now or do you want to go through the formality of a trial before we shoot him, general?” Hawthorn asked casually.

He was dressed in a tailored black uniform with gold piping on the cap and wrists. A badge over his left breast displayed a black shield crossed by red lightning flashes and the initials SP. A dozen men followed him, dressed in combat fatigues of the same color. They had combat helmets with the same insignia.

“This is, ah, Colonel Hawthorn, Head of …,” Allenson said.

“Special Projects,” Hawthorn prompted.

Allenson wondered where Hawthorn got the uniforms. Come to that where had he found the men? Despite the uniforms they didn’t look like soldiers. In fact, they looked more like paramilitary police. They ambled rather than marched and each carried a laser carbine on a sling over the shoulder by their side so the pistol grip was conveniently at hand height.

Firkin gaped.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Krenz,” Hawthorn said, lifting a finger.

The security trooper immediately behind Hawthorn sported sergeant stripes. He barked something and the men lifted their machine pistols. Targeting sights illuminated. Flickering orange dots danced over Firkin’s torso.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Firkin said again, his voice almost a whisper.

Allenson decided it was time he intervened.

“I have yet to find the limits on what Colonel Hawthorn dares and I have known him all my life,” he said.

He raised his voice so that everyone could hear.

“Possibly Firkin misspoke. Possibly he didn’t realize he was subject to military law. Possibly he would like to reconsider his position now that he has been enlightened? Well, Firkin?”

Allenson tilted his head to one side and observed the man as if he did not care much one way or the other. Actually, he did. It would be distasteful and an inauspicious start to his command to have the man killed but give the order he would. To leave the decision to Hawthorn would rightly be seen as gutless by the men. The Army had to know who was in charge. The death of one man now could save a great deal of blood later.

Fortunately Firkin grasped the lifebelt he had been thrown.

“Yes, general, sir, that’s it exactly.”

“Excellent,” Allenson said, heartily. “Your men can stand down, colonel.”

Hawthorn raised the finger again and the orange spots switched off although his troopers kept their hands on the pistol grips.

Wilson gaped, looking as if his world had been turned upside down.

Hawthorn ignored him.

“Krenz, I want two of your men within a meter of General Allenson at all times with two more to provide door security on any room he occupies.”

“Yes, boss,” Krenz replied.

Hawthorn frowned.

“Yes, sir, you’re in the army now. And they had better be bloody alert because if anything happens to the general, anything at all, then you’re dead meat.”

“Got you, boss, I’ll keep the boys on their toes.”

Krenz glowered at his squad who didn’t seem too worried. They didn’t look at Allenson but at the people around him.

“The lads know to shoot first if they are in any doubt and leave the lawyers to clear up the mess: simpler that way.”

Allenson wondered where Allenson found Krenz. He was definitely neither militia nor regular army that was for sure.

The overwhelming smell of sewage and general human waste reminded Allenson of his next priority.

“Gentlemen, this camp stinks. It’s a bloody disgrace, nothing but a breeding ground for pestilence. Even Riders don’t live like this and they take the precaution of moving on after a few days. Tomorrow morning at dawn the whole camp will move to a new location. Tents will be erected in rows and latrines will be constructed at a safe distance from the living accommodation. They will be inspected by your staff, Colonel Wilson, to ensure they meet the requirements necessary for decent sanitation.”

“You expect my men to oversee the latrines?” Wilson asked.

“Indeed Colonel, furthermore I expect you to lead such inspections to ensure they are carried out properly. In future any man who fouls the camp will be on a charge. No doubt you can invent some suitable punishment, Colonel Hawthorn.”

“Latrines will need to be filled in and new ones dug at regular intervals,” Hawthorn said. “The punishment can fit the crime.”

“I’m damned if I’ll let you turn me and my officers into janitors,” Wilson said, finding his voice. “Who the hell do you think you are, Allenson?”

“I think I’m your superior officer,” said Allenson. “I also think I shall dispense with your services. Thank you for your contribution to defending the ‘Stream. Be assured if we need you again I shall let you know.”

“I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to go home, Sar Wilson, and enjoy a well-earned retirement.”

Wilson visibly shrank under Allenson’s gaze, aging twenty years in a second. Suddenly he didn’t look like a senior officer but a tired old man in borrowed clothes. Allenson felt a complete and utter shit but he hardened his heart. Battle was too unforgiving for misplaced compassion. He had to establish discipline and quickly if the army and the new state were to survive. Wilson offered himself up as a sacrificial lamb – or more properly a scapegoat. The story of how Firkin was brought to heel and the ruthless disposal of Wilson would spread like wildfire through the army.

“Major Ling,” Allenson said

“Sir?”

As of now you are chief of staff with the acting rank of colonel.”

“Sir.”

“Do you anticipate any difficulty carrying out my orders?”

“No sir.”

Allenson nodded. Ling would do.

“But do you understand why we must ruthlessly enforce sanitation?” Allenson asked.

“Well, I suppose we have to look the part of army regulars, sir, but it won’t be easy.” Ling said tentatively.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 14

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 14

Chapter 14.

Kyri forced herself to step forward, belatedly following Miri as the much smaller woman strode quickly in the direction of the beautiful city below them. She exchanged a disbelieving glance with Tobimar, and could see even Poplock’s eyes wider than usual.

This… makes no sense at all. Yet I can sense nothing dark. My powers may be reduced here, but they are not gone, and the only darkness I can sense at all is the forest that lies behind us, barricaded on the other side of that wall.

It was more than that, she admitted. It was not merely the absence of darkness; that was the way of the world on the other side of the mountains, of Evanwyl and most parts of Zarathan not immediately under the sway of something demonic or otherwise corruptive. This “Kaizatenzei”, or at least the part of it they were now in, shone to her senses. Everything – from the armor on Miri’s shoulders to the grasses bordering the pathway down which they walked to the great trees that grew like sentinels throughout the city – glittered with promise and strength, a rightness that she had only felt in moments before, when Myrionar Itself touched upon her, as though this entire city was holy ground, infused with the essence of the divine.

As they approached the town, a tall young man with a long yet handsome face, dark brown skin, and ebony hair, in armor which seemed as ceremonially delicate as Miri’s but less brightly colored, in muted shades of green and brown rather than Miri’s brilliantly shining sapphire and emerald, stepped forward and waved, performing a perfunctory bow which Miri returned. “Light Miri, welcome back! We had not expected your hunt to end so soon!” His voice was strong and clear, reminding Kyri somehow of Rion’s when he had become a Justiciar.

“No more had I,” Miri said with a laugh. “But that is the least of surprises today. Shade Danrall, allow me to present Tobimar and Phoenix, who saw me facing a nalloshoth and thought me endangered, and so came magnificently to my rescue.”

“Truly?” Danrall looked curiously at them. “Well, courageously done, even if unneeded. From which Sha do you hail?”

“Ah, there is the true wonder,” Miri answered. “For they say they come from beyond the mountains, and I believe them.”

Kyri saw Danrall’s jaw drop, stretching his already-long face into comic disbelief. “From the –”

“Yes,” Kyri said, unable to keep from smiling herself. “And allow me to say that for us, this is just as much a surprise. We thought all of this great valley was like the forest outside your walls.”

Danrall recovered quickly. “Then I am doubly surprised that you dared even enter!” he said with a smile.

“Truly said,” Miri agreed. “Now, Shade, I want you to keep this quiet. I cannot avoid some attention, of course, but I don’t want our newcomers bothered until they have had an opportunity to rest; they have travelled through the Pass of Night and the belt of corrupted forest twixt there and here, and surely they need some time to recover and refresh themselves.”

Kyri couldn’t argue that, though a part of her was still concerned about just what the whole impossible situation meant.

“I understand, Light. What would you have me do?”

“Tell the current Color – it is still Kerrim, is it not? Yes, I thought so. Tell Kerrim that we have two visitors, heroes I think, from beyond the mountains, and that we should have a proper welcome and council with them upon the morrow; I expect he’ll have you notify his Hues and the other Shades of the city. I will inform the Lady of Lights myself, once I am done here.”

“As you will, Light.”

Miri turned to them as Danrall jogged off. “I hope I am correct in thinking you need some rest – and perhaps time to re-adjust your expectations and thoughts, yes?”

Tobimar laughed. “You are certainly correct, Miri. This is completely opposite to our expectations, and we have indeed been exhausted by our journey through what you call the Pass of Night and what we call Rivendream Pass. If you have only sent scouts up that place before, I do not wonder that you believe nothing good exists outside.”

“Good. Then I’ll guide you to the Sunlight Rest – the best lodging house here – and you may take your ease until the meeting is arranged, probably tomorrow at this same time.” She turned and led them past the small, open shelter that Danrall had been sitting in – obviously a guard post – and down the path which was now becoming a paved street running straight into the center of the wooded city.

“So your title is that of Light, and from what I heard you have your other… what, military ranks? … of Colors, Hues, and Shades, yes?” Kyri asked.

“Military is a bit grandiose,” Miri answered with another smile. “The Tenzeitalacor are more guardians of the Sha, or cities. We resolve any arguments, investigate crimes, deal with monsters and such problems.”

That at least provided an opening. “More police than soldiers then. But crimes and monsters? Those seem hardly imaginable here, from what I see,” Kyri said. They were now passing one of the great trees, a massive red-brown trunk farther across than two wagons placed end to end holding aloft branches that stretched hundreds of feet wide and high. Beneath, multiple buildings – houses and shops – were arranged along the streets that branched off from the main roadway they walked along. Multiple people – mostly human, though Kyri saw at least one or two that appeared to be Artan and possibly one Child of Odin – waved or nodded to Miri, who returned their greetings cheerfully but showed no tendency to pause or talk, leaving the various people to stare curiously at the two figures walking just behind the Light.

Miri shook her head. “Kaizatenzei is beautiful and peaceful, but people are still people. And in the regions between the seven great cities and the Unity, there are wilder areas, not nearly so hideous as that jungle we met within, but still not places without danger.”

Tobimar pointed to some other figures Kyri had noticed, ones that had not waved, bowed, or even stared. “Who are those?” he asked. “I notice they are doing the more menial tasks.” The nearest of the figures, clad in a simple gray tunic and apparently bald of head, was sweeping up dust from the street; that explained, at least partially, the cleanliness of the city.

Miri looked where he pointed. “Oh, now, say not who, but what,” she said with a laugh. “Come, I will show you.”

The diminuitive warrior quickened her steps to bring her in front of the working figure, which straightened up as it noticed her. At this range, Kyri could see that it was indeed not a living creature. The body appeared to be made of something like fine pottery, with glints of metal at the joints; there was a face, but mostly just painted or inlaid, with only bright green crystal eyes and a mouth that could move. It bowed to Miri. “I recognize you, Light,” it said, in a calm, even voice. “Do you require a service?”

