by Jay Allan
She’d led her group of followers north, toward the Badlands, determined to hijack enough caravans to support their families back home, and for more than two years they’d done just that. General Ghana had eventually penned them in and was on the verge of destroying the entire company, but then Lucerne’s invasion compelled him to cease the pursuit, and for more than a year the Grays had been wreaking havoc among the under-escorted caravans. She’d sent a dozen expeditions west, upriver, to sell their booty to black marketeers from the river cities, happy to take all she could deliver at half its value. And the flow of gold had been sent home, to buy food and medicine for the families and friends they had left behind.
Cassandra knew the battles that had kept the soldiers from chasing her people had cost thousands of casualties, and she sympathized, on some level, with the suffering of the soldiers. They were young people gathered from their homelands, much like her Grays, who had chosen their dangerous careers more through a lack of other options than any great desire to live an often short life of marching and combat. But the carnage on the battlefields took the heat off her and her followers, and she was grateful for the conflict…and the ceasefire had frustrated her, ramped up the danger for her raiding parties.
“Cass, what are we going to do? You know they’re going to kill the others.” Haggin’s voice was hoarse, finally showing the fatigue he’d tried to hide earlier. “And they have us shut down. We’ve got almost twenty dead since they stopped fighting. And five more sitting in a cell, waiting to be executed.”
The truce was bad for the Cassandra and her raiders, and Ghana had taken advantage of having Lucerne off his back to try and wipe out the Grays and the other groups attacking convoys.
And if the peace lasts too much longer, that’s exactly what is going to happen…
Cass had been waiting impatiently for the truce to end, for the day the soldiers returned to killing each other and lost interest in her people. But there was nothing she could do now but wait, and hope. And she hated the helplessness she felt.
“I don’t know, Meln.” She had the feeling in the pit of her stomach, the one she got when she felt trapped, when there were no answers. “I just don’t know.”
* * *
“I’m going to ask you this once again, you piece of cave slime…where is your headquarters?” The jailor was a big man, tall and muscular, but overweight too. He wore the brown pants of a uniform, but he was stripped down to a torn, white undershirt, discolored around the arms with sweat stains. He had a large apron strapped on in front, light brown and liberally splashed with blood. His face was twisted into a nasty scowl, but there was the hint of a smile there too. It was clear he enjoyed his work.
Balon Tahl stared back at his tormentor. He was against the concrete wall, his arms shackled above his head. He was groggy, semi-conscious from the beating he’d gotten over the past two hours, but the defiance inside him was still sharp, strong. “Go screw yourself,” he said, his voice rough, hoarse.
He looked at the jailor. His vision was blurry, his eyes swollen from the repeated blows, from blood pouring down out of the large gash on his forehead. “You’re a sick, fat piece of shit, you know that? You’re gonna make one helluva sound when somebody finally drops you.”
The jailor’s face turned red, and he swung hard, slamming the heavy metal baton he was holding into Tahl’s gut. “You’re a funny guy, you know that?” The jailor pulled the club back and struck again, hitting Tahl in the side. “I like that.” He leaned forward, staring right into his victim’s eyes. “Because I like this too.” He hit Tahl again, harder this time.
The captive Gray howled in pain. He’d been struggling to remain silent, to deny his tormentor the pleasure of hearing his agony. But the last blow broke his arm, and the pain was too much to hold in. He gritted his teeth, steeled himself to endure. He tried to stop the tears from pouring out of his tortured eyes, but they came anyway, and slid down his swollen cheeks. He knew he had to hold out, to deny his captors the information they sought. If he broke—if any of his comrades did—they would all die almost immediately. The enemy’s need to find the Grays’ refuge was the only thing keeping him alive. Keeping his friends alive.
He still remembered the nightmare of three days before. They’d lined ten captives along a wall, all the Grays who had been captured in the last disastrous raid, and an officer had walked down, pointing at every other one of them. A pair of soldiers took each of those selected and dragged them across the courtyard, lining them up on a large wooden gallows and placing a rope around each of their necks.
