by Luke Norris
There was the clamor of weapons, blowing of horns and the ferocious challenges shouted by the highland warriors. But the highlanders did not enter the fray upon Oliver's orders but continued with the threatening ruckus from the perimeter.
Inside the camp things had descended into pandemonium as soldiers sprang out of bed, confused and unable to communicate in the din. Thinking they were waking to be in the middle of an attack, they slashed madly to defend themselves in the dark. Soon cries could be heard as they accidentally started hacking at each other. This escalated the situation and confirmed that the highlanders really were in their camp among them, and their attacks upon each other became wilder. They are cutting each other down when there are no actual enemies among them, Oliver grimaced. Any lowlanders that tried to flee, what was fast becoming a massacre, were cut down at the perimeter by the real highlanders.
They had to endure the groans and cries of the wounded lowlanders through the night, and it wasn't until the dawn finally arrived that they could see the aftermath. When Oliver's men walked through the camp at first light, they were meet with no resistance. There were virtually no lowlanders that hadn't escaped injury. Many had died from blood loss in the night. Most of the surviving soldiers were sitting around their slain comrades in a state of trauma.
“Well met, captain,” Oliver greeted the burly Tahamil man, in the middle of the camp. He gripped the man’s arm. “What is the casualty report?” His tone was businesslike, and it sickened him how easily he slid into the role of the driver. I'm as much driver as I am a farmer from Otago, he realized.
“Sir, two of our runners, were killed when they dowsed the fires last night, and two of the prisoners who tried to escape during the chaos. Seventeen prisoners have been rescued, but one of the boys lost a hand in the fighting.”
“How many horses are left?”
The Tahamil captain grinned. “All of them.”
31. Lowlanders prepare
Verity moved to the next portrait. Her brown silk dress whispered along the floor behind her. Candles adorned the corridor and the light danced on the faces in the picture. The Wasat royal family, she mused. And they too are no more, executed, just more victims to our atrocities. No wonder I can't sleep, our sins stare us in the face everywhere I turn.
The second-stagers had moved to the Wasat kingdom and taken up residence in the palace of the late royal family. Yarn had told her it provided a headquarters closer to the front line. The Sharaq kingdom had put up much heavier resistance than expected and making this war protracted, frustrating their ultimate plans. Yarn assured her that they were making headway and soon all realms would be under their control.
Verity wasn't sure she cared anymore. She no longer attended any of the war councils. Even if this crazy plan works, and we go into hibernation, wake in one hundred and fifty years and get back to our ship, can I really return to society and live with the knowledge of what we did here? All the people that died because of us. Again the enormity of what they were doing hit her in a belt of nausea, and she wanted to throw up. All the collateral damage to the people of this world.
Her attention drifted back to the enormous portrait. The artist was clever she decided, the subtle smile on the lips of the Wasat king was kind, and his eyes were on his wife beside him. The smile reminded her of her father. The man that had such noble expectations of her.
A voice startled her out of her nostalgic revere. “How is it possible that there is more worry on such a young beautiful face than my own old features.”
“Your Highness!” She gave a courteous nod. “I didn't hear you there."
The Naharain king looked up at the portrait. He appeared to have visibly aged in the last year, the furrow crease between his greying eyebrows now permanently etched. “In times of peace I met with him. He was a good man, a kindly man. The artist has captured it well.” He stared at it with a deep sadness in his eyes.
“You must be pleased with the progress of the war Highness,” Verity said. “The battle lords tell me that they have finally taken land across the river. Soon you will be king of the four kingdoms.”
The king drew his gaze from the portrait to look Verity in the eye. “Lady Verity, please do not patronize me. I am a fool, that I know for certain now. But not so much a fool to know I am not really the king of anything. In name perhaps. But in every other respect, I am just a prisoner to this agenda of yours. I am just curious as to why you have not executed me like the other royal families. You need me for something. I guess time will show me what purpose you have for me, but I know I am just a pawn.”
Verity looked back at the portrait unable to hold his gaze. She could feel it boring into her. Oh god, he knows. He has known for a long time. But he is right. What must he think of me?
The old king took her hand and gently drew her back around. “It is true, this old man is a fool. But I still see some things. I think when I look at you my child, perhaps I am not the only one who is a pawn in this game.” His smile was kind to her.
It was all Verity could do to choke back the tears, that were threatening to well up. How can he show me kindness? He can't see me cry. “You are not a fool Your Highness. There is nothing anybody could have done to stop the other two.”
“Verity, there you are!” Yarn called, he strode down the hall to where the two stood looking at the artwork. He had obviously come from the field, because was wearing his battle leathers, instead of the palace robes. “Highness!” He gave the king a short nod of acknowledgment. “Enjoying your new palace? We have some important issues to discuss with Lady Verity.”
Verity could see Yarn hardly even bothered with pretense anymore. The king didn't answer. He knew he wasn't included in the discussion. He watched the two walk across the gallery and disappear, then silently turned back to the pictures.