“Merely that you tell these strangers of yourself, then you may return to work.”

It repeated the bow; Kyri found it somewhat eerie to watch, because unlike a living being, the repetition was absolutely exact, yet the fluidity of the thing’s movement was nearly equal to that of a human being; even its hands were detailed and fine enough for the most delicate operations, while their material hinted at the potential for immense strength. “I am an Eternal Servant, number fifty-seven of those assigned to Sha Murnitenzei, named Patina for my finish.” It held out an arm, so they could see the patina of fine cracks in the glaze of its body. “I was created one hundred twenty-two years ago by Master Wieran and assigned to this city one year following. My primary duties in the time since have been maintaining the cleanliness of the streets and building exteriors.”

Having completed this description, Patina returned to sweeping up the dust of the street.

Kyri noticed Poplock’s tense posture, the pose that generally showed that he was bursting with the desire to ask questions but knew he couldn’t. Still, she’d studied enough basic magical theory to guess what he wanted to ask. “Hundreds of automata, all running for hundreds of years? How? Building such things is extremely difficult, as I understand it. Where we come from, people still do most such work.”

Miri shrugged. “How is a question for Master Wieran, for he was the one who designed them and produces the Servants for us, a few every year, but over the years he has dwelt with us that has added up to considerable numbers indeed; I think there are about one hundred and eighty in each of the seven cities, and somewhat more than that in Kaiza itself.”

She looked up. “Ah, here we are.”

Sunlight Rest was an imposing building, stone-fronted with support beams of deep reddish-brown wood and a large double door in front of a lighter, amber wood, carven with a complex pattern of twining vines across a setting sun; currently both doors stood open, splitting the sun down the center, half on each. Miri led them inside, ignoring the curious stares of the various patrons within and walking straight up to a white-haired older woman who was just finishing giving instructions to two youths and one of the Servants.

The woman glanced up as the small group approached her, and rose from her desk smoothly. “Light Miri, a pleasure as always.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be so formal.”

“Miri, then,” she said with a smile, “What can I do for you?”

“Something simple enough, Dania,” Miri said. Gesturing to Kyri and Tobimar, she continued, “These two are to be guests of the Lady of the Lights herself.”

“And does the Lady know this yet?”

Miri laughed, a cheerful ringing sound that brightened the shaded interior of the inn. “You know me awfully well, I see. She will know. But true, for now, they are my guests.”

“Well enough,” Dania said. “Two rooms, then?”

“Adjoining, if you can,” Tobimar said quickly.

“Of course,” the older woman said. “You can leave it to me, Miri.”

“I knew I could,” Miri said with another bow that caused the ribbon in her hair to bounce. “Phoenix, Tobimar, I have other duties now, but you’ll be as comfortable here as anywhere in the city, and I’ll send word later when the meeting is all arranged.”

“Just a moment, Miri,” Kyri said. “We’re still trying to understand exactly where we are. Do you have anything about these seven cities, your Unity, and so on?”

Ignoring Dania’s sharp, startled glance, Miri nodded and dug into a tiny pouch at her side – a pouch that allowed her to insert at least half her arm inside. Neverfull pouch, at least. “Umm… here! This is a simple map we make… oh, there’s a few notations on the back… Ah yes, I don’t need those, so it’s fine, you can have it.” She handed the folded paper to Kyri.

“What about tomorrow?” Tobimar asked. “Do we stay in our rooms until –”

“Oh, no, no, you don’t have to do that!” Miri said, an apologetic look on her face. “I didn’t want us all bothered on the way here, but you don’t have to be some kind of a secret! If you want to, by all means, look around, see whatever you wish. Just check back here every so often so you will get my message.”

“All right, then,” Kyri said. “Please don’t let us detain you any longer; sorry for the trouble.”

“Oh, it was no trouble at all,” Miri said, and then with a rather girlish squeal said “Oh, this is going to be so exciting!”

She recovered her poise instantly, looking slightly embarrassed, and bowed with the uplifted arm again. They returned the bow as best they could, and Miri left with a wave and a spring in her step.

Dania, still studying them more intensely than before, led them upstairs, where two doors at the end of the hall opened into a pair of high, clean, fresh-smelling rooms.

Now… we need to talk!

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 37

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 37

The wine ran out early, Allenson limiting himself to a single glass. After that it was tonk all round. Allenson joined in but cut his with water. He gently encouraged his companions to talk listening carefully to their conversation. He heard the usual stories of bored troops getting into fights, equipment that malfunctioned, stores that never arrived or contained something completely different from the label: all the usual trials and tribulations of an army in the field.

One casual remark from a young Lieutenant concerned him. It was to the effect that one third of his men had gone down with fever in the last week. The patients were responding well to a general viral suppressant but the bug was spreading through the camp and putting medical resources under strain.

Allenson eventually steered the conversation around to social matters. By the time tonk and café was served officers were loosening their jacket button and removing neck ties. The evening began to take the form of a college supper. A captain called on one of the party to sing, a cry that was soon taken up by all. The victim made a token protest before standing up.

He had a good voice and gave a creditable performance of Bugle Calls, a marching song that probably dated back to when men trailed a pike. Each officer was prevailed in turn to contribute irrespective of whether they possessed any discernible musical talent. Most of the songs spoke of the terrible burden of duty or the girl/boy I left behind me, two tropes never far from a soldier’s mind. Some were serious while others were played for comic effect.

The revelers prevailed on the general to give them a song when suitably emboldened by liberal consumption of tonk. Frames, in his role as President of the Mess and hence technically the host, hushed them up but Allenson forestalled him by standing.

“Well, gentleman, no one has ever accused me of being able to hold a note but I see that also goes for many of the rest of you.”

The assembled company laughed. When a general assayed a joke it was always funny no matter how weak or poorly delivered.

“So here is a little marching ditty that the Manzanitan Militia picked up from Brasilian regulars in the Terran War. You may not have heard it yet this far up the ‘Stream.”

He cleared his throat.

“Here’s a shining crown yours for free

For all who’ll volunteer with me,

To ‘list and fight the foe today,

Over the stars and far away.”

“When duty calls me I must go

To stand and face another foe.

But part of me will always stray

Over the stars and far away.”

“If I should fall to rise no more,

As many good friends did before,

Then ask the trumpet band to play,

Over the stars and far away.”

“So fall in lads behind the drum,

Our colors blazing like a sun.

Along the road to come-what may.

Over the stars and far away.”

There was a pause then Frames banged his hand on the table.

“Bravo, general, bravo.”

The spell broken men applauded and called for more.

“No, no,” Allenson shook his head. “The night may be young but I’m not. But don’t let me spoil the evening. You carry on.”

He looked at Todd.

“You stay too, lieutenant.”

“It’s been a long day, sir, so I think I’ll join you.”

They left as the Mess began to warm up. An officer began a new song whose lyrics followed them out of the building.

“I don’t want to join the army

I don’t want to go to war

I’d rather hang around Oxford drinking underground

Living of the earnings of a high-born lady

I don’t want a bayonet up me arsehole

I don’t want me bollocks shot away

I’d rather be in Oxford

Merry merry Oxford

And fornicate my feckin’ life away, cor blimey.”

Todd firmly shut the door cutting off the next verse that discussed more intimate revelations about the aforesaid high-born lady’s boudoir.

“The winds changed but at least it’s stopped raining,” Allenson said when they got outside.

Todd lifted his face and sniffed the air.

“What the hell is that evil smell?” he asked.

“The reason there is fever in the camp,” Allenson said, grimly.

#

The next morning Allenson breakfasted in his room before attending the morning briefing. They held it in a stepped lecture theatre in the main building. He arrived early and waited by the lectern down at the front. Officers drifted onto the seats in twos and threes in various combinations of civilian and military dress. A number of majors put in an appearance but Masters still didn’t show. Allenson ordered the door locked dead on the appointed hour.

“Good morning, gentlemen, my name is Allenson. I hold the rank of Captain-General which means I am in command of the combined Cutter Stream army. You have a question?”

The last was addressed to a major who was visibly disturbed at the situation.

“But sar Allenson, there isn’t a Cutter Stream army.”

“The elected political leadership of the Heilbron colonies has asked the Colonial Assembly to adopt the Heilbron militias into the army. Right now your militias are the field force of the army which makes me your commander in chief. As such you will address as sir, understood?”

“Yes,” said the major.

Allenson stared at the major

“I meant yes, sir.”

“Good, and in future when my officers attend a meeting I expect them to be in dress uniform or combat fatigues. I expect you to look and behave like officers.”

“The Heilbron militias have always had a relaxed attitude to discipline, sir.”

“The ‘Stream Army doesn’t,” Allenson said firmly.

“Right, who’s General Master’s chief of staff?”

“That would be Colonel Wilson, sir. He’s away on business but I’m his deputy.”

“You are?”

“Major Ling, Sir.”

“Well Major, it appears you are elected to come up here and brief me. I want everyone else to remain and participate in the discussion. Assume I know nothing, Ling, and start with the basics. I want us all to be singing from the same sheet.”

Ling keyed a large scale holomap of the area from the lectern. The eastern half of the primary continent on Trinity drained into three major rivers which fed into a large bay called The Bowl. Two long fingers of bedrock projected out from low lying plains into the bay. Oxford city was built on one. Its space port with hard pads for small vessels and docksides for larger ships was on the other. Bridges linked the two peninsulas.

“The map only shows roads in and around Oxford and the spaceport?” Allenson asked.

“That’s pretty much all there are, sir,” Ling replied. “The rivers are convenient and cheap for transporting heavy goods and people and light stuff are moved around on frames.”

Ling shrugged.

“It’s never been worth the expense to build and maintain a road network.”

Allenson grasped the point. Trinity was a convenient deep port all ready and waiting for the first colonists standing. It stood at the terminus of a massive waterway system suitable for concentrating goods to ship off planet and the distribution of imports. It hopelessly outclassed Manzanita’s lake and transient streams and rivers. Sheer chance gave the Upper Stream colonies like Trent and Trinity an economic head start which they had never relinquished.

Ling gestured to the low plain around the landward half of the rocky fingers,

“The low ground here is methane marsh so it’s unused waste ground.”

He turned his attention to the peninsulas.

“Brasilian Regulars landed on the spaceport and secured the town putting down rioters and generally imposing martial law.”

“Was this unpopular with the residents?” Allenson asked.

“Well, that kinda depends on who you talk to,” Ling replied, “It was unpopular with the agitators who were shot and their friends and relations. Many of the residents although politically for independence were none too sorry to see troublemakers dealt with firmly as there had been incidents.”