It had been the odds who’d been chosen to die, and Tahl had been an even. It had been luck only that had spared him from the group selected for execution. It had been no preference, no action he’d taken, no effort to spare himself at the cost of his friends…but he felt guilty nevertheless. He’d seen his comrades murdered…the soldiers had left the evens lined up where they had stood and forced them to watch. Indeed, that had been the point of the whole exercise. Five could divulge the location of the Grays’ base as well as ten…and watching their comrades killed was the first part of breaking the survivors. The trips to the dungeon chamber and the long and brutal beatings were the second. But so far, none of them had broken. Tahl knew he hadn’t, and he was just as sure his comrades had remained firm. He’d know when one finally talked, because he’d find himself in the courtyard with a rope around his own neck.
He knew there was a death sentence on all of them, that only withholding the knowledge the enemy sought could preserve their lives. But every man had his limits, and enough pain and fear could wear down rationality. Eventually, one of them would talk. Then they all would die, the five prisoners…and when Ghana’s forces used the information they had gained to trap the others, the rest of the company would be destroyed too.
He felt himself fading, the darkness taking his vision. Unconsciousness was welcome. It would provide a break from the pain…though he knew it would also cause the torment of one of his fellows, as he was dragged back to the cell and left to recover while another Gray was selected for a beating. It was selfish, he knew…to wish for the blackness, to trade his place with one of his friends. But he did it anyway.
Then he felt the cold…water hitting his face, shocking him back to awareness. A man stood behind the jailor. He held an empty bucket, and he laughed as he saw Tahl’s eyes open wide.
“No sleep for you,” the jailor roared, erupting in his own laughter as he did. “We still have so much to discuss, don’t we?”
Tahl saw him moving closer, the metal baton in his hand, droplets of blood running down the weapon.
Stay strong…stay strong…
* * *
“We have to try…there is no other way.” Cass stood in the large cavern, the space the Grays used as a meeting place. They were all gathered, all eighty of those that remained, save the six out on guard duty, watching the desert approaches to their secret refuge.
“But Cass, we don’t even know if they’re still alive. If Meln saw five of them executed, how do we know they weren’t all killed? Just because no one saw it?”
“We don’t give up on our people, Rinn. Not unless we’re sure they’re dead.” She sighed softly, trying to keep it to herself. Rinn was right, she knew. Sending ten or twenty of the Grays to almost certain death wasn’t going to do a thing for their five comrades, whether they were still alive or not. But she didn’t abandon her people…and she didn’t intend to start. She was responsible, she’d convinced them all to come, led them here. But she had just as much obligation to the others, the ones who would risk their own lives on any rescue mission. She couldn’t just send people in…she needed a real plan, one with a chance of success.
“And they’re alive,” she continued. “We can be sure of that. They wouldn’t kill everybody. They want answers, the location of this headquarters. As long as there are none of Ghana’s kill teams outside, you can be sure the others are still alive. And they’re sitting th
ere wondering if we’ll come for them…or if we’ll write them off, decide it’s too difficult, too dangerous to save them.” She knew that was unfair, but she was also aware Rinn had a point. Cass had no intention of abandoning her people, whether it made sense or not. Regardless of the risk. Sometimes honor and morals meant more than rationality. It didn’t make sense, not in a logical way, but it was also part of what made her someone a bunch of farmhands had followed on a crazy quest to save their homes and families. And she had been true to her word, led them from one success to another. Until now.
The truce had caused a few close calls, instances of Ghana’s men arriving just too late to catch her people. Those final missions had given them a surplus of goods to sell, and enough crowns to send home to sustain their families and neighbors for the foreseeable future. Several of her people had called for her to halt the missions, to stay in hiding until the armies started fighting again. No one doubted that would be soon. But she had insisted on continuing. Just one more, she had said. She remembered it clearly. It had been a rich convoy, a prize worth enough to double the provisions sent home to the Galadan, to keep the people there safe and fed for years to come.
