Darkwar

by Glen Cook

  “Yes, mistress. Congratulations. Though I was unhappy to hear that Most Senior Gradwohl has left us for the embrace of the All.”

  “There will be no changes here, Edzeka. We will continue to do what we can to make the Communities independent of the brethren. We will expand our operations when we can.”

  Edzeka seemed pleased. “Thank you, mistress. We were concerned when it seemed you would forego first chair.”

  “There is a great deal of pressure on me to abandon the ideals that drew Gradwohl and me together, and you to her. I may have to present the appearance of abandoning them. It will be appearance only. The fact that you continue your work will be my assurance that I have not changed in my heart.”

  “Thank you again, mistress. What can we do for you?”

  “I need one of the new darkships. Tomorrow I must speak for the Reugge before a convention of the Communities. I thought I might make an unspoken statement by arriving aboard one of your darkships.”

  “You have males with you.”

  “Yes. Two very special males. The one who is not bound is a longtime friend, one of the few survivors of a bond friendly to the Reugge, who may be at risk in these times. I wish to keep him safe. He is to be accorded all consideration and honor.”

  “And the other?”

  “A prisoner. One of the commanders of the attack upon Maksche. He is to be assigned to the communications-intercept section to translate messages out of the brethren cant. Do what you need to to enforce his cooperation. Otherwise do not harm him. I may have a use for him. Now. May I have one of the new ships?”

  “Of course. I will give you the one prepared for the most senior.”

  “Good. I cannot spend time here, unfortunately, for I have to be back in TelleRai early. I will need to borrow bath as well. Mine need rest. I will need a Mistress of the Ship also, if I am to get any rest myself.”

  “As you wish.”

  “And something to eat.”

  “Never any problem there, mistress. Come down to the kitchen.”

  II

  Grauel wakened Marika as the darkship approached TelleRai. She checked the time. Edzeka had not given her the strongest of Mistresses. It was later than she had hoped. There would be no time to pause at the cloister. She touched the Mistress, told her to proceed directly to convention ground. The convention would meet there despite the weather, which threatened snow.

  The flight south had encountered patch after patch of snowfall, the Mistress being unwilling to climb above the clouds. She was young and unconfident.

  It smelled like another hard winter, one that would push farther south than ever before.

  A victory today, Marika reflected, and she would be in a position at last to do something about that.

  The sky over TelleRai was crowded. Every darkship seemed to set a course identical to Marika’s. She edged up to the tip of the wooden cross, touched the Mistress, took over.

  The moment the silth reached the axis, Marika took the darkship up five thousand feet, well above traffic, and waited in the still chill till it seemed the crowd should have cleared. Then she dropped a few hundred feet at a time, feeling around in the clouds.

  If something was to be tried, this was the time.

  So many enemies.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Grauel was alert, her weapon ready. She checked her own rifle, then allowed the darkship to sink till it had cleared the underbellies of the clouds.

  Still a fair ceiling. The snow might hold off awhile.

  The air was less crowded. In fact, the few darkships aloft seemed to be patrolling.

  She let the bottom fall out.

  Startled touches bounced off her, then she was swooping toward the heart of convention ground as faces turned to look. The glimpses she caught told her they were thinking of her as that show-off savage, making a late, flashy entrance.

  Exactly.

  She touched down fifty feet from the senior representatives of the Communities. Kiljar was the only silth she recognized. The Redoriad came toward her, skirting a small pond.

  Tall, slim trees surrounded the area, winter-naked, probably dying. The heart of convention ground centered upon a group of fountains surrounded by statuary, exotic plantings, and benches where silth came to meditate in less exciting times. A dozen Serke waited near the trees in silence, eyes downcast, resigned. On the opposite side of the circle stood a larger group of males, most of whom were old. Marika spied the tradermales from Bagnel’s quarters among them. She raised a paw in mocking greeting.

  The males were sullen and hateful.