Allenson nodded. Criminal elements tended to come to the fore in any urban insurrection.

Ling continued.

“Once they secured the city the regulars sent patrols out to pacify the countryside.”

Allenson said, “I suppose a pattern developed of ambushes, reprisals against the civilian population leading to stronger reaction from the militia and so on.”

“Yes, sir, eventually militias from all over the Heilbron Worlds arrived and joined in until we outnumbered their patrols considerably. After we gave them a few bloody noses the Brasilians retreated back into the town. The militias fortified this rock outcrop to pen them in.”

Ling pointed to a spot roughly at the shoreline.

“From there we could bombard Oxford, the Bowl and the most of the spaceport. We don’t actually have any artillery but it seemed useful to grab the high ground while we could.”

Such initiative and grasp of strategy pleasantly surprised Allenson.

“Excellent, major, you have done well. We have our foot on their throat.”

Ling looked uncomfortable.

“Well, we did sir but unfortunately they mounted an attack and recaptured the outcrop. Oh, we won the fight, sir, you can be sure of that. We killed ten of them for every man of ours that fell but eventually we were forced to pull back, you see.”

Allenson saw only too well. Potting men from behind fortifications was one thing but standing up to regulars in close assault was quite another. That required the confidence that comes with training and iron-hard discipline.

“So where are our lines?”

Ling’s discomfort increased.

“Well, sir, we ah don’t exactly have any. Most of our army has pulled back onto the dry ground leaving just a few scouts behind as a tripwire. It’s not like they’re going anywhere general.”

“Nor it seems, are we,” Allenson observed.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 36

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 36

“Where would I find Inglethorpe’s office, mistress?” he asked, trying not to be too brusque as the woman had offered him no provocation. It would be ungentlemanly to spill some of his anger onto her.

“Up one floor and at the end of the hallway to the left,” she replied, automatically. “His name’s on the door.”

“Thank you my good lady.”

Allenson covered the ground in long strides.

“But you can’t go in without an appointment…”

Todd winked at her and hurried after his principal. He had to half run to catch up.

Allenson found the office door without any difficulty as Inglethorpe’s name was indeed upon it. The thin plastic had torn away from one of the attaching tacks so that the sign hung down on one side in a way that was wonderfully symbolic.

“..well, I don’t know what to say to him. Maybe if I keep him waiting long enough he’ll go away…”

Was what Allenson heard when he flung open the door.

The man sat at an office podium was small but possessed of an impressive girth around the middle that a well-cut jacket failed to hide despite an heroic attempt by its tailor. He had his head back apparently talking to the ceiling. This meant he was using the network without even taking the precaution of setting the sound suppressor.  Or he could be mad.

“You can’t just come in here,” Inglethorpe said.

“I just did.”

Allenson moved to stand behind the Council Leader from where he could see the directional hologram depicting Inglethorpe’s communicant. The man wore the uniform dress tunic of a Brasilian senior field officer. The officer’s eyes widened since Allenson was now equally visible to him. The soldier moved his arm slightly and the hologram winked out leaving Allenson and Council Leader Inglethorpe together in the office.

They glared at each other, both uncertain how to proceed. The Brasilian officer was probably in Oxford. Allenson could hardly accuse Inglethorpe of consorting with the enemy because until the Assembly on Paxton declared independence they were all technically still Brasilians. Inglethorpe had left Oxford to join the Trinity Council in exile which said something. Presumably the man was simply trying to keep a foot in both camps until he saw how things panned out, a typical politician in other words.

Allenson decided to offer only gentle advice as Inglethorpe might be useful at some future date.

“Not wanting to burn your boats is understandable but the trouble with riding two horses, Councilor, is that you tend to get splinters in the arse from sitting on the fence.”

Inglethorpe gaped at him without replying. Allenson thought this ungenerous given the effort he had put into mixing an amusing metaphor. Oh well, he never had been any good at jokes.

“This is purely a courtesy visit to announce my arrival. No doubt you have many calls upon you in these trying times so I won’t detain you further. Perhaps you could tell me where to find Army Headquarters?”

“Lillian, my secretary, the office opposite the stairs, she’ll help you.” Inglethorpe pointed in the general direction of the door.

“Thank you.”

Allenson re-joined an amused Todd in the corridor.

“You forgot the one about losing your money in mid-stream by backing two dogs,” Todd said.

#

The Militia headquarters turned out to be located in buildings belonging to another of the colleges. The availability of so many venues with lecture theatres, offices, canteens and sleeping accommodation explained why both the army and the government in exile chose to relocate to such a small town.

Moving the barge a short hop was more trouble than it was worth so he elected to walk. Nowhere in Cambridge was very far from anywhere else. Inevitably it started to drizzle as the sun dropped below the horizon. They navigated using Allenson’s pad while Todd used his as a torch to provide illumination. Lamps at the front of some houses spilled light into the street but many areas were in darkness.

The rain set in quite heavily by the time they reached their destination. This turned out to be another two story redbrick building surrounded by one floor wooden chalets. The sentry on the door hunched miserably inside a waterproof cape.

“Where will I find the duty officer?” Allenson asked.

“First corridor to right, first door on the right,” the sentry replied morosely, with a jerk of his thumb.

The movement caused water collected in a fold of the sentry’s cape to run down his leg, eliciting a foul curse. The only thing that surprised Allenson about the exchange was that there was a sentry on duty at all in such inclement weather.

Once inside he shed his coat and left it draped over the back of a chair. The vestibule was empty so he followed his instructions. When he opened the first door on the right he was greeted by the sight of the soles of a pair of military boots crossed at the ankles and resting on the duty desk. Behind them a man sat hidden by the open Orders of the Day that he dutifully read.

“Good evening,” Allenson said when the man showed no response.

“Can’t you knock,” the man replied.

He lowered the file to peer over the top. There was nothing wrong with the soldier’s reflexes. He shot to his feet at attention after one glance at Allenson’s uniform. His gaze fixed firmly on a point two feet over Allenson’s head before the file hit the ground.

“Chung, duty sergeant, awaiting your orders, SIR.”

The last word was snapped out. Clearly Sergeant Chung hadn’t always been militia. Everything about him suggested regular army.

“At ease, sar’nt.”

Chung moved his feet the regulation half meter apart in a crisp stamp and put his hands behind his back.

“The duty officer is?” Allenson asked.

“Sir, Captain Frames, sir.”

There was a pause.

“Would you like me to summon him, sir.”

“No just point me in the right direction.”

“Through your door to the left, sir.”

Allenson noticed that a brightly colored insert had slipped from Chung’s file when it hit the floor. Military documents are not normally noted for their visual splendor so it caught his eye. He reached down and picked up the file. He slipping the illustrated copy of Brothel Big’uns back inside The Orders Of The Day before placing it back on the sergeant’s desk.

“Very good, sar’nt, you may carry on.”

“Sir.”

Todd opened the door to the left which turned out to be a broom cupboard full of assorted stationary and cleaning equipment.

“My left, sir,” said the sergeant, sounding desperate.

Inside two young officers sitting around a desk playing cards came stiffly to attention.

“It seems to be my night for surprising people,” Allenson said mildly. “As you were, gentleman.”

“General Allenson, sir?” the one sporting captain’s flashes asked tentatively.

“You were expecting someone else?”

“Ah, no sir but we were not sure when you would arrive.”

“You must be Captain Frames.”

“Yes, sir”

Silence.

“And you are?” Allenson asked the other officer.

“Jingle, sir, Lieutenant Jingle,” the young man squeaked.

Allenson studied him, wondering if he was old enough to shave. Militia officers were getting younger every year. At this rate they would be recruiting in the kindergarten soon. Jingle looked increasing nervous under Allenson’s gaze so he switched back to Frames.

“Is Colonel Masters on base?”

“No, general, he’s away on business,” Frames replied.

“I see, on business. No doubt Colonel Masters has a home located somewhere conveniently nearby as he is resident on Trinity,” Allenson said to no one in particular, as if he was thinking aloud.

“Yes, sir,” Jingle said, helpfully, before shutting his mouth tight after a warning look from Frames.

“I believe Colonel Masters does own such a property in a village a few kilometers from here,” Frames said cautiously. “It is possible he might be there. Shall I try to find him?”

Allenson paused as if considering.

“I think not. There’s no need to disturb him unnecessarily. That’s an order not a suggestion, captain.”

He didn’t want Frames to tip Masters off. It might be useful to meet the other officers of the besieging army without him around.

“Yes, sir.”

“My aide and I require accommodation in the base.”

“Yes, sir, arrange it please, Lieutenant Jingle.”

Jingle’s eyes defocussed as he thought hard. Space would be at a premium. A whole line of people would have to be bumped down to give Allenson a room appropriate to his rank. The most junior officer, possibly Jingle himself, could end up sleeping in a waterlogged tent.

“And my barge is over at the civilian HQ with our luggage. Please arrange to move them here.”

“Yes, sir, both the barge and the luggage?” asked Jingle, anxiously.

“I think that would be convenient,” Allenson replied, keeping a straight face. “You will find my man, Boswell, keeping an eye on it.”

Jingle hurried out, forgetting to salute. Frames closed his eyes.

“Have you and your fellow officers dined yet tonight?” Allenson asked.

“No, sir, we club together using one of the lecture theatres as a mess. There are eight of us, usually and Lieutenant Lamborgi has a servant who is an excellent chef.”

“Well, Captain, if you think the faire might extend from eight to ten, I would be pleased to join you. I have a couple of bottles of decent wine in my kit that I could contribute.”

“We would be delighted to welcome you and your aide, sir.”

Actually, there was no other acceptable reply that Frames could give but he did seem genuinely happy at the prospect.

#

The dinner was indeed rather good. Initially stilted, conversation flowed more freely in direct correlation with the consumption of alcohol. Eventually the young officers felt bold enough to give Allenson their opinion on how the war should be fought. He was pleased to see that they wanted to take the fight to the enemy with an immediate assault on Oxford. Only an idiot would take strategic advice from a junior officer but it was right that they erred on the side of aggression. Older wiser heads could be allowed to decide how and where to direct that aggression.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 13

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 13

Chapter 13.

“You are tense this morning, Lord.”

It raised an eyebrow and smiled. With the false Justiciars no longer free to roam Evanwyl, it no longer cared about the use of words that might reveal its secret guise; the Justiciars could no longer accidentally reveal anything.

What was surprising and amusing was Bolthawk’s observation, and the fact that it was true. “You see clearly, Bolthawk. How did you know?”