And a trap. It had been a trap. She’d rethought it all a hundred times…the ambush. Eight of her people killed, ten captured. And a dozen more wounded, half of them seriously. All because she had insisted. She told herself her decision had made sense, that it had been worth the risk to send so much aid back home. But that was bullshit, and she knew it. The crisis in the Galadan had been averted, and enough food, medicine, and supplies had been sent back to ensure the entire population would survive the winter, and most of the following year too.
No, it was hubris, my own ego. We’ve done too well, gotten away from too many near misses. I thought we were so good, that Ghana’s men were fools. But they showed us…
“Cass, it wasn’t your fault.” It was Rinn again, his expression softer than it had been, his tone sympathetic.
Yes…it was my fault. All my fault.
“Thank you, Rinn, but that doesn’t matter now. The only thing that is important is rescuing the prisoners. And I don’t have any ideas. None.” She looked out over the gathered Grays, her eyes begging for one of them to speak up. “Anyone have any suggestions? Other than leaving our people behind?”
The cavern was silent, only the hum of the portable reactor deeper in the cave to break the stillness. Cass looked out, panning her eyes back and forth.
Please…one of you…
“I have an idea, Cass…but it’s pretty out there.” It was Elli Marne, and she was sitting along the back row, wearing a baggy tunic and a pair of trousers tied around her waist with a rope. Everything was baggy on Marne. She was a tiny little thing, barely fifteen years old when the Grays had first marched out of the Galadan for the Badlands. Cass had twice rejected her pleas to come along, declaring her too young to leave home on such a dangerous expedition. But she’d stowed away in one of the transports and managed to stay hidden until they had ridden halfway to the desert. Cass had vowed to send her home with the first shipment of supplies, but Marne’s pleas, and the demonstrations of courage and ability she’d put on during the first raids, had kept her with the group ever since.
Of course…who else would it be?
“Okay, Elli, what do you have in mind?”
Chapter Four
General Lucerne’s Headquarters
“The Badlands”
Northern Celtiboria
“I am pleased you have decided to stay.” Lucerne looked across the conference table at Blackhawk. The adventurer had agreed to remain in the general’s stronghold and listen to his proposal. But he hadn’t committed to a thing. Not yet.
“I haven’t decided anything. Except that I will listen.”
Lucerne nodded. “That is all I ask. As I said before, you may leave at any time. You will find I am a man of my word, Mr. Blackhawk, though I know you are skeptical.” He paused. “Meanwhile, is there anything I can get for you? Perhaps we can share a meal while we talk.” Lucerne didn’t wait for an answer, he just turned back toward the guard standing next to the door. “Tell the chef to serve lunch immediately.”
Blackhawk appreciated the gesture…and Lucerne’s efforts to make charity appear as simple hospitality. In truth, it had been a long time since Blackhawk had eaten a decent meal…and two days since he’d had anything at all. He wasn’t sure if it was simple defiance that had caused him to send back the meals that had arrived like clockwork during his imprisonment or just the unappetizing nature of the food. Lucerne’s prison was clean, humane, orders of magnitude better than others he’d seen. But the meals were the same kind of slop common to most prisons.
“So, General, why don’t you tell me why I’m here.” Blackhawk didn’t know if he was going to do what Lucerne asked, but he felt an energy that had long been absent from his thoughts. Ever since he’d…left…the empire. There had been a time when Blackhawk craved action, when he chafed in boredom at inactivity. Most of his life, in fact. And this Celtiborian Warlord had impressed him, not an easy thing to do.
“I am concerned about the truce, Mr. Blackhawk. I was reluctant to agree to it. My forces had the momentum in the conflict. But modern war cannot be won with morale alone, and my logistical situation was perilous. I managed to hide that well, but my troops were down to a dozen cartridges each when the ceasefire took effect. I moved my heaviest units forward, tried to give the impression I was planning a final offensive, a bit of posturing to induce the others to accept the truce. But in truth, my soldiers didn’t have enough ordnance to sustain half a day’s fighting.”
“I applaud your counter-intelligence efforts. And your skill at bluffing. That couldn’t have been an easy bit of deception.” Blackhawk was surprised at Lucerne’s candor. He suspected the general had already addressed his supply problems, but still, it said something about the man that he would admit how he’d almost made a tragic miscalculation. Most men in his position would rewrite history, turn even nearly disastrous miscalculations into displays of wild self-aggrandizement. He started to understand Lucerne’s reputation as a no-nonsense leader, beloved by his soldiers. It made sense that they followed him with unshakeable loyalty…he was one of them. In a way few generals could be.
“No, it wasn’t. I have since been able to get several convoys through, and my soldiers are resupplied and reprovisioned…but the truce still has almost ninety days to run.” He paused. Then he continued, his discomfort clear in his tone. “Now that my forces are resupplied, the peace works against me. My soldiers’ morale is still very strong from the recent victories…and my other forces, those outside the Badlands, are tied down elsewhere. I’m afraid I have no additional strength to deploy here. In three months, my enemies will only be stronger, and my forces will be the same as they are today…but the memories of victory will be older, fading.”
“You didn’t bring me here to tell you to violate the truce and launch a surprise attack. That is what most generals would do. Certainly in the empire.” Blackhawk paused, silently scolding himself. He didn’t talk about the empire. Ever. No good would come from anyone knowing the extent of his knowledge.
“Yes, you are right, Mr. Blackhawk. Most generals would break the truce without warning. They would deploy treachery to gain a victory.”
“But not you?” Blackhawk’s tone was odd. He’d intended the comment in an almost sarcastic way, but it came out more as a deadpan question. He tended to disregard claims of honor and trustworthiness, having found such traits to be very rare indeed. But he was beginning to believe Lucerne, to accept that the Celtiborian general was the genuine article.
“No, Mr. Blackhawk. Not me.” Lucerne paused. “It is not that I am some paragon of virtue…far from it. But I have based my dealings on honesty, on keeping my word when I give it. Even my enemies know they can trust me, at least to a point. My reputation has served me well. Indeed, this current truce, which saved me from destruction as my forces
ran out of ammunition, was only possible because my opponents believed I would honor the terms.”
“But they will not…not if it is to their advantage to strike.”
“You come to the heart of the matter, Mr. Blackhawk. My strongest adversary is General Ghana. I have fought him before, and I have excellent intel on his holdings and his various forces. I have examined the data a dozen times, and I am sure of my conclusions. He has greater forces here than he should be able to support in this country…by a considerable margin.”
“And you want to know who is behind him.”
“Yes, Mr. Blackhawk. That is exactly what I want.”
“Why me? Why not send your own people?”
Lucerne hesitated. “I am afraid my intelligence operation is rather less developed than my field forces. I lack operatives of your…ability. And there is too much chance one of my people would be recognized. I’m more of a military officer than a spymaster. The cloak and dagger comes far less naturally to me.”
“And you think I am a spy?” Blackhawk felt a wave of amusement. He had far more experience himself in the blunter ways power was employed. Skulking around in the shadows playing the games of intelligence was not in his skillset. He was an able warrior—more than able—but he knew for all his skills he was a blunt instrument of sorts, accustomed to using naked force to attain his goals.
“No, not necessarily. But I do believe you are an extraordinarily competent individual…with a range of capabilities far beyond those in evidence. And, while you killed four of Ghana’s men, it is very unlikely you will be recognized, not with the surveillance footage from the saloon destroyed and all of his people who saw you dead. And that anonymity will facilitate your gaining entry into his service…that and a bit of cover manufactured by my people.”