Seed- The Gene Awakens

by Jane Baskin

  Laughter around the room. Then Innask: “What would you do, if this were Cha-ning, My Lord?”

  “I – uh – I might do things a little … differently.” Looked at the floor.

  “Really? How so?”

  Noar, a deep breath. “In the North, you see, there aren’t that many of us. We’re often facing a larger force, if you decide it’s a good year to raid.” Now laughter, around the room. Noar, letting them have their laugh. Then: “So we use tactics to fight. We avoid what’s strong, strike at what’s weak. If the force is tight and strong, we try to break it up. We try to isolate parts of a force, so we can flank them and pick them off.” About to say more, but stopped himself. Too much: might have implicated himself as having been at Darleigh and Vel. Those battles, still talked about all over the South. The expert trickery of northern mercenaries.

  And Noar: lately … learning when to keep his mouth shut.

  Lord of Scell: “Tell me young lord. Your own soldiers – mercenaries of course, aligned with peasants – not long ago reduced two of our most powerful keeps to ashes. We heard they used all manner of trickery. Hidden ditches full of soldiers with fuseless hand bombs. Explosions at distant areas to draw troops off, traps set for them when they returned. Do you know of these tactics?”

  Silence around the room.

  Noar, clearing his throat. “I do. Those are northern arts of war.”

  More silence. Noar, wondering for a terrible moment if these people could indeed read minds. If somehow they knew … or weren’t stupid enough to believe that attackers at Darleigh and Vel were just bored mercenaries out of work. Didn’t they know of the raid on Cha-ning? Wouldn’t they just figure out that the barely believable northern alliance with peasants had really been retribution?

  Or. Hope? Maybe … they didn’t know about the attack on Cha-ning. Maybe they didn’t know that Darleigh had acted alone … had come like a thief in the night, had murdered the lion of Vel and his entire family … himself.

  Maybe Darleigh had not wanted it known.

  Scell: “The attacks on Darleigh and Vel were particularly vicious.”

  Noar: “So I heard.” His mind racing, now. Why would northerners have joined the peasant cause? Nayan’s notion that northern soldiers were in fact peasants, many of them related to rebels … more true than not. Still, a stretch. Where would the peasant army have gotten the money to pay them? To arm them? To transport them to the South? To feed them? Would such numbers of expert warriors be willing to die for a cause that was not their own?

  Scell, continuing his questions: “Are your soldiers always so vicious?” No readable expression on his face.

  “Uh – no. Not usually. Our purpose is usually just to drive off invaders.”

  “But you have the tactical ability to inflict great damage.”

  Okay then. Noar, standing very straight. Quieting his breathing. Meeting Scell’s eye. “Yes. We do.”

  Silence. Scell, just fixing Noar, eye to eye. The old fox, unreadable. But thinking, of course. Noar, feeling he could see machinery turning in Scell’s head. This staring contest: lasting over a minute. Not a sound in the room – unless, as Noar wondered, the pounding of his heart could be heard.

  Then: a slow smile spreading across old Scell’s face. “Perhaps you’d be willing to share some of your expertise with us, so as to bring this damnable war to an end.”

  “If … you like. I’d be happy to help you bring this war to an end.”

  Did the old fox know? Did he care? Noar would never know. The only thing of which he was certain: could start breathing normally again.

  Looked over at the old man. Who, he discovered, was looking at him. His expression: still absolutely unreadable.

  This time, Noar: consulted by the lords for planning, in private sessions. Word now; the peasant army: regrouping. Had maneuvered around Selshay; regrouping slightly to the north.

  With Noar’s guidance, scouts dispatched to the general area. Returned with news of the encampment. Sheltering in a fairly dense wood just northwest of Selshay. Close. Too close. The wood, cresting a long hill with a wide ravine at the bottom. At first, lords despaired.

  “That’s a hugely defensible position.”

  “They chose wisely, I’ll give them credit for that.”

  “We can’t charge uphill.”

  Noar, letting them finish their various laments. Then: “It’s brilliant. For us, I mean. We can drive them right into our waiting arms.”

  Now old Scell, eyeing the sub lord of Cha-ning with a wry smile. Of course, the old fox. None other. “Really, young lord? Explain, please.”