  They were resigned, too, but theirs was not the resignation of the Serke. Marika sensed an undercurrent, something resembling the odor of triumph.

  Was there something wrong here? A truthsaying might be in order.

  “I had begun to be concerned,” Kiljar said. “Where were you? Your cloister told me you were away.” She eyed Marika’s darkship. While not as fancy as those of times past, it was large and ornate. “Where did you get that?”

  “Sisters made it. That was Gradwohl’s legacy. A first step toward independence for the brethren.”

  “You might avoid that subject.”

  “Why did you wish to contact me?”

  “Shortly after you announced you would become first chair of the Reugge, there was a rebellion among the brethren of the Cupple Islands. They have taken control there. What they do next depends upon what you say now.”

  “I see.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I thought it was foregone what would happen. Dismember the Serke and ban the brethren from space for a while.”

  “Essentially. But the details, Marika. The details. Your past attitude toward the brethren is well-known.”

  “These prisoners. They are the sacrificial victims?”

  “You could call them that.”

  “The males are old. Those who will replace them are all younger?”

  “I would not be surprised.”

  “Yes. Well. To be expected, I suspect. I have brought a list. As I said, I will negotiate on everything but a Reugge interest in the void.”

  “Understood. Come. I will introduce you. We will get into the details, then go to the convention for approval. Simply a matter of form, I assure you.”

  Marika scanned the encircling trees. Here, there, curious faces peeped forth. Silth by the hundred waited in the greater park outside. “Have those meth no work?”

  “This is the event of the century, Marika. Of several centuries. I will gather everyone. Tell them what is on your mind.”

  Marika watched Kiljar closely, wondering about her part in the game. She was behaving as though there was some special alliance between herself and the new most senior of the Reugge.

  Random snowflakes floated around. Marika glanced at the overcast. It would not be long.

  “Speak, Marika,” Kiljar told her. And in a whisper, “Demand what you like, but avoid being belligerent.”

  Marika spoke. The silth listened. She became uncomfortable as she sensed that they were trying to read into her tone, inflexion, and stance more than was there. She was too young to deal with these silth. They were too subtle for her.

  Her speech caused a stir among the trees. Many silth hastened away to tell others farther back.

  Kiljar announced, “The Redoriad endorse the Reugge proposal.” More softly, she said, “Remember, Marika, this is an informal discussion, not the official convention. Do not take to heart everything that is said.”

  “Meaning your endorsement is a maneuver.”

  “That, and that some unpleasant attacks may be made by those opposed. Those who speak against will not be declaring bloodfeud.”

  The various representatives responded individually. Some felt compelled to do so at great length. Marika seated herself on a bench. She felt sleepy. Sitting did not help. She caught herself nodding.

  The breeze became more chill. The snowflakes became more numerous, pellets of white that swir
led around the heart of the park. They caught in the grass and whitened it till it looked like the fur of an old female. Kiljar settled beside Marika. “That fool Foxgar will never shut up.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Second of the Furnvreit. A small Community from the far south with limited holdings in the outer system. In a convention the smallest order speaks with a voice equaling that of the largest. Unfortunately. She may be stalling in hopes her vote will be bought.”

  “Do the Furnvreit have any claim on the Serke?”

  “None whatsoever. Few Communities do. But they all want a share of the plunder. And they will get it. Otherwise the convention will go nowhere.”

  “Wonderful.”

  A silth came from the trees, hastened to Kiljar, whispered. Kiljar looked grim.

  “What is it?” Marika asked. A bad feeling twisted her insides.

  “Somebody relayed your opening terms to the Cupple Islands. Those ships we saw around Starstalker. A great many of their type are lifting off, packed with brethren.”

  Marika’s bad feeling worsened.

  III

  An old silth appeared, too excited to retain her cool dignity. “The darkships are leaving the cloister at Ruhaack! The Serke are… are…”

  “You would deal with brethren!” Marika snapped at Kiljar. She raced to her darkship. “Grauel! Get aboard. Bath! Mistress! Get it airborne.”