The Child of Odin gave a tight grin, even as he whirled his axe around in a quick cut that necessitated an immediate dodge. “Seen it before, truth be told. Usually you’re fluid as water, clean as air. This morning, though… your movements are just a touch jerky, your glances stray wider, as though seeking something.” He barely blocked its return stroke, but continued, “I see it only in mornings, so I think… a dream, yes?”

Perceptive indeed. The true irony is that each and every one of these people… with the exception of Thornfalcon… could have been excellent Justiciars in truth. “Yes.”

“Would you care to speak it? Or is this a different dream each time?”

The creature considered as the two of them had a few more passes at arms during their practice. I have never told this to a mortal before, and indeed only to select few others. Yet… why not? They have much fear of me, yes, but fear is not the best or only way to control. And he shows considerable courage in daring to ask such personal information, as a dream can give hints of weakness.

Finally he decided and disengaged. “No, you guess aright, friend Bolthawk. It is the same dream, always the same dream, that causes me a few hours of… tension, every so often.” It leaned on its sword and looked off into the distance. “The preliminaries may vary, but always the true… nightmare, if you will… begins with the same realization:

“I am being followed.”

It placed so much emphasis on that phrase that Bolthawk raised his own thick eyebrow. “Is that so unusual, then?”

“Oh, indeed. A most novel sensation, actually. No one ever follows me… not unless I want them to, of course… and in the dream, I cannot remember inviting any pursuit.

“So I look about, extending all of my senses – my true senses, you understand – and yet I find… nothing.”

It found to its surprise and amusement that gooseflesh had risen on its arms. This body’s reactions still can go beyond expectations.

Yet the reaction was not, in fact, entirely inappropriate, for the dream itself was emphatic and clear, and it could feel the certainty waiting in that memory: despite the failure of its senses, something was following, out there in the darkness that was darker than any night.

“I quicken my pace; whatever follows me, the proper course is to meet my adversary on more advantageous ground. And it is then that it strikes me: I do not know where I am going! I am unclear as to my goal.” It smiled one of its least-comforting smiles, and was rewarded with Bolthawk swallowing nervously. “You understand, of course, that I always know my goal, and have for… well, much, much longer than you or any of your people have been alive.”

Bolthawk nodded, and it continued, “I carve my way through the forest I now find myself in, a trackless jungle that I travel through with ease yet no clear path or destination. And then I hear… a noise.

“Something is there. Something is coming. Behind me.” It closed its eyes, remembering. “I whirl, looking, gazing with all my intensity. My other senses say there is still nothing, nothing there at all, but then I see something. A flash of eyes.

“But not just any eyes, oh no. Gray eyes, eyes like stormclouds and steel, cold and grim yet transcendently certain, with not a trace of doubt or fear or hesitation, eyes that penetrate all my deceptions, and I know that my pursuer sees me, knows me for what and who I truly am, and yet does not turn back, does not recoil, does not pause, but comes on, ever closer.” It drew a breath, one that actually held the faintest tremor of excitement or even, perhaps, fear. “And I feel a shock through my very soul, for I know – know – the truth. That these are the eyes that could end me.”

It smiled and shrugged. “And then – always – I awaken.”

Bolthawk considered. “So, you’ve never seen the person with those eyes?”

“I have never seen my pursuer’s face,” it admitted candidly. “Never descried the hands or body, never even sensed the nature of the soul that must accompany that body. For all my life – and that has been, you realize, a very long life indeed – whenever the dream or vision comes I see only the eyes, that wide, gray, unwavering gaze.”

The false Justiciar hesitated momentarily, then shrugged. “You know, Kyri Vantage has eyes just as you describe.”

It laughed. “Oh, not quite, my friend. Or, to be fair… not quite yet. I have met many, many with gray eyes before, but never those eyes. Sometimes the wrong shade; other times the wrong gaze, too gentle, too uncontrolled… never quite the same. Phoenix Kyri’s eyes are too heated in their vengeance, too passionate. These eyes are those of one who has contemplated my destruction not for mere months, but for uncounted years, and who knows precisely my nature, and yet feels neither fear nor uncertainty; he, or she, or it, knows that they will make an end of me. This does not describe her. Yet.” It smiled. “But on the positive side, Bolthawk, the dream – which I believe fully, mind you – gives me much comfort. For I then need fear neither demon nor dragon nor god, but only that unknown pursuer. On the day I see those eyes in life, on that day – and no other – I will discover if I can ever die.”

It raised its blade again, seeing the understanding on Bolthawk’s face. Yes, my friend, this confidence also reminds you that any plans you and yours have for turning against me are futile. “Shall we continue?”

A few minutes later, it smiled inwardly. It sensed Condor’s approach long before he reached the clearing in which the Justiciar’s Retreat lay, but allowed him to come nearer without giving any sign of awareness, continuing its sword practice against Bolthawk’s axe. It was therefore Bolthawk’s sudden glance of startlement that apparently alerted it to the new arrival.

“Condor! What a triumph, you have returned from Hell.” The creature allowed his voice just that edge of derision that he knew would be most galling.”

But Aran’s expression was… changed; there was a confidence and a narrow-eyed appraisal, so extremely different from that which he had worn prior to departure, that it found itself studying him with a more attentive eye.

“Returned from Hell twice, yes – as you must have known.”

Bolthawk stared from one to the other, then said to it: “So the rumors… they’re true?”

“Ask your brother in arms, Bolthawk,” it said. “For he has been there, it seems.”

“Rumors?” Condor laughed, but the sound was cold, cold. “What rumors? Do they say that the sky darkened and the land called Hell shuddered at a horror to make that very land seem a refuge of sanity and safety? Do they say that Kerlamion Blackstar has found a way to violate the very boundaries of life and death and the gods? Do they say that the Black City rests here, its gates opening onto Zarathan itself? Then what they say is true, Bolthawk, for I crossed into the center of the land of Hell, and thence walked straight through the Gates of the Black City.”

Bolthawk blanched at these words, spoken both with a casual venom that was too matter-of-fact to be doubted… and too cold and mocking for Condor.

But it merely cocked its head slightly. “And did you find what you sought?”

So swiftly that mortal eye could never have followed it, Condor’s sword sprang from its sheath and was there, in his hand, the point barely a hairsbreadth from the creature’s throat.

But not Condor’s sword, in fact. The blade pointed at it was dark as night, shimmering faintly with blue-white and accompanied by a dim moaning as of air falling to its doom. “Ah. I see.”

“I think you do, yes.”

It looked into Aran’s green eyes, but it let its smile return. “A mighty blade indeed. But are you going to waste your time and energy killing me, or will you seek your vengeance?”

For a moment, it thought that Aran, the Condor Justiciar, might actually do it – kill the true source of his pain, the corruption of Myrionar’s chosen, the one who had pulled all the strings and brought him to this point. But to truly do that, Condor would have to admit, fully, that both he and his foster father had no right to complain against any act by the defenders of Evanwyl or, indeed, the rest of Zarathan.

The black blade returned to its sheath in an instant. “Not yet. You still have answers I want, and information.” Unspoken was also the fact that the creature before Condor was also the source of his false Justiciar power, power he would still need in his mission.

It gestured, and Bolthawk bowed and left immediately; it could sense the other Justiciar’s fear and relief at not being involved in this. “I know what information you seek. The Phoenix has departed Evanwyl. I did, in fact, lose Phoenix’ track for a short time, but by good fortune only a day or so ago I found that Phoenix’ party had taken the path I had expected, given what they found at Thornfalcon’s mansion.”

As a native of Evanwyl, Aran could not repress a shudder as he realized what it was saying. “You mean… Rivendream Pass?”

“It is the obvious and, even, inevitable path. They know that they cannot yet find the Retreat; they know that Thornfalcon had some sort of connection to the other side of the Pass; they know, too, that Evanwyl’s fortunes were tied to that which once lay beyond the Pass, and Myrionar is no doubt guiding them.”

“When did they enter the Pass?”

“Two, three weeks ago, I believe.”

Condor cursed. “Then they are far ahead of me. Reaching the Pass from here will take most of a week as it is.”

It smiled, and was pleased to see that Condor still found that expression disquieting. As well you should, little Justiciar. As well you should. “That, at least, I can assist you with.”

Condor’s eyebrows rose visibly. “How?”

“Within this realm, I have gained… considerable power – as one might suspect. Go, replenish your supplies from our reserves, and meet me in my chambers and I will be prepared.”

It did not, in fact, take much preparation, but it was best for Condor and the others to have mistaken ideas about its powers, its nature, its goals, and effectively everything else. So Condor entered to find an elaborate mystical circle laid out in the center of the huge dark room. “You can teleport me to them?”

“Not to them, no. I have hardly had any direct contact with Phoenix or any companions the true Justiciar of Myrionar may have – that would be … unwise, at the least. But I can cut your travel time, by sending you directly to Rivendream Pass.” This would also have the absolutely vital effect of keeping Aran Condor from discovering the actual nature and identity of the Phoenix Justiciar of Myrionar. It had to get Condor well away not merely from Evanwyl, but from his fellow false Justiciars, since they knew the truth and would certainly tell him as soon as the topic came up.

Aran would learn the truth, of course… but that had to happen only at the precisely correct moment.

Aran stepped carefully into the circle, making sure to neither rub out or smear any of the symbols; experienced as he was around things mystical, he was not going to take chances on such a ritual being disrupted. “I’m ready.”

“Then I wish you… good hunting, Condor.”

There was a flash of light, and Condor was gone – on his way to a rendezvous he desperately wanted… and would undoubtedly regret, once it occurred.

If he was even Condor any more, by the time he found his quarry. A gift from the King of All Hells was not, exactly, a safe thing to receive. Especially not for a young man who thought he still wanted to be a hero.

It laughed and gestured, cleansing the floor of the ritual circle. There were other amusing things to attend to. It wasn’t quite time to talk with the King again; it was still deciding how, exactly, the next sequence of events must be played. The grandiose overarching plan was, of course, going to start coming apart; while Aegeia still seemed well enough in hand, there were a few points that indicated things might start turning around soon – even though the agent it had in place claimed all was proceeding as planned.

But that would still be some time yet. The real key decision was when, precisely, it would have to admit failure and be cast on its own by Kerlamion as the King of All Hells sought to finish by sheer brute power what could not be completed by manipulation. Too early, and it might lose support that would be useful for its own endgame. Too late, and Kerlamion might realize that he was the one being played and throw all plans off. While it thought that even Kerlamion could be dealt with, having the King of All Hells as a direct and immediate threat while trying to complete its own plans would be a serious problem to properly executing the last stages of the plan.

Oh, it knew the King would eventually discover the truth. It looked forward to that moment, properly staged; the right denouement of the play was the key to its enjoyment, after all. But it was a challenge to make sure all the cast played their parts when most of them didn’t know they were part of the performance, and when the few that did, such as Khoros, would do their best to ruin the final act.