When they entered the small room, Riff was already there waiting for them. He wore the loose silk robe of the Wasat court. It was golden with black tassels running from the neckline in two rows to at least his waistline. On his head he had wrapped the same material into a large turban which made his narrow face appear like an acorn in its shell. He had shaved the mustache that he had honed and perfected in the previous Naharain palace. Instead opted to grow his blond beard below the chin, and using copious amounts of wax and oil, trained it into two curved tapering points. The points curved away from each other and reminded Verity of the horns from the mountain goats they had seen in the canyons years earlier. It was the same style goatee that the Wasat king had in his portrait.
Verity stifled a laugh but didn't say anything
Yarn just rolled his eyes. “As always Riff, you look like an idiot,” he said, as he sat down.
“No need for me to even answer that,” Riff replied defiantly, “you clearly have no understanding of the fashions of the courts.”
Verity noticed despite his retort he was shuffling self consciously, trying to catch the occasional glance of his reflection in the silver.
“I've just come back from the frontline,” Yarn reported. “Drake has taken every front on the Sharaq side of the river. That driver was a godsend. I swear we must have been landed with the best of them.”
“And, the only driver left on this planet,” Riff added.
“We have the Sharaq army penned in now. They’re under pressure, it’s just a matter of time before they surrender or crumble completely. Our spies are reporting somewhat of an exodus from their ports. It won’t surprise me if the Sharaq royal family boards a ship any day now.”
I hope for their sake that they do. “So when will this war be over?” Verity asked. “I thought we wanted to help these people and introduce technology to help them develop, not destroy their world with war.”
“Our army have pushed around from the northern border. We managed to do it by going through the Highlands and then coming down on top of them. We have been encountering problems though.”
“To put it lightly,” Riff said, “I received a report that my b
ridge was destroyed. That was a significant engineering feat, and a project that took the good part of a year.”
Verity had never seen Riff so passionate. “So the Sharaq army stopped you? What did you expect?” she said.
“No, the Sharaq army are not so far north,” Yarn replied, “we suspect it was a raid by the Highland tribes in the area.”
“That seems unlikely,” Riff said, “the bridge had a regiment guarding it. How could they coordinate an attack like that.”
“They have been hounding the soldiers on the northern border recently, I have learned. They are becoming quite a problem. The press gangs have not been returning in some cases.”
“Press gangs?” Verity asked.
“Drake has been recruiting men from the Highlands.”
“I doubt it’s just been simple recruiting if they have been retaliating the way they have.”
“This is wartime, Verity,” Riff explained, “the whole nation has to contribute to make it work. Right captain?”
“True! But Verity is right, they have been forced to join in some cases. The reality is we are nearly there, and a few tribes are hindering us from crossing the finish line. We can’t let a few barbarian clans destroy two years of planning. It doesn't matter though because I've taken Drake away from the frontline, and sent him to the Highlands to take care of the situation there himself.”
“You've sent Drake!” Verity exclaimed. “That driver only has one kind of solution. They are just a few tribes. Isn't there some kind of diplomatic solution here? You're meant to be the planning mastermind. Remember they were the people that helped us two years ago when we came out of the hills.”
“We actually did try diplomacy. We threatened with sanctioning there iron supply which they get from the Lowlands, but that didn't didn't seem to have the slightest effect. They may be just a few tribes, but they have been inflicting serious damage to northern patrols…”
“And taking out the bridge was really the last straw!” Riff interrupted, “is he taking his soldiers, what does he call them?”
“Shadow Warriors,” Yarn laughed.
“Yea, is taking them north with him?”
“Only a few hundred. I asked him to leave the rest at the command of Harras on the Sharaq front. I didn't want to lose any territory we've taken. Those soldiers are incredibly well trained, and we need them to stay where they are.”
“So, Drake is going to the Highlands with only a few hundred men?”
“He'll have other Naharain soldiers at his disposal in the north, although the numbers have been depleted somewhat by the marauding highlanders, I'm told. I just hope he can deal with the problem quickly.”
“I hope so too!” Riff agreed. “We've already wasted two years of our natural time on this god-forsaken planet. We need to go into hibernation soon.”
“Well, it may not be as soon as you think,” Verity pulled her silk robe tighter around her shoulders at the thought. “Once this war is over, we have to plant all the technology required for space travel. We have to set up a system of government that won't collapse into civil war while we sleep, that will set back our plans. I see that taking one, if not two more years,” she sighed.
“That's a good point, Verity,” Yarn leaned in, looking conspiratorially to the side as if somebody might overhear. “And it brings me to a second problem. When the war is over, and we go into hibernation, Drake will be left here,” he paused looking at the blank faces of Verity and Riff. “Think about it! Having a warmongering megalomaniacal driver like Drake is incredibly useful at the moment, but he is built...programmed for one thing, and that is fighting, tactics, and war. For technology to develop there has to be peace. For Drake, it will just be conquest after meaningless conquest without us to guide him.”
Revelation dawned on Riff’s face, then it was slowly replaced by fear. “Hell, I'm not doing it! You saw what happened to Costa, even with his speed, that driver still got him.”
“I know, but we can't leave him behind, he is a destructive force, he has to be taken out.”