  The remaining silth stood bewildered for a moment, then scattered.

  Marika was well away before anyone else lifted off. She touched the Mistress of the Ship. The Reugge cloister. Hurry.

  “What is it, Marika?” Grauel asked. She kept turning, weapon ready, seeking something she could not find.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t like this. I have a bad feeling. A premonition. I don’t want to be caught on the ground. We’ll pick up Barlog, then head for Ruhaack.” She was as confused as any of the silth aboard the darkships swarming up below.

  Any course of action had to be positive.

  The enemy was on the move.

  She touched the Mistress of the Ship again, showed her where to go as Grauel protested, “Marika, Barlog is in no condition to—”

  “I don’t care. I want her with me till we see what’s going to happen.”

  The Mistress of the Ship brought the darkship to rest beside the window to Marika’s quarters. Marika gestured violently. The Mistress rotated the darkship, brought one arm into contact with the windowsill. “Hold it there!” Marika ordered. “We’ll be back in a minute. Grauel, break that window.”

  Grauel tottered along the beam, eased past the bath at its tip, smashed glass with her rifle butt. She jumped through. Marika followed. “What now?” Grauel asked.

  “Barlog.” In her mind a clock was ticking, estimating the time it would take the brethren fugitives to rendezvous with Starstalker.

  Intuition began shrieking at her. “Hurry!” she barked.

  They found Barlog sleeping, still partially immobilized by the healer sisters. They pulled her out of bed and hustled her to the window. Marika leapt out onto the arm of the darkship. It sank beneath her weight. “Hold it steady!” she yelled. “All right, Grauel. Push her up. Come on, Barlog. You have to help a little.”

  Barlog was no help at all. Marika pulled, balanced the huntress upon her shoulder. For a moment she became conscious of the long plunge that awaited her slightest misstep, froze. Never before had she been particularly cognizant of the danger of falling. She turned carefully, gestured the bath to duck, eased past. “Come on, Grauel.”

  Grauel, too, was conscious of the emptiness beneath the darkship. She was slow about boarding and slower crossing to the axis. Marika had Barlog strapped down by the time she arrived. “Strap up fast,” Marika said. “Mistress! Take us up! Go high and head toward Ruhaack.”

  Marika became aware that she was being observed from a darkship poised just beyond the boundary of the cloister. Kiljar. She waved, pointed. Kiljar’s darkship rose.

  The clock in Marika’s mind told her the tradermale lifters would have reached Starstalker. She touched Kiljar. I am going to the Ruhaack cloister. With any luck those left behind may be cooperative.

  Do not forget Bestrei.

  How can I? Would you care to bet that she was not aboard the first voidship up?

  Behind them, above the city, darkships swarmed like insects on a warm morning. Touches of panic fluttered the otherworld. There had been collisions and deaths by falling.

  Marika reached, touched every sister she could, told them to get higher, to get away from the city.

  She felt for the sky, for the Serke voidships, and to her surprise she found them. They were clustered, more than a dozen of them, and they were much higher than she could rise in pursuit. They were on the edge of the void and hurrying outward.

  Marika felt Starstalker rise from behind the rim of the world. There was a deadly feel to the voidship, as though it had metamorphosed into something terrible. It radiated a threatening darkness. It climbed the sky rapidly.

  It lost its deadly aura as it approached zenith, as Marika hurried to TelleRai’s southwest, toward Ruhaack. That modest city, where the Serke made their headquarters, lay a hundred miles away. Its supporting satellites brushed those of greater TelleRai.

  Why did Starstalker seem less black? Marika opened to the All. There! The deadliness remained, but it had separated from the voidship.

  Kiljar. They have sent something down against us.

  That something came down fast. Very fast. Streaks of fire burned the upper sky and backlighted the clouds. Thunder hammered the air.