Unfortunately, there were so many elements to be balanced here – and elsewhere, and “elsewhere” required just as much attention as its plans did here; that was, naturally, one reason that it was often unavailable for the Justiciars and other allies – sometimes it simply wasn’t there.

After another quick check with all its agents – especially Kalshae and Emirinovas, who should be having new visitors soon — the creature felt that it would have to make another trip and hope that everything continued on course. It could not neglect the other game, already in progress, on a far more distant playing field.

But time enough for that game when said time came; the last skirmish had been surprisingly painful, if instructive, and thus well worth continuing. For now, however, it had plenty of things to do here. It sat down and placed the golden scroll in its holder, and smiled.

So very many things to do here.

 

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 12

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 12

Chapter 12.

Poplock tasted the air. Definitely more humid. “I think we’re nearly down. Look at the mountains.”

Tobimar’s gaze flicked to both sides, then he paused. “He’s right, Kyri. This canyon’s coming to an end, and the warmth, the feel of the air… I think we’re almost there.”

Almost in Moonshade Hollow.

It hadn’t been – quite – a nonstop series of battles from one side of the pass to the other, but there had sure been more than their share of ambushes by things that might look ordinary but would be more savage, malevolent, or lethal than their ordinary equivalents, and sometimes by things that weren’t in any sense ordinary. One out of every three nights was disrupted by some thing that couldn’t let people get a decent night’s sleep.

Poplock shook his head slightly (which was about as much as a Toad’s anatomy allowed). Even though he could often take naps on Tobimar’s shoulder, he was still exhausted; he couldn’t imagine what it must be like for the two humans. Kyri was constantly called upon to heal any of them – though Tobimar could heal himself to a limited extent, and Tobimar had to keep his unique senses constantly attuned.

How in Blackwart’s Name are we going to get through this place alive, let alone in any shape to deal with, well, whatever things are hiding here, and find the key to Tobimar’s quest?

He knew Kyri‘s answer to that, and – to a certain extent – he understood and agreed with it. Her mission was based on maintaining faith in her god Myrionar and that if she maintained said faith, somehow things would work out. And it was true that if you couldn’t rely on the gods to carry through with their promises, they weren’t much good to anyone.

On the other paw, though, was the fact that Myrionar had been systematically weakened by some truly monstrous enemy that managed to corrupt Myrionar’s own order, and either did this without Myrionar realizing it until too late, or under some kind of circumstance that prevented Myrionar from telling anyone. Either of these possibilities was pretty shocking… and caused Poplock to privately doubt that Myrionar could absolutely guarantee anything.

Which meant they had to make their own luck. Which seemed pretty challenging in this place.

It was warmer here, as Tobimar had noted, but the comfort to which they were accustomed didn’t do much to make the little Toad relax. The very atmosphere made him feel prickly all over, as though he’d rolled in a bed of groundthorns.

He caught movement from above, ducked aside. A tendril from the tree nearly caught him – and was neatly bisected by a blow from Tobimar’s blue-green glittering blade. The entire tree shuddered, then started to reach forward, a low, wood-tearing rumbling issuing from it.

The clearing was suddenly lit by golden light as Kyri drew Flamewing, and not only that tree, but several others, suddenly leaned back, away, moaning. Yeah, you’re a tree, and that’s a flaming sword seven feet long. A holy flaming sword.

“Stay back, corrupted forest,” Kyrie said, tense but sure. “Touch my companions, touch me, and fire will cleanse this place from one side to the other.”

It was something of a bluff – if Myrionar had the power to cleanse entire valleys with fire it probably wouldn’t have its current problems – but Poplock saw with great satisfaction that none of the trees wanted to call her bluff. They drew aside, fell into inaction, and moved no more than ordinary trees as the three continued their journey.

After a few moments, Kyri sheathed her greatsword. “Myrionar’s Balance, the forest itself is against us.”

“I know. And… I must speak honestly, Kyri – I have no clear idea of where we must go from here,” Tobimar confessed. “We only knew the homeland must exist somewhere, but I need proof that I have found it. From what the Wanderer said, the Seven and One were held by my people, and we do not have them, so they must still be here. But all the Seven could have been held in two cupped hands, and the Sun itself in two more, so they are small enough clues to search for here.”

Kyri nodded. “I know. But there can’t be just monsters and jungle here. We already know that – Thornfalcon arranged for that gateway. Someone lives here and creates monsters even worse than the ones we’ve met thus far. I can’t believe they’re completely alone. So there must be people here, good or bad, and if we can find anyone native to this place, they’ll be able to guide us.”

“I hope you’re right,” Tobimar said, impaling a black and gray scorpion, about the same size as Poplock, as he spoke.

They continued on; Poplock’s ears suddenly caught a hint of a new sound. “Hold up.” He turned slightly on Tobimar’s shoulder. “Over there. I hear a river or big stream.”

“That could be good,” Tobimar said as they shifted their course somewhat. “Almost all cities and villages are built close to water sources. Follow this one down and we should meet up with someone.”

“Probably,” Poplock agreed, “but you’d better watch your step closely, because with what we’ve seen so far, what do you think’s living in the rivers and streams?”

Kyri grimaced. “An excellent point. Let’s not get too close to the water, then.”

It was a small river – fifty yards across at the point they emerged from the jungle and found themselves on the banks. “Whoops. That’s too close.”

On a sandbar a few hundred yards away, Poplock spotted a very large reptilian shape, ridged and sharp with a long, blunt head and lots of teeth. “Way too close.”

The others agreed and quickly backed away from the shimmering, poison-green waters. Based on sound and occasional sights through the trees, the little group followed the river at a distance of twenty or thirty yards from the edge.

For several hours they followed faint game-trails through the jungle, and were mostly unbothered; given that some of the trees seemed to not only be able to move but made sounds, Poplock suspected that word had spread through the forest that the three newcomers were not easy prey. The sun was becoming low, as shown by slanting beams of light through the canopy, and Poplock began to think about camping and how to keep themselves safe during the night in this place.

Without warning, Kyri and Tobimar pushed through the next line of greenery to find themselves standing at the edge of a small clearing, about two hundred yards across. Looming up not far away was a monstrous thing, an armoured grub with wide mandibles, gleaming red eyes, and hissing breath, large as a house, glowering down at a tiny figure – Poplock guessed no more than five feet high – in delicate blues and greens, seeming frozen before it, scarcely fifty feet from them. The creature gathered itself and screeched.

But it never had a chance to complete the lunge. Kyri and Tobimar had reflexively sprinted forward, and the creature balked as it found itself face-to-face with two armed opponents, one holding a blade seven feet from pommel to tip, the other with two swords gleaming cold and bitter. Glancing backwards, Poplock saw a dumbfounded expression on the green-blue clad girl, a look of disbelieving shock that told clearly how very little she had expected any intervention.

But the creature was only momentarily taken aback; it gave vent to a rippling roar and flowed forward, extending its body as grubs do. The great mandibles rebounded from Kyri’s armor but sent her tumbling; Tobimar, however, leapt up, bounding from the mandibles to the top of the creature, and then spun, bringing both swords down at the juncture of head and abdomen.

The roar turned to an ear-piercing shriek of agony, and the thing began to whip its body back and forth, Tobimar barely maintaining his grip (and Poplock hard-pressed to keep a grip on Tobimar). Black blood oozed from the sword-wounds, as the creature turned to writhe on its back; Tobimar barely yanked his swords out and rolled clear in time, with Poplock almost getting squished beneath the Skysand Prince’s body.

Their attack had been more than enough distraction, however, and before the monstrous grub-thing could do more than turn towards them, the golden fire lit up the clearing with promise and peril. “Myrionar’s FLAME!” Phoenix Kyri shouted, and the flaming blade impaled the creature, detonating fire throughout its body; it stiffened and fell limp.

Tobimar immediately turned to the little figure. “Are you all right, Milady…?”

Poplock now realized that the figure wasn’t a little girl, but a young woman, just a very diminutive one. Her blue and green outfit was a strange combination of diaphanous clothing and what appeared to be crystalline armor. She had short golden hair, a bow tied in it to one side of her head, and no weapons in evidence unless something was concealed in a few small pouches at her waist, or, possibly, the wand or tube by her side that glittered with multicolored gems.

Her expression was startling – somehow both annoyed, amused, and impressed. “I am perfectly fine.” Her voice was a sweet soprano, even more startling for its purity and beauty in this distorted forest. “I am surprised you and your companion are unharmed, and I am quite unaccustomed to being interrupted in my hunt.”

Teeth as bright as sunlight on flowers flashed as she gave a sudden smile. “But I see the interruption was well meant, and you had no idea of what you did, so I thank you for the thought.” Her brow furrowed. “Yet… which of the Sha do you come from? Your speech is strange, an accent I do not know, and your clothing the same; yet I thought I knew them all.”

Of all the things he’d expected, this wasn’t one of them. Poplock, as usual, kept his mouth shut; best to let the others talk.

Tobimar shook his head in bemusement, then bowed deeply. “My apologies for what I now see to have been a crude interruption in your own quest. I am Tobimar, and this is my companion, Phoenix.” They had agreed that there was no immediate reason to reveal any possible connection between Tobimar and the past; it might be dangerous to do so, given the fact that demons were hunting his people and trying to prevent him from completing this mission. And, of course, when on duty as a Justiciar, Kyri was not Kyri Vantage, but merely the Phoenix. No reason to give her name, either.

“We come from beyond the pass in the mountains,” Tobimar continued.

Now her eyes widened. “From… there? But we are taught that none live beyond any of the Mountains, not from the North to the South nor East nor West. Do you speak truly, Tobimar?” Before he could answer, she shook her head. “Yet it must be true, for how could you be so strange to the world that you did not recognize one of the Lights themselves? And I am remiss!” She bowed to them, a gesture with one arm across her body, the other gracefully held more aloft. “I am Miri, Light of the Unity. I thank you for your aid, needed or not.” She glanced about. “This is not a place for talk or questions. Come, let us go to the city.”

“So there is a city?” Phoenix asked, a relieved tone in her voice. “We had begun to fear there was nothing here but monsters and evil.”

Miri laughed. “A city? Say, rather, the greatest of cities, and her children. Follow, and you will see.”

Inwardly, Poplock had to smile. Perhaps these people had somehow survived and built themselves a civilization, but as the three of them had been to Zarathanton, it would be rather hard to top that as the “greatest of cities”.

Following Miri, it took only a relatively short time – perhaps fifteen minutes – to arrive in front of a startling wall of shining green-gray stone, fifty feet high. A wide, solid gate was set in that wall, of solid steel, or so Poplock thought. That would be quite a challenge for most things to get through, he had to admit.