“Wait, you mean you are going to kill Drake?” Verity gasped.
“I think, if I'm boosting at full speed it shouldn't be a problem,” Yarn said. He saw the look of horror on Verity's face. “Don't worry, I will be alright, it won’t be too dangerous. We could always poison him. Although, that would also be difficult with all the inoculations the drivers have. Something to think about anyway, until he gets back from the Highlands.”
It took Verity some seconds to find her voice. “So you take this man from his home world, program him to become a lethal driver. Then once he has won the war for you, done his job perfectly, then throw him away? Why can't he just go into hibernation with us? Like they do on the ship? He doesn't belong here anyway.”
“He is just a driver, Verity,” Riff sounded exasperated. “Don't get so worked up.”
“Besides, it’s impossible,” Yarn added. “Remember, drivers don't have metabolism control like second-stagers. They can only be put into hyper-sleep on the ship. He will live his natural life span out here on this world.”
32. Encounter of the Drivers
“Good year!” Ab-Bayad reflected, as he swirled his wine and then took another swallow. Oliver watched the man ponder his drink. The chieftains one blue eye and one yellow eye stared, unfocused in thought. Many of the eastern highlanders, both Bayad and Nasil clans, shared this eye pigment phenomenon. Oliver couldn't decide if the lowlanders here saw the eastern clansmen as equals because of the one blue eye, or if they had always done so and the double eye pigment came from the marriage unions between the two races over the centuries. The question triggered vague memories of high school biology and genetics lessons from his previous life on Earth.
Before the war, relations between the Bayad clan and the Sharaq Lowland kingdom to the south were good. Trade was flourishing. They were by no means downtrodden by the lowlanders in the way the other clans had been. Things had changed with recent events.
Ab-Nasil raised his glass to the other chieftain. “Aye! This wine is nearly as sweet as our victory at the bridge.” This was met with a roar of agreement from the fur-clad warriors around the long candlelit feasting table.
Ponsy leaned in toward Oliver to be heard over the jovial banter. “Cougar! Our chieftain here doesn't look so excited about it.” He often still reverted to the command language of the drivers when talking to Oliver.
“It's because the victory came at a high cost for Bayad.” Oliver looked at the chieftain scowling into his cup. “I came here when I first united all the chieftains, but Ab-Bayad refused to come to the council and refused to unite with them. He thought his alliance with the Sharaq lowlanders would assure him protection, and he was right, until the Naharain army came through and smashed the northern Sharaq forces. Ab-Bayad's clan ended up receiving worse than any of the others. They didn't just have small Naharain war parties to contend with but entire regiments. They just waltzed through and plundered all the farmland on the way. So it was a good year for the harvest here, but half of it went to supporting the invading army.”
“Until we took the bridge down,” Ponsy grinned.
“Yes, until the bridge came down,” Oliver agreed, “but you know what that means, now we will be in their sights. They're going to respond, I just wonder what they are going to send our way.”
“Yes, they will respond. But not tonight they won't. Let them feast and celebrate their victory, Cougar!” The dark-skinned driver reached over and broke off two huge roasted bird legs from a platter in the middle of the table, dropped one on Oliver's plate, and used his teeth on the other to tear away a piece of the dripping meat. He winked at Oliver as he chewed.
“You're a beast.” Oliver laughed. “I don't know what Ayla sees in you.”
“Report!” Oliver demanded. The man before him was breathing heavily. His red-brown and khaki face paint was streaked with sweat lines. Oliver knew the spy had probably covered the equivalent of a marathon over cra
ggy tussock land. The endurance and inherent fitness level of the highlanders still impressed him, although he had seen it demonstrated by his men on many occasions. What’s more, the spy had covered the distance in full camo kit. Any of these men would be the equivalent of a special forces soldier on Earth, he thought.
The man removed his helmet that was covered with leaves, tussock grass, and khaki tassels. “Three hundred and fifty men only. They were situated at this point this morning,” He pointed to the map Oliver had spread on the table. “Which would put them here at their current speed.”
“So slow,” Oliver remarked. “Are they on foot?”
“Horses are useless across this land, so he has them marching. They are very heavily armored. I've never seen the like. He has them all dressed in black.”
“He?” Oliver asked. “Do you mean their commander?”
“Aye, their commander! If I hadn't already seen the likes of you, Ponsy, I wouldn't have believed my eyes.”
The two drivers exchanged knowing glances. “You mean he has dark skin like mine?”
“Darker!” the spy declared. “Like the heart of the Motashid tree.”
“They've sent him!” Ponsy said. He turned to examine the map, his furrowed brow accentuated on his shiny, hairless head.
The spy sensed the sudden tenseness in the room between Oliver and Ponsy. “Three hundred and fifty men. That will be no problem for you, sir, after the numbers you defeated at the bridge.”
The man’s eyes were bright with blind faith.
“Leave us!” Oliver ordered. “Tell the men to be ready for a briefing in an hour! Good job soldier.”
“Sir!” The exhausted man nodded and left the planning room in a fast hobble.
“For all we know, he may not know we are here!” Oliver said.