  They were forty miles from TelleRai when the first sword of fire smote the world.

  The first flash blinded Marika momentarily. There were more flashes. A grisly globe of fire rolled upward above the city. Shuddering, fur bristling, Marika felt the thundering wind, the first shock wave raging toward her.

  Another great flash illuminated the mushroom cloud.

  The Mistress of the Ship lost control. The darkship twisted toward the ground.

  CEREMONY

  BOOK FIVE: METAL SUNS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I

  Marika reached with the touch. Mistress! Get hold of yourself!

  Her vision cleared. A quarter mile to her left Kiljar’s darkship fluttered downward, too, but it stabilized soon after she spied it.

  Marika felt Kiljar’s touch. The Redoriad second sent, What has happened?

  I do not know. The strange weapons you mentioned?

  Marika looked back to the city so recently and hastily fled. A grisly glow backlighted the snowclouds. The world within, the ghost world of the touch and dark, was filled with terror and pain, unfocused, diffuse, yet centered upon dying TelleRai.

  Marika sent, What should we do, Kiljar?

  Go on. We must go on to Ruhaack. Already the touch tells me there is nothing we can do back there.

  How bad is it?

  Worse than you can imagine. How did you know?

  I just felt something bad coming. Premonition. Silth set great store by intuition. Not even that much when we started. I just knew we had to get away from the city. Then when Starstalker rose above the horizon I knew something terrible would happen. And it is not over yet. I feel a great hot wind coming.

  The Serke will pay for this.

  The Serke did not do this, mistress.

  They made it possible. It will be impossible to assemble a true convention now, for a while. Perhaps it is best that way. At the moment you could demand and receive anything.

  What happened? Marika demanded again.

  Kiljar sent a mental picture of what she imagined TelleRai must look like now, with the fires raging and the mushroom clouds rising. Marika pushed it away, unwilling to believe the disaster she had predicted.

  Her Mistress of the Ship appealed for her attention. Mistress? Coming up on Ruhaack.

  Go carefully. She shifted touch back to Kiljar. What do you think? Do you sens
e any perils ahead? I do not.

  I sense emptiness within the Serke cloister. I sense death. I do not believe what I sense. No Community has committed kalerhag in centuries.

  Kalerhag. Ritual suicide. The Ceremony. The ultimate silth ritual. The one that, at one time, had ended most silth lives.

  In the packs of the wild, like that of Marika’s puphood, the very old were put out of the packstead in hard times, after the less useful males and pups. In the sisterhoods of old the aged had retired themselves through kalerhag. And any sister had done so when she felt honor demanded it.

  The two darkships moved in on the Serke cloister, losing altitude, slowing, watching it belch smoke that rolled up into the clouds, reminding Marika of Maksche aflame after the perfidious brethren attack there.

  No sisterhood has committed kalerhag here, Kiljar sent, correcting herself, more distressed. They took some with them and left the others poisoned.

  Marika instructed her Mistress of the Ship to drop lower still, to approach the Serke Ruhaack cloister below the worst of the heat. Inrushing air tugged at her clothing.

  It is safe, Kiljar sent. Set down.

  Marika had her darkship taken to ground. She stepped off. Her voctor, Grauel, stepped down beside her and stared at the cloister in awe. “What happened, Marika?”

  “Kiljar says they poisoned everyone they could not take with them. I suppose the fires were meant to destroy evidence.”

  “Evidence? Of what?”

  The earth beneath their feet was trembling, groaning, carrying news of the destruction of TelleRai.

  “Who knows? Let’s see what we can find.”

  As Marika unslung her rifle the hot wind from TelleRai overtook them. Most of its force had been spent, but still it was enough to stagger them. Marika regained her balance. She looked toward TelleRai. “That they could do such a thing,” she snarled into the wind. Then, to her Mistress of the Ship, “Stay here. Remain prepared to lift off.”