Miri stepped up to the gate and put her hand to it; Poplock, watching her carefully, could see that she was inserting a ring on her middle finger face-first into an aperture in the gate. It instantly clicked and the gateway swung open. A wide corridor led through the wall a short distance, and the three humans’ footsteps echoed sharply on the polished stone as they walked to the ending of the corridor; the gateway at that end swung open as they reached it, and a haze of golden light greeted them.

Poplock blinked his eyes in disbelief.

They stood atop a ridge, looking down on a sprawling town dotted with great trees amidst a sweep of pure, green grass that stretched down to the blue-green of the river that passed through the middle of the town. Great white, fluffy clouds drifted through a sky bluer and more pure than he remembered even from Evanwyl; in the distance were tilled fields, and a winding road extending to the horizon. Birds flew, trilling, and he could smell the purity in the air, in the land.

A buzzing insect flew near, and he snapped out his tongue. Even the taste of the creature was like something new, something born pure and unique into the world for the first time, and Poplock could see the stunned surprise on his friends’ faces too as they gazed on the world about them, smelled the fresh and untainted breeze, looked upon even stones and earth that seemed more right than anything they had ever seen. The setting sun cast a glow over the clouds and everything else that touched all with the wealth of the heavens.

“Welcome,” Miri said. “Welcome, travelers from afar, to the Unity of the Seven Lights; welcome to Kaizatenzei.”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 35

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 35

Chapter 11 – Trinity

Hawthorn came to Cambridge on the world of Trinity unannounced and in civilian clothes. He travelled on a one man frame that had seen better days. The casual observer might be forgiven for dismissing him as another itinerant attracted to the war zone either as a potential combatant or profiteer. The careful observer would have noticed that the frame might be battered but was entirely serviceable and that the well-used hunting rifle slung over his shoulder was an expensive import from a master gunsmith of Brasilia. Fortunately there were no careful observers.

Cambridge was a college town a few kilometers out of Trinity’s commercial capital, Oxford. It possessed all the refinement one associated with such lofty aspirations. It boasted a theatre and a concert hall where intellectually stimulating and improving works were performed by painfully serious people. The town houses were tall three-story buildings clustered tightly together with tiny gardens given over to flowers and decorative shrubs. Once the town had been restricted to an area inside an earth berm but that era had long gone. Nevertheless, families clung to their prestigious town addresses, building upwards when they needed more room for servant’s quarters.

College buildings rather than shops or business premises formed the focus and heart of the town. Presumably food and other goods were brought in from outlying demesnes and villages. Nothing as sordid as a bar polluted the streets of Cambridge but there were dram shops where customers could taste expensive imported booze before making a purchase.

Hawthorn made for a dram shop called Sament’s Fine Wines and Liquors. Inside, racks of bottles in a variety of colors hunched draped in cobwebs. Web-spinning spiders were uncommon in the ‘Stream. Hawthorn assumed the webs had been sprayed on as a marketing device. Nothing so uncouth as an actual bar brought down the tone of the establishment but tables and chairs were discretely set out in one corner of the large carpeted room. A small open kitchen off the main room contained glasses and bottle opening devices.

Two customers in the dark clothes of Ascetics sat smoking and tasting wine at one of the tables. From the glassy eyed stare of the one facing Hawthorn, they had “tasted” for some little time. Presumably, they were having problems making up their mind what to purchase. A man in an apron bent over their table running his finger down a catalogue. After some discussion he carefully selected a bottle from low down on one of the racks. He fetched two glasses from the kitchen and set them down in front of the customers. With a theatrical flourish he poured an inch of purple-dark liquid into each glass.

The shopkeeper managed to ignore Hawthorn throughout the entire ritual. In return Hawthorn ignored him back, flicking through a catalogue suspended from a rack. The shopkeeper replaced the bottle slowly but was eventually forced to accept that Hawthorn was not going to go leave even when he saw the extortionate prices.

“Can I help you?” the man asked in a most perfunctory tone.

He was bald on top and the hair over his ears projected out at forty-five degrees giving him the appearance of a nervous rabbit.

“I don’t see any tonk in your catalogue,” Hawthorn replied in the accent of a Port Trent dock worker.

The man froze as if Hawthorn had made an obscene suggestion involving lead piping and lubricant.

“No, we don’t stock it. I don’t imagine anyone in town does but there are taverns in the outlying villages that might have products more suited to your palette,” the man suggested.

“Pity, oh well, one must make do,” Hawthorn replied, adopting the more normal drawl typical of a Manzanitan gentleman.

He dropped the catalogue which swung on its chain.

“I’ll try your Sanja Berry distillate.”

The man gaped at Hawthorn.

“You do have Sanja?”

“Uh, yes sar, but it is rather expensive.”

“It usually is,” Hawthorn replied, cynically. “Well, run along.”

Hawthorn seated himself, as no one had offered him a table. He dropped the laserrifle on the top and pulled out his datapad, immersing himself in the latest scandal concerning a generously endowed socialite lady in Port Trent. He ignored the shopkeeper when he returned, forcing the man to cough discretely to get his attention. The shopkeeper eyed the laserrifle, obviously considering asking Hawthorn to remove it but lacking the bottle. He poured a measure.

“Wait!” Hawthorn said when the man went to leave.

Hawthorn rolled the oily liquid around in the glass, holding it up to the light to check the color. He inhaled the bouquet before taking a sip.”

“This is Sanja Nouveau. Personally, I can’t stand the muck. It’s suitable only for clerks and politicians. Don’t you have any vintage?”

“Yes, sar,” the shopkeeper said, looking as if his world had turned upside down. He could not have been more surprised if his dog started quoting Cicero.

“Then get me some, at least ten years old, mind.”

“Yes, sar.”

The shopkeeper disappeared to locate a bottle from a back room. Hawthorn repeated the testing procedure, to the intense fascination of the two onlookers.

“Acceptable, leave the bottle.”

Hawthorn returned to his pad, the perusal of which took up his attention for the next half an hour until the inebriated tasters tottered out. The shopkeeper shimmied over to Hawthorn.

“I’m afraid we’re closing, sar: if you wouldn’t mind settling the bill.”

“You must be Master Sament.”

“Indeed, sar.”

“Which is odd because I thought you were called Grenvil. That was the name you gave the Paxton Proctors was it not when they nicked you for pimping out your wife to prominent citizens before blackmailing said pillars of respectable society?”

Sament went white.

“If you think you can come in here making accusations…”

“Sit down, Sament.”

Hawthorn kicked a chair towards him.

Sament sat.

“There’s still a warrant out for an unpaid fine. I imagine the Proctors would love to know your new name and address.”

“I have powerful friends in Paxton. You wouldn’t want to cross them,” Sament blustered.

“Powerful friends, no less? That knocking sound you hear is my knees,” Hawthorn replied in a tone that suggested he was singularly unimpressed.

“Bishop wouldn’t be one of those friends would he? He was the man who smuggled you out as I remember but that was surely for money rather than undying friendship. For more money he’s sold you to me.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” Sament asked, in a whisper.

Hawthorn grinned.

“Now that is the issue. Where is your wife by the way?”

“In Oxford, she was trapped when the Brasilian army sealed off the town.”

“That is what I heard. I take it she is, ah, pursuing her old profession?”

Sament didn’t answer which was a sort of answer in itself.

“Quite an upmarket operation you and she ran. I would imagine that she would have little trouble getting intimate with Brasilian officers?”

“What do you want?” Sament repeated.

“To pay for my bottle of Sanja, of course.”

Hawthorn took a hundred crown chip from his wallet. It flashed gold to indicate authenticity when he placed it on the table.

“I will have trouble finding change for that,” Sament said, licking his lips

Hawthorn switched on the laserrifle and angled the weapon towards Sament so that the red sighting dot lit up the center of the merchant’s torso. His finger caressed the trigger as if it were a lover’s breast.

“I want good, accurate information on Brasilian military activities and intentions. I will pay generously if what you tell me works out then. If it doesn’t, well, the substantial bounty on your head back at Paxton is payable dead or alive. You really upset some important people, old son.”

Hawthorn waved his free hand over the chip and the rifle

“Your choice, sunshine, I make a profit either way.”

Sament picked up the chip which flashed gold, triggered by the chemistry of his hand

“I will make the necessary arrangements.”

“Good!”

Hawthorn stood up, putting his rifle over his shoulder.

“I’ll see myself out.”

He picked up the bottle as he left. He’d damn well paid enough for it.

#

Allenson and Todd arrived in Cambridge some time later but rather more conspicuously in a limo pedaled by two chauffeurs.  The beacon guided them in to one of the college buildings that had been requisitioned by the Oxford Assembly in Exile. It was late afternoon local time and gloomy.  Black clouds hid the sky like portents of bad tidings.

Two men in business suits emerged from the central three-story, brick-built structure to greet them. It was the only place to show lights at the windows. Darkness draped the surrounding stabilized earth and wood chalets.  Allenson was a little surprised that the welcoming committee was so low key. They were supposed to be expecting him and he was the captain-general of all the colonial militias. The only pan-Colonial official in the entire ‘Stream might have expected a little more pomp and ceremony.

He discovered from the initial introductions that the men were middle ranking clerks. His ego was not hurt but the lack of respect for his office was a matter of concern. He was shown to a waiting room and offered café, which from the stale taste had been reheated several times. He sat drumming his fingers for some five minutes before one of the clerks returned.

“Council Leader Inglethorpe sends his regards but regrets he is running late with important business. If you’ll wait he’ll try to see you as soon as he’s free,” the clerk said.

“Will he indeed?” Allenson asked, clamping down hard on the white fury that leapt trough his veins. “Will he really?”

He pushed past the clerk. Todd followed in his wake like a frigate in convoy with a battleship.

“Sar, sar, I really must insist…” the clerk squeaked.

Todd checked the clerk with a finger to his lips. Allenson strode down the corridor deeper into the building until he met a woman carrying a stack of papers.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 34

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 34

A large statue of Brasilia dominated the center of the harbor front. Seats surrounded the raised semi-circular platform on which it was displayed. Allenson glanced at his data pad and discovered they had time in hand so he suggested they sit.

He contemplated the golden statue. Brasilia was the Mother of the Nation. The statue crystallized the genius, the guiding spirit, of Brasilia. She took the form of a naked woman sitting bolt upright on a world. A thin swathe of material concealed her modesty. In her left hand she held an oval shield crackling with an energy field. In her right a power lance, butt down beside her foot. An ancient armored helmet tilted back on her head to show her face. Her eyes fixed the far horizon.

The weaponry was traditional, supposedly the arms of the early knights when Brasilian civilization clawed its way out of the Dark Age. Later generations used similar devices for aristocratic hunts. The social purpose of the activity was not so much to obtain food as to demonstrate the prowess of the user. Now such things were only seen on monuments or as stylized remnants on ceremonial costumes. There had been a brief resurgence of interest in dueling using knightly garb but the fashion soon died out.

Todd fidgeted with the restlessness of the young and got up to look out over the harbor. Allenson had learnt to rest when he could. He shut his eyes and tilted back his head to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his face.

He must have dozed because Todd’s voice sounded a long way off.

“Strewth, what the devil happened to her?”

Allenson twisted around to find Todd just behind him. His nephew bent down to observe the harbor through a pair of binoculars mounted on a pedestal.  There was a loud clunk.

“Damn,” Todd fished in his pocket for a small coin. He slipped it into a slot in the pedestal eliciting another clunk. Noticing Allenson was awake, he beckoned. “Have a look at this, uncle.”

Allenson bent down and peered into the binoculars. The instrument was trained on a ship out in the harbor. He had to widen the lens distance and correct the focus for his eyes before he could clearly see it. The vessel had a twin hull, a most unusual configuration that maximized the surface area to volume ratio. Ship’s architects normally considered the opposite to be best practice. The color scheme was the light grey used by the Brasilian Navy. Blast damage had trashed one of the hulls. No doubt this rather than the novel design had caught Todd’s attention. Some attempt had been made to hide the wreckage with screens but a gust had blown the canvas off.

Blast-damaged ships in peacetime were not something one expected to see in a harbor. Frame ships tended to arrive in good shape or not at all, although fortunately total losses were rare. Heavy naval warships could withstand a fair battering and make port but reports of a naval battle would have been all over the news channels by now.

“Quite a mess, isn’t she?” asked a voice.

Allenson straightened to find himself addressed by man in the uniform of an officer of a civilian ship’s line. The officer had short brown hair that stood vertically upwards like a startled comic book character.

“Indeed, which ship is she?”

The officer tapped his nose.

“Ah that’s top secret. O’Brien, I’m the purser of the Greenfields.”

He held out his hand and Allenson took it before introducing himself and Todd.

“I know who you are. Your pic is all over the vids. You’re the man who’s going to shake things up in the colonies,” O’Brien said cheerfully. “You’ll lose in the end, of course, but with a bit of luck you’ll give our masters a good kick up the jacksy. God knows they could do with it.”

He gestured to the ship in the harbor.

“None of the crew’ve been allowed ashore but our boson reckons he’s seen her before. She’s known as the Twin-Arsed Bastard for obvious reasons.”

“I don’t suppose that’s her name on the muster roll,” Todd said.

O’Brien laughed.

“Her official name is the Reggie Kray, named after a famous twin from the mythology of Old Earth. She’s a research ship. Makes you wonder what they were researching.”

He lifted a hand.

“The passengers will be coming aboard the Greenfields soon. I for my sins have to be there to listen to their whines. Fair currents, General.”

#

Allenson and Todd strode into the reception.

“Captain-General Allenson and Lieutenant Allenson,” boomed the voice of the maître de at the door.

Allenson vaguely anticipated guests wearing the somber dress of the Ascetics of Trinity. The merchants of Trent danced to a different tune. Clothes shimmered in cloth weaves that polarized and refracted light. An outfit rippled through the spectrum from red to green as its occupant rotated against the angle of the light – and that was only one of the men. The ladies sported metallic streamers in silver, gold and polished bronze from their hair and arms.

He had been concerned that he would look like a peacock in his dress uniform but he was completely upstaged. However, it was noticeable that a momentary hush fell on the hall as the guests gave him the once over. A tall man with sharp features and a thin mouth pushed through the crowd as the babble of conversation restarted. His suit was bright lemon yellow with silver piping and he wore a small pillbox hat in scarlet with silver tassels.

The man spoke with an unusual accent.

“General, I’m Venceray, your host.”

Allenson knew little about the leader of the independence movement in Port Trent other than the basic details. He was rich with business interests in cross-Bight transport. Venceray guided him through the reception person by person proffering the necessary introductions. The sea of unfamiliar names and faces flowed past Allenson leaving little trace in his memory. Not that it mattered. Conversation never got beyond social platitudes.

“When did you come to the ‘Stream?” Allenson asked Venceray, during a pause in the circulation.

“I was born here. My father was a younger son of a Brasilian trading gens so he drew the short straw and became the colony representative. He married one of his servants and had me so there was nothing to return home for if you see what I mean. We were never going to inherit. The family made it clear my mother was unacceptable. Eventually we built up our own business which prospered. My father bought an estate inland and retired to look after it leaving me to run the family company. He’s quite the country gentleman now.”

Venceray chuckled.

“I see, Allenson said, and he did. Venceray’s future like his own was bound up in the Cutter Stream because they had no home to go back to. The social extreme between his Brasilian parents explained his odd way of speaking.

“My contemporaries are at best neutral to the idea of independence. Fortunately most care little for politics. There only a few outright Homeworlder activists but they’re making waves. I think we can keep most of Trent neutral provided we keep the Trinity radicals in check. Any suggestion of redistribution of wealth to the great unwashed to drink themselves to death on will arouse fervent opposition.”

Allenson nodded.

“And what are the political opinions of the, ah, great unwashed?”

Venceray shrugged.

“Who knows, who cares? I doubt they’ve got any opinions worth considering.”

Allenson wondered if news from Paxton had overtaken him.

“I suppose there is no word of the official Declaration of Independence yet?”

Venceray shook his head.

“Pity,” Allenson said. “It would help us to control the Homeworlder faction if we could use legal sanctions. We can’t lock people up for treason to a state that doesn’t yet exist.”

He looked around and noticed a well-dressed couple slipping out through a side door.

“Is it just me or has the room thinned out?”

Venceray colored.

“I hoped you wouldn’t notice. The ship carrying the new governor from Brasilia touched docked earlier this morning. He must be installed in Government House by now.”

“So?” Allenson asked.

Venceray’s lips compressed.

“He has asked to meet the heads of the best families in Port Trent. People will want to go and pay their respects as soon as possible so as not to be thought disloyal. There is even talk of setting up a Homeworlder Militia”

A surge of fury choked Allenson. He froze until he was sure he could maintain an outward composure.

“The Governor can meet whomsoever he chooses but you will arrest him if he tries to arm our enemies.”

“On whose authority?” Venceray asked.

“Mine,” Allenson replied. “You will arrest him on my authority.”

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 11

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 11

Chapter 11.

Kyri shook herself, breaking out of a reverie of remembrance, seeing again the darkness of Rivendream Pass, the serpent’s corpse, the burned bush. The memories of how they had come here seeming to have streamed by her in a moment, and she shivered anew at the oppressive wrongness that now weighed upon her. “We were warned,” she repeated. “Warned that even Myrionar’s powers would be weakened here.”

“True… but the Wanderer had said that was inside Moonshade Hollow. Instead, we’re barely halfway through Rivendream, and it’s already affecting you.” Tobimar looked at where the charred corpse lay. “And these things… ”

“Almost familiar, aren’t they?” Poplock commented.

“Yes…” The three stood, contemplating the remains for a moment, and then Tobimar snapped his fingers. “I have it. The things we fought in the clearing, after Thornfalcon died.”

“Very similar in feel,” agreed Kyri. The same feeling of wrongness and ancient evil pervaded most of the things in this pass. “But yet…”

“Yeah. Yet,” agreed the Toad. “These things are disgusting monsters, but all the one’s we’ve seen have been, well, normal twisted disgusting creatures, if you know what I mean?”

Kyri blinked. “Umm… I’m not quite sure I do, actually.”

“Well, a lot of the things that attacked us in the clearing weren’t… well, they weren’t one thing, if you know what I mean.”

That made sense. “You’re right. There were those nameless monsters like men crossed with centaurs and something worse, the bilarel with a crab’s arms, and so on.”

“And there were a lot of them,” Tobimar said. “If that was a gateway, there had to be just an immense herd of the things waiting to come through.”

“Bad news twice over,” observed Poplock. “First, means someone has a heck of a lot of monsters – and probably made the things, too, somehow. I’ve heard of life stitching of various types, but … that’s hard magic. Not just dark, though the way those things were made it’s definitely dark, but really, really difficult. Playing with life – changing it – that’s one of the harder parts of magic. Second, means whoever it is can keep these things from fighting each other, or they’d have ripped each other to shreds as soon as they came through.”

“By the Light, you’re correct. I hadn’t thought of that, but it makes sense. And it’s ugly.”

“This whole thing is ugly.” Kyri couldn’t keep from shivering, and not just from the air which was cooler than she was used to. “Tobimar, if the maps we have are even close to correct, Moonshade Hollow is hundreds of miles across in all directions. Can we even survive in that place, with what we’ve seen so far?”

“Do you have faith in Myrionar?” he asked her quietly.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.

“Then believe in him and the Wanderer. They said we COULD get through this, and while the Wanderer said he wasn’t going to be able to help us, I’ll bet he’d have at least given us a decent hint if he thought we’d underequipped. Somehow there’s a way through this.”

Kyri nodded and smiled at him. He knows how to support me, support my faith, even when it isn’t his. That meant a lot to her… especially now. “You’re right. I must have faith, and I will have faith. Somehow we will find a way through even the Hollow.” She glanced back at the charred area. “Honestly… we’ve been sort of lucky, I think.”

“You’ve got a strange idea of luck!” Poplock muttered.

“No, really. Most of the things we’ve run into have been, well, obviously dangerous, actively hostile. I think that thing was a voromos originally, or its ancestors were.”

“Voromos… Yes, I think you’re right. The poison spitting fits, and the three ridges on the head look close.”

Tobimar nodded. “It was bigger, more hostile, and its venom was actively controlling things it touched instead of just making them docile and eventually killing them, but yes. So…?

“Ohhhh, I think I get her point. These things, they’re all up-front killers. How’d you like to deal with Rivendream’s version of a forestfisher or a, what’s the name, itrichel?”

Tobimar shuddered, and so did Kyri. “A mindworm? No thank you. Nor the other. You’re right. Let’s hope we stay that lucky, at least.”

Kyri shivered again. Forestfishers, or jilyesh, were giant spidery creatures that would use their webs to drop poison onto sleeping victims; itrichels were worse – intelligent parasites that used guile and stealth to acquire new hosts. Both were, fortunately extremely rare. But they were, indeed, excellent examples of what she meant. “Yes, let’s hope so,” she agreed.

