by Jay Allan
Barkus stood still, at respectful attention, struggling to maintain his calm under the Warlord’s blistering attack. He wasn’t sure if Carteria was done speaking, if he should respond. But after ten seconds of silence he took a deep breath and began the speech he had been rehearsing all morning.
“Your excellency…my master, General Ghana, has fought nobly, true to his alliance with you. He would have prevailed, but one of the other Warlords present in the Badlands…his army…it is extremely well-trained and led.”
“General Lucerne.” Carteria glared down at Barkus. “I have heard of this man before, of unlikely victories won by his outnumbered armies. It appears he is a man of some ability, but his army, however capable the soldiers, is nothing. He wields only regional power, and the Badlands is far from his base in the Riverlands. He is overextended and at the end of a long and tenuous supply line. And your master had nearly twice the strength in the field. Yet still Lucerne was victorious.”
Barkus swallowed hard. Carteria obviously had excellent intel…and he knew what that meant. Spies. Probably some of Ghana’s own soldiers, taking Carteria’s coin to report on their commander. The idea sickened Barkus. He was afraid of Carteria, no question. But he’d sworn to Ghana’s service, and he would fight his battles for the general whose oath he’d taken. And he despised those whose loyalty was available for purchase. The thought of such men among those he served with sickened him.
“Marshal Carteria, I can only say that General Lucerne’s forces are extremely well-trained and…”
“And?” Carteria glared at Barkus with a withering stare.
“And General Lucerne is an extremely skilled commander.” He paused. “Extremely skilled,” he repeated.
“Perhaps I should have entrusted General Lucerne with my investment in the Badlands campaign. No doubt then I would be celebrating news of victory rather than enduring excuses for defeat.”
“General Lucerne would not have accepted your aid, Marshal.” Barkus’ stomach tightened. His words sounded harder edged than he’d intended them, and if Marshal Carteria got angry enough…
“And why is that, Major? Warlords from across Celtiboria beg for my support, they petition for my friendship, promise me their unending loyalty. Yet you think this General Lucerne would spurn my backing? I find that difficult to believe…and suspiciously self-serving for you and your master.”
Barkus stood facing Carteria. He could feel his heart beating, hear it in his ears. “I meant no disrespect, Marshal. But this Lucerne, he is a…zealot. He is arrogant, he believes he can defeat anyone, that he needs no one’s help. And he will not yield. Were he here, great Marshal, he would spurn your offers of friendship, refuse your aid.”
Barkus stood trying to stand firm, to suppress the shivers he felt trying to take hold of him. His gaze was fixed on Carteria, watching, his imagination running wild with images of the Marshal waving to his soldiers, commanding them to seize Ghana’s impertinent messenger.
“I presume you have come to seek further aid,” Carteria said. There was annoyance in his tone, but not the deadly rage Barkus feared. He relaxed…just a touch.
“Yes, Marshal. General Ghana seeks to crush this upstart once and for all…and he sent us to renew his vows of friendship and ask for your continued aid and indulgence.”
Carteria was silent for a moment, staring at the terrified ambassador. Barkus had the distinct impression that the Marshal enjoyed the fear and discomfort he caused.
“Very well, Major. I will consider General Ghana’s request. Leave your data pack with my chief of staff, and I will review it all and make a decision.” He waved toward an officer standing at his side. The man, whose uniform bore the rank insignia of a colonel, stepped forward immediately, taking a small pouch from Barkus.
“In the meanwhile, Major, allow me to show you my hospitality. You and your aides will be my guests until I have reviewed all of this…then you will carry back my reply.”
“Thank you, Marshal Carteria.”
“You may leave,” Carteria said, gesturing again, this time to a different officer, one standing next to a large column to Barkus’ side. “Captain Wrik, you will take Major Barkus and his people to their accommodations. See that they are fed and that all their needs are attended to.”
“Yes, my lord Marshal.”
Barkus bowed, making sure to dip down as low as he could. Then he stood up and turned around, following the captain and feeling a bit of relief with every step he took toward the door.
* * *
Carteria sat at a long dining table, one large enough to accommodate more than a dozen diners. But he was the only one seated. A cluster of attendants stood behind him, silently waiting for him to issue a command. And in front, standing next to the table, was a man in Carterian uniform, a senior colonel, whose riotous bunch of multi-colored ribbons indicated, among other things, twenty-five years of service.
“What are your thoughts, Colonel Eleher? How do we proceed?”
The officer stood more or less at attention, though Carteria had already told him to be at ease. “My intelligence suggests General Ghana is a moderately competent commander, capable of occasional moments of brilliance. He has certainly enjoyed a level of local success, including a number of major military victories.” He paused. “That is, of course, before he encountered General Lucerne.”
Carteria picked up a small fruit in his hand. It was a blood date, from the deep deserts in the south of the planet’s largest continent, a delicacy that had cost Carteria a king’s ransom to import…before he’d defeated the cabal of local chieftains who had ruled the area and added it to his growing domains.
The fruit had a wrinkled, dried out appearance from the outside, but it was full of deep red juice that poured out and trickled down his chin as he bit into it.