  Noar, drawing a rough sketch on the planning table. “A small forward part of our force approaches from behind. We fire the wood, driving them out onto the slope. They won’t be able to help themselves sliding down it, into the ravine. Pure pressure of numbers. Then we face them, flank them, and pick them off. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  Silence in the room.

  Old Scell, one question: “We don’t usually split up our force. Are you sure that’s wise?”

  Noar, considering his answer carefully. A sudden smile, a shrug. “Well, it’s worked for Cha-ning for centuries.”

  A buzz around the room. Heads nodding. Scell: “What do you think, Lord Selshay?”

  Innask: “I like the novelty of it. Once into that ravine, there’ll be no escape. Sub lord Cha-ning has proposed a very effective plan. Plus, the small hand bombs have arrived. With his plan and these new weapons, we should prevail.”

  A sigh from Scell. Then meeting Noar’s eye – again. That piercing stare. What would he say? What did he know? Then: “Perhaps, young lord, you will indeed help us bring this damnable war to an end. Finally.”

  Noar, a long breath. An exhalation of unfounded fear. Relief.

  More scouts dispatched to keep an eye on the peasant army. Bringing news of their supply lines: thin, but functional. Approaching from the far side of the wood. Some of the lords, fearing that this would mean they couldn’t sneak up on the enemy from behind. But Noar: “I don’t think it’s an insurmountable problem. When we’re ready, we take out the supply lines quickly and quietly, then fire the wood immediately. We’ll have to get every single rebel on the lines, so word doesn’t get through. But I think our soldiers are up to the task.” Grin.

  Innask: a smile. Shared by Iskar, several others. Recalling the ferocity of the young northern lord in battle.

  Scell: a nod. But his expression: still unreadable.

  Plans: coming to the detail stage. Arming themselves to the teeth. Ditches to be dug at the far ends of the ravine under cover of night. Noar, even hoping for a storm. Waiting for it. Praying for it. So that their ditch work would be undiscovered. Plan: trap the peasant army in the area. With ditches that would be filled – as at Darleigh – with soldiers flinging the hand held bombs at anyone who tried to escape.

  Only one comment from old Scell: “I see you use some of the deadly tactics that brought down Vel and Darleigh.”

  Noar, suppressing a cough. “These tactics are … standard for northern fighters. And – no offense intended My Lord – but it worked at Vel and it’ll work here.”

  Nothing from Scell but a weird sideways smile.

  Now tensions at Selshay: high. The young lords, eager to finish their work. And … the proximity of the peasant army, causing a stir. Their camp: way too close to Selsahy for comfort.

  Iskaya-te, confiding to Noar one evening as they walked together after dinner: “I’m frightened, Noar. The enemy is so close. What if they break through?”

  Noar, smiling. Taking her hand. “I swear to you, no harm will come to you while I’m still alive.”

  “Oh, Noar!” Collapsed against his chest, weeping. Noar, wrapping his arms around her. Happier than he could ever recall.

  “When all this is over, Iskaya. I’ll need to speak to you. And to your brother.”

  Iskaya-te, raising her head, looking into his eyes. Sweet tears gentl
y streaking her cheeks. Within them, a smile. “Oh Noar. I’d like that. Very much.”

  Two days later, tensions even higher. Had gotten their storm. A long, ugly night of rain; wind. The rain, softening the ground, making the digging easier. Dirty work, but quick. The roar of the storm, covering all sound. Then scouts reporting: the ditches, finished. The work: undiscovered. Men and arms in place. The attack to begin the next night. In the predawn hours.

  Once again, walking with Iskaya-te.

  “Noar, I shall not stop worrying until I see you safe. I’ll weep myself to death if anything should happen to you.”

  Facing her. Stroking her delicate face, her hair. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Iskaya. I will prevail, just so I can get back to you.”

  Her sighs, like birdsong. Again, resting her head on his chest.

  That night, partaking again of the pretty maid. Things with Iskaya-te: heating up to a serious level, now. Trapping Noar in fields of desire powerful enough to make him dizzy. No way he could face battle without some release. And when he pretended the maid was Iskaya-te – oh.

  Again, the girl, submitting to him. Without a shred of emotion. Allowing whatever he wanted. No response.

  Which made him angry. Growled at her: “You could at least make a sound. Or join me in movement.”

  “Use me as you please, My Lord.”

  “It would please me if you would pretend to enjoy this.”

  A pause. Then: “I will try, My Lord.” But despite her intention: no response.

  Noar, becoming furious. Didn’t understand why, exactly. Had been with boring lovers before. No great matter. But this time … oddly angry. “Move!”

  A weak flutter from her hips.

  Noar, doing something he had never done in his life. Rolled away from her. Then grabbed her by the shoulders, slapped her across the face. Expected her to weep. But … nothing.

  Pushed her out of the bed onto the floor. “Get out.”

  When she had gone, sighed. Lay back against the soft pillows, soothed himself with a fantasy of Iskaya-te. Told himself it was no great loss, only had a few hours before he had to move out anyway.

  Had never hit a woman before, aside from battle. Not ever. Never.

  The sticky chill before dawn: a favorite time of day for Noar. The cold air: speaking to him of pre-battle, pre-hunt, pre-harvest excitement. Of the rush of blood to come.

  Then his group: rounding the back of the wood at a quiet walk. Scouts, trained in stealth by Noar, already having (silently) dispatched anyone found on or near the supply lines. By the time flammable liquids spread, torches lit: too late for those sleeping in the wood, even for the guards.

  Winter: a dry time everywhere. Noar, having made sure they brought plenty of brush, tinder, chemicals; to ensure the fire lit. So. Burned into an inferno in minutes. With the light breeze in their favor (lucky, that), the enemy camp: immediately aroused, panicking, moving.

  Peasant soldiers, in disarray at best, panicked at worst. Those with ganthas, rushing to them. Those on foot, grabbing weapons and running madly out of the wood … in the only direction available. To the rear, to the sides: blocked by flames … and by steady fire from Noar’s group. And those hand bombs.

  So, straight forward, cresting the top side of the ravine. Right into the maw of the lords’ armies.

  Kissing Death.

  Now sliding down the slope, peasants and ganthas alike. Unable to stop their descent with the force of numbers pushing outward from the wood. A few commanders here and there, sensing the trap; then seeing it. Screaming for the troops to halt, to fan out to the sides of the ravine, to escape through the brush. But … helpless to stop it.

  Now the brush, starting to come alive with hidden soldiers. And the hand bombs.

  Now panic, setting in for real. Squeals from terrified ganthas, feeling bullets whipping past their heads, humans falling upon and over them. One beast, shot in the head, falling down the slope taking a dozen rebels with itself. Crushing many of them. Pinning others. These, picked off with relish by the forward guard of the lords’ armies.

  While Noar managed the impossible: getting his gantha through the fire. The beast, nearly hysterical. But Noar, knowing his ganthas. Able to push and calm the animal simultaneously. Found a path around the flames, on the northern edge of the wood. Managed to steer his mount past the fire to his right, keeping its head turned to the left, pushing it into an awkward prance that moved them both forward.

  Calling to the others in his group to follow. They, hesitant … but. Not to be outdone by a northerner. Managed their ganthas as best they could. Followed Noar’s path.

  Emerged at the far edge of the wood, at the furthest edge of the ravine. Noar, leading a new charge, goading his mount into a daring leap over flames onto the flank of rebels sliding down the slope. This action: so dramatic, so powerful, so stunning in its daring … a singular vision of a mounted warrior leaping over flame into the fight. Unimaginable. Unforgettable. Produced a loud whoop from the lords’ armies watching from the opposite ridge.

  And inspired a killing field like never before.

  Now: soldiers rising from hiding in the trenches at the ends of the ravine. Tossing the small hand bombs relentlessly at the massed rebels. Any who tried to ride them down: shot, if they evaded explosions. One rebel – possibly a leader – mounted on a giant gantha, trying to leap the ditch. His mount, speared on a huge pike carried by one of the lords’ soldiers. Falling dead into the ditch, scattering soldiers. Then the man himself, falling into a storm of bayonets and swords as the soldiers reassembled. Everyone, taking a shot, a thrust. Later said: the man had been reduced to ribbons of flesh and gore unrecognizable as human.