They continued along the deceptively green and bright valley; a few flat blocks, here and there, were the only reminder that a great thoroughfare had run from one side to the other of Rivendream Pass, once Heavenbridge Way. Kyri watched ahead of them carefully; she knew that Tobimar was checking the sides, and the little Toad was watching their rear. But the discovery that the Wanderer’s warning had been true weighed on her. “Poplock, are you feeling the same resistance to your magic that I was feeling with Myrionar’s power?”

“Hm. Haven’t tried yet; summoning crystals use mostly power you stored up before, you know. And they’re sorta aided by the use of the crystal medium. Not as much as gemcallers, though. Let’s see…” He mumbled some words, sketched a symbol in the air; shimmering light twined in mist, touched with fire, descended over both her and Tobimar, cleansing them of the mess from the last battle. “Whooof! Yes, that was tough. Normally that’d be really easy to do, but that felt more like it was a spell twice, maybe three times that complex.” The brown toad rubbed his broad chin thoughtfully, looking back behind them. “No, that’s not quite it. It didn’t feel more complicated, but like I was having to … drag the magic out of the world, instead of it just flowing. Like walking up a flowing stream, how the very nature of it fights you. Right?”

That described the feeling she’d gotten very well. “I think you’ve got it. Perhaps also like trying to draw a breath underwater through a long tube.” She glanced to Tobimar before returning her gaze forward. “Your abilities are unhindered?”

“They seem to be so far. This fits with what we were told.”

At least one of us will be at full strength. She knew that even with this handicap, her sheer power would probably exceed that of Tobimar – weakened or not, Myrionar was still a god, and she was Myrionar’s last, final hope, to which all power might be directed in extremity. And she still had the Vantage strength; nothing could take that from her unless it were something like poison. And anyone else trying to use magic in here will be handicapped as well.

The real problem, she thought, still remained food and drink. Purifying what they found here to be safe wasn’t easy, and now it would be even harder. Moonshade Hollow was supposed to be worse than Rivendream Pass – the source from which this stuff at the edges came from.

She honestly wasn’t sure she wanted to know what could be worse.

Then she saw what was ahead. “Oh, Myrionar’s Balance.”

Here, near or perhaps just past the crest of the pass, halfway to their destination, the mountains had lost part of their great battle with the elements, and unleashed their fury on the valley below. The pass was filled with jumbled, sharp-edged rock and earth to a depth of seventy to a hundred feet – a recent, massive landslide, probably no more than a few weeks, maybe less; in the relative stillness of the area, she could still hear muffled but definite sounds of shifting, settling rock.

It was clear there was no going around the slide; they had no choice except to go over it or through it. Briefly she thought of the unstoppable power she had unleashed in the final strike against the army of abominations on Thornfalcon’s estate, but shook her head; that had been a truly justified action, one of vengeance finally attained. Using that level of power just to clear the road – even if she could reach that level of power here – would not be looked upon kindly.

“Sand and grit,” muttered Tobimar. “That’s going to be an absolute gem of a climb, let me tell you. We’ll be lucky to get over it with only one of us crippled.”

“Might not be so bad for me,” Poplock said, eyeing the massive tumbled wall of fractured stone. “It’s settled enough that a little Toad of my weight probably won’t bother it. But you guys… that’s not going to be a fun climb.”

What had she just been thinking? Go over it.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “I haven’t tried this before, but I think it should work.”

“What? Remember the power –”

“I know. It’s probably going to be pretty hard to do here, if I can. But if I can it’ll save us time, and potentially injury. Honestly,” she looked again at the unstable mass, “I can see too many ways this wall of shifting rock could kill us outright.” She looked up and took a deep breath. “So let’s see if I can fly us over.”

Tobimar looked at her and his eyes suddenly showed a child’s wonder. “Fly? You can fly?” He looked suddenly embarrassed. “I mean, I’d heard the stories, but Thornfalcon didn’t fly, so I wasn’t sure…”

“I think I can. It’s one of the powers of most if not all of the Justiciars; Thornfalcon knew I was right there with him, so he probably didn’t think it was worth the risk to become an aerial target.” She felt her own heart starting to beat in anticipation, not just in tension for success or failure, or in fear of what might be waiting. Flying. Wasn’t this one of the greatest dreams? And by his expression, one that Tobimar shared. “Let me try, anyway.”

She closed her eyes and concentrated. “Myrionar, God of Justice and Vengeance, hear me. Give me the Wings of the Phoenix, wings strong and true enough to carry me and my friends over this barrier, carry us into the sky and to the lands beyond the wall before us.”

A shiver of anticipation washed down her back, and then suddenly it was more than anticipation; between her shoulder blades a warmth, a tingling fire that energized her, even as she felt the effort of drawing the power through, and threw her own will into dragging the energy through the interference of Rivendream Pass. And as the power slowly yielded, the sensation became warmer, spread, and she saw a golden glow beginning to illumine the world through her eyelids. She let her eyes open slowly, but still did not look behind her, only focusing on her need, seeing only what was before her, cast into brilliant relief and sharp shadow.

Tobimar was staring in awe, and even Poplock turned to take his time to stare.

With a final effort she felt the blessing complete, and looked.

Gold-flaming wings stretched glittering, shimmering pinions fifteen feet on either side of her, and she could feel… she knew… how to use them. She laughed, even as she felt a little trembling in her knees from the effort she’d just expended. “It worked.”

“It would certainly appear so,” Tobimar said, still staring. “Can you carry me? Poplock, obviously, will not be a problem.”

“I’m sure I can. But let me just test the wings first…”

With a spring she leapt from the ground and found herself arrowing upward, wings both beating and simply lifting with a marvelous lightness that made flight simplicity itself. She glanced down, seeing that behind her she left a trail of auric light that only slowly faded.

The height, without anything below her, was a bit dizzying, but she focused on direction, on motion, on understanding how to move in the air. It was something like swimming, something like running, something like swinging by a rope, but at the same time nothing like any of them, a glorious speeding through the air that was as natural as breathing and as wondrous as dawn.

She alighted in front of Tobimar, and wondered if her eyes were shining like his, and suddenly laughed. We’re still young. I can laugh for joy if I want, and here, in this place? It’s needed.

Tobimar echoed her laugh, his voice joining hers and sending echoes of pure wonder chasing through Rivendream Pass. “You’re amazing, Kyri!”

“Me? It’s Myrionar, not me.”

“Myrionar may have the power, but this is you,” he said firmly. “So… can you lift us?”

“I’m sure I can. That felt no harder than walking or running, and I could carry you easily enough for quite a distance.” She held out her arms. “Let’s try it.”

She was surprised to see his already-dark skin flush darker, but Tobimar stepped forward and let her pick him up. “Hold on – I don’t know how my balance will be affected when I do this,” she said.

“Hold… on? Um… Oh, of course.”

His right arm slid easily behind her neck. She found her heart beating faster. What am I…

Oh, by Myrionar, I’m not…

But as she felt his other arm come up to clasp his hands together, forming a strong, solid loop around her neck, pulling his head in to rest against her shoulder, she realized that she must be blushing too. Oh, I think I am. Of course I am. How stupid of me not to have noticed before.

“R… ready?” she asked.

He looked up at her, and their gazes met.

It was at least several seconds before he blinked, and shook his head. “Oh, yes, I’m ready. Sure.” He muttered something that she couldn’t quite catch.

“Oh, for Blackwart’s SAKE, what’s WRONG with you two?” burst out Poplock, who bounced on her head and then dropped back down to Tobimar’s chest. “Kiss already!”

Kyri dropped Tobimar in startled mortification; fortunately his reflexes kept that from being total disaster. Poplock, of course, landed perfectly. “Don’t tell me neither of you noticed it. I have watched the two of you since you met. No, don’t you even start arguing, Tobimar, I know your people have all sorts of formal stuff there but this isn’t the time or place. I’m not going to have you hopping around the bushes avoiding it for the next few months! Now get up and go kiss her. Unless you want to tell me you don’t want to do that?”

“Tell you I… no, of course I… Shiderich! You… toad!”

Kyri just stared at Poplock, unsure as to whether she wanted to laugh, cry, or … or what she wanted to do. “I… but I didn’t know if…”

“Stop the stuttering!” The little Toad’s voice was startlingly loud and yet completely in control. “By the Helpers, I have no idea how your people manage to breed as fast as you do. Kyri, you tell me if I’m wrong when I say you find Tobimar exactly your type?”

“Well… No. I mean, yes.” She could feel enough heat on her cheeks that she was certain water would vaporize on them, like on a hot griddle. “Balance! I mean, you are not wrong!” She found herself feeling almost defiant as she stared at Tobimar, who had picked himself off the ground; his hair had come unbound from its usual restraint and fell in an ebony waterfall around his face.

“And Tobimar, you’ve been staring at her practically constantly ever since you met her – whenever you didn’t think she’d notice. But I had to notice. So?”

She couldn’t believe this… and yet, she could. This was… exactly how Poplock handled everything, so directly that no one ever saw it coming. “You’re ordering us to…?”

“To understand that both of you feel the same way, yes,” Poplock said, and there was a twinkle in the golden eyes. “So you don’t have any doubts about what you feel.”

Tobimar looked at her. “I wish I’d had to courage to do this myself… but I didn’t want to intrude on your mission with my feelings.”

Kyri giggled suddenly. “I didn’t want to intrude on your mission!”

The dark-skinned young man took a hesitant step forward, but his brilliant blue eyes were locked on hers… and she saw no hesitation there. “So…?”

“So I think we’d better do as the Toad tells us,” she said, and before she could change her mind, stepped forward and bent down.

It wasn’t maybe the best kiss – in technique – because, well, she wasn’t sure how you did this. But his arms did go around her neck, twining in her hair, and hers did the same to his, and even if they didn’t know exactly what they were doing… that didn’t matter nearly so much as the fact that they were doing it.

Finally they separated, and she looked down into blue eyes that were a thousand times brighter than she’d remembered, and wondered how they could shine like that.

“Terian, you have beautiful eyes,” he said. “The way they shine…”

I suppose we look the same to each other, she thought, and realized then just what that meant he was seeing in her, and paused for a moment in wonder. I… never thought of this before. Not really. There was Aran, for a short time, and Jeridan’s occasional hints… but those chances never became anything. But this…

“Kyri,” Tobimar said softly, breaking into her thoughts, “I’d like – I think we’d both like – to continue this… but we’ve got things to do, and this isn’t the safest place. So… if you could…?”

She laughed suddenly, and felt a fierce joy. No more uncertainty. Just the surety that he’s with me, and I’m with him. She reached out to him again, even as the little Toad bounced back up to Tobimar’s shoulder. “Hold on, then!”

Together, they blazed a trail of light into the sky.