“The utility of controlling the Badlands and its trade routes is self-evident. But I wonder now, if defeating and destroying Lucerne is not an even greater priority. I’m not inclined to accept the reports of his ability as presented, but it seems likely that there is some truth there. Allowing him to continue to expand his lands and his army seems unwise…and letting him gain control over the Badlands trade routes is out of the question.”
Carteria held his arm out to the side, and an aide rushed forward, putting a wet towel in the Warlord’s hand. He wiped off his hands and then his mouth, tossing it to the side when he finished.
“I am inclined to agree, Marshal. General Lucerne represents an unknown…there is no way to predict what strength he could attain, especially if General Ghana and the other local Warlords fall to him. He could quickly become a much more significant problem…one that could make us wish we’d dealt with him earlier, when he was weaker.” Eleher paused. “I know it is frustrating, Marshal, but I do not see how we can abandon General Ghana now. That would hand the victory to Lucerne. And our future plans on the Northern Continent require control of the Badlands trade routes, either through a proxy like Ghana…or directly.”
Carteria tore a piece from a hunk of bread. “Directly? Are you proposing we send a force to the Badlands, one large enough to defeat all the contending armies there?” The doubt was heavy in Carteria’s voice. “That would take what, perhaps seventy-five thousand soldiers? One hundred?” He looked down at the table, his face twisted into a frown. “We have considerable commitments now…I don’t see how we could spare that much strength without some additional notice, and even less the transport capacity to ship the troops and supply them so far from our bases.”
“No, sir…I wasn’t proposing we take everyone on. Simply that, instead of more financial support we send a ground force, perhaps twenty-five thousand. That, combined with Ghana’s forces, should give us enough to overwhelm and destroy Lucerne. Then we would have forces there, in place…and the ability to exert greater control over General Ghana, ensure that he does not become, shall we say unreliable, after the battle is won.”
Carteria looked at his officer, and he began
nodding his head. “Yes, Varn…I believe you have a good idea there. We’ll be moving more forces to the Northern Continent soon anyway. A foothold would be useful.”
“I thought so, sir. And it puts us in a good position to keep an eye on Ghana longer term, to enforce his loyalty.”
Carteria didn’t answer, he just sat quietly for a few seconds, staring at the plate in front of him. Then he looked back at Eleher. “Yes, Colonel. I approve your plan. See to it immediately. You may choose your units from the household area forces…twenty-five thousand strong. I will authorize sufficient transport capacity to ship the troops and ordnance.”
“Me, sir?”
Carteria had just shoved a chunk of meat into his mouth. “Yes, Colonel, you. If we are to lay the groundwork for the conquest of the Northern Continent, I would have a commander on the scene whom I trust completely…and that is you.”
“Yes, Marshal.” Eleher wasn’t sure how he felt about the assignment. Ghana was likely to be hard to handle, especially once Lucerne was gone and he wasn’t as afraid anymore. And battle assignments were risky, not just in terms of combat itself but also because Carteria tended to be extremely unforgiving of defeated generals. There was no better way to advance in his service than to achieve victory…and no better way to end up on your knees with a gun pressed against the back of your head than losing in the field.
“I want this matter expedited. The truce in the Badlands may have ninety days to run, but that assumes everyone adheres to the terms…and we can’t count on that. I will provide you will air travel assets to get your forces on site as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir…” Eleher knew he’d just been given an opportunity…and a risk as well. And very little time to prepare for a major operation. “With your permission, Marshal, I will get started immediately. I have considerable preparations to begin.”
“Yes, Colonel, you are dismissed.” Carteria held a leg of roast fowl in his hand, and he moved it toward his mouth, stopping suddenly as Eleher saluted and turned to leave. “And Colonel…”
Eleher stopped and turned back toward Carteria. “Yes, sir?”
“I like your earlier thought of direct control over the Badlands. I will give you a hundred thousand silver ducats for bribes and special operations…and when Lucerne is defeated and the Badlands secured, you are to move against Ghana as well. Choose your moment for maximum surprise.” Carteria stared at his officer, a sinister look in his eyes. “And then kill him, Colonel…and seize his lands.”
Carteria stared at his subordinate, a crooked smile forming on his lips. “And then we will begin our campaign on the Northern Continent in possession of its most valuable trade routes…and with the two most dangerous Warlords already dead.”
Chapter Six
West of Lucerne’s Headquarters
“The Badlands”
Northern Celtiboria
Blackhawk walked across the open sand, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head, sheltering his face from the searing sun. The territory north of West Hill was open desert, with nothing more than a few tufts of scrub brush to break up the endless expanse of sunbaked sand. It was hot, hot as hell, and Blackhawk was covered in sweat, despite his body’s superior ability to adapt to hostile conditions. He was surprised Lucerne’s men were doing as well as they were, but they were still slowing down, and forcing him to do the same.