  In the center of the ravine, bullets flying. Noar, careful to keep his men out of a crossfire, while firing relentlessly from his elevated position on the side.

  Several southern lords, mad for blood. Riding down into the ravine itself. Rifles tossed aside, swords unsheathed. Slashing and stabbing madly. Covering themselves and victims alike in sprays of blood.

  Now nothing but the screams of the dying. Their pathetic moans, rising on waves of blood, mounting heaven in mournful, pointless protest.

  Noar: would always thank all the gods that his position allowed him a good view of the battlefield. The ravine: like a big oblong bowl. He: on its edge.

  From where he saw a small group of mounted rebels escape. Emerging from the wood the last of their number, seeing the ditches now unmasked. Hordes of soldiers throwing hand bombs and wielding pikes toward anyone trying to cross.

  One rebel leader, noting a small break between the wood and the ditch. Guiding his gantha toward it, others following. And then, getting past the ditch. Outside the ravine. Away.

  Exactly in the direction of Selshay Castle.

  Noar, shouting to a portion of his group. Pointing over the noise, in the direction the rebel group had gone. Screaming desperately: “Follow me!”

  Perhaps… a half dozen men. Noar, riding madly along the side edge of the ravine, just beyond the ditch, chasing the rebel party. Not Selshay. Not Selshay.

  Soon spotted by Iskar and Innask. They too, joining the chase.

  Noar, pushing his crazed and exhausted gantha to its limit. Galloping like a madman. There. Look. The rebels, ahead. And yes, headed for the mansion. Their mounts, possibly hysterical, but fresher than the lords’ mounts. And his own. Now, increasing the distance between themselves and their pusuers.

  Noar’s mind reeling. Where are they going? Are they mad? Thinking of Darleigh and Vel. How they had been overrun by enemy forces. Knowing the rebels meant to enter the castle. And do whatever damage they could before joining their brothers and sisters in death.

  No. Not Iskaya-te.

  Agony in his chest, as he watched the party of rebels storm over the mansion bridges into the courtyard. What had they been thinking? So assured of their victory, so convinced not a man would escape … they had left the keep itself virtually unguarded. His mind:
savage with self recrimination. Stupid! Stupid!

  Noar, pounding over a bridge, dismounting in a jump before his gantha had stopped. The courtyard, deserted of rebels. Only their frightened animals remaining. They’re inside. All gods.

  Running full speed into the keep. Meeting a rebel soldier in the vestibule; moving so fast the man had no chance to draw back. One mighty sideways slash of Noar’s sword: the man’s head, falling to the stone floor.

  Noar, leaping over the fountain of blood to take the stairs. Had to find Iskaya-te. Making for her rooms on the second floor.

  Soon followed by his company. They, meeting with rebel soldiers still on the first level. These, having shot several servants. Now trying to set fires. Quickly engaged by the young lords who had ridden with Noar.

  But muddy tracks, showing Noar that some rebels had climbed the stairs.

  Finally. At Iskaya-te’s rooms. The door, flung open. No sound from within.

  No. Please, no.

  Through the anteroom, into the bedroom. Where – all gods. Two grimy peasant soldiers, one pinning Iskaya-te to the bed with a knee on her wrists and a hand over her mouth. The other, pulling up her dress while he fumbled with her underclothes, his pants.

  A roar emerging from Noar’s chest like that of a Cha-ning lion. Rage like he had never known. Not Iskaya. Cutting off the head of the man fumbling with his pants in a single swipe. Ignoring the fountain of blood that sprayed between Iskaya-te’s legs. Tossing his sword down, jumping onto the bed with his knife. The other attacker, already trying to flee.

  Too late. Noar, grabbing the man around the neck with one arm, the other wielding the knife. Slitting the man’s throat all the way back to his spine. Tossing the body off the bed to see it land on the floor, the neck spewing blood, the head twisted at an impossible angle.

  Gathering the hysterical Iskaya-te into his arms. Her head tight against his chest, her tears soaking right through his leather tunic. Stroking her hair, whispering to her. Calm. Calm. You’re safe, now.