They’ve been fighting in this furnace for over a year…otherwise they’d all be on their backs, panting for air and guzzling the last drops of their water supplies…
The group was small, one of Lucerne’s operatives and half a dozen soldiers, all wearing the garb of Badlands dwellers, desert nomads who eked out a sparse living traveling from oasis to oasis in the bleak countryside, and selling food and water to the caravans passing through. It was a reasonable cover, but Blackhawk had his doubts. The nomads he’d seen in his travels through the Badlands had a different look to them, their bodies adapted to lifetimes of chronic dehydration. Lucerne’s soldiers had the right clothes, but they looked like plump melons compared to the natives…and they were covered in sweat, even more so than Blackhawk.
“Perhaps I should be on my own,” Blackhawk said, turning toward a tall man standing just to his left. Aton Pellier was one of Lucerne’s top people, a major from the main army seconded to the sparse intelligence service. He was the closest thing Lucerne had to an expert on Ghana and his operations, and the general had ordered him to get Blackhawk around to the other side of the enemy camp, where he could approach from the direction of the deep desert, giving him maximum believability as a wandering mercenary or recruit.
“The general was very clear, Mr. Blackhawk. I am to escort you around the perimeter of General Ghana’s forces…and see that you have a clear approach.”
Blackhawk sighed. He wasn’t used to diplomacy, to worrying about relationships and fitting into a group. His actions in his past life had been more…direct. But he’d accepted service with Lucerne, and he was determined to make the best of it.
“Very well, but perhaps we should find someplace to hide during the day…and then travel at night.” He gestured toward the soldiers. “Your men look like they’re about to pass out.” And you don’t look much better, Major. “Darkness will provide some extra security, make it easier to avoid any patrols.”
“That’s impossible,” Pellier replied. “We have a timetable. We have to be there by midday tomorrow.” There was something odd in the officer’s voice. It was nothing specific, at least nothing Blackhawk could place. But something.
“Timetable? I didn’t discuss any timetable with General Lucerne. His only instructions were to proceed as I feel practicable.” That wasn’t exactly true…Lucerne hadn’t said anything at all about timing. His last words to Blackhawk had been about the importance of the mission, and a last heartfelt thank you for accepting the job.
“He told me.” Pellier’s voice was cool, matter-of-fact, but Blackhawk was uncomfortable. He’d already decided he didn’t like the officer. Pellier hadn’t done anything suspect, not really. But Blackhawk had a strange feeling of unease. He tried to tell himself he didn’t work well with others, that he’d been on his own a long time, and he was uncomfortable relying on anyone else. But the feeling was still there, not suspicion really. More discomfort.
“I agreed to do this job as I saw fit, Major. Not adhere to deadlines I didn’t even know about.”
Pellier stopped walking and turned toward Blackhawk. “I am a military officer, Mr. Blackhawk. I just follow the orders I am given by my superiors. I know nothing about your past, nor do I wish to. If we are being candid for a moment, I do not understand why General Lucerne would choose to entrust such a crucial mission to someone he hardly knows.” He looked at Blackhawk, and his mask dropped, his true disdain showing in his scowl. “You are an unknown, a wanderer who, at least at first sight, offers little to assure one of your ability or trustworthiness. But it is not my place to question the general’s decisions. Now, you agreed to carry out this mission, and I was ordered to get you to the approach point. I do not like you, you do not like me…but mutual friendship is not a requirement for our respective missions. I suggest we make the best of things. I will get you to the other side of Ghana’s occupied zone, and then you will complete your mission however you see fit. Can we agree on that? A meager bit of détente that allows each of us to focus on what we were sent to do?”
Blackhawk looked back at the officer, surprised at the strength on display. Oddly, both his respect and his dislike grew. He wasn’t convinced, not entirely, but Pellier had a point. He’d go along. He’d keep an eye on his new comrade, but he’d go along with Pellier’s wishes. For now at least.
“Very well, Major. But if we’re going to travel through the day, you and your soldiers are going to have to pick up the pace.” Blackhawk was uncomfortable in the heat too, but he knew he could handle it better than his companions, who had to face the elements without the myriad benefits of genetically-
engineered bodies.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Blackhawk. We will have you at your destination on time.” Pellier turned and started walking again, Blackhawk following suit. “I can promise you that.”
* * *
Blackhawk was lying on his back, looking up at the inky black sky, splattered with a dazzling array of stars. He’d looked at it with various thoughts in his mind, the extreme clarity of the night, how much brighter and crisper the stars appeared in the deep desert, far away from any cities and the light pollution they gave off. But there was something else, the kind of thing he’d rarely considered in his life, or even noticed. It was beautiful.
Blackhawk had been bred—no, created was probably the better word—for a purpose…and he’d lived most of his life without deviating from his assigned role. His old life had left little room for appreciation of things like a perfect, starry night, and now he struggled with it, feeling…something…but not understanding it, at least not completely. He was a grown man, a warrior who had killed many times. But in some ways he felt like a child, truly seeing some things for the first time.
He also felt like he was awakening from a deep sleep, one infested with dark dreams. He’d spent the last several years traveling from planet to planet, from tavern to tavern, supporting himself with one act of petty theft after another. He’d sought one thing only. Escape. And he’d mostly found that in the bottle, when he’d been able to drink enough to overwhelm his body’s own defenses.
But even those respites were brief, and ultimately unsatisfying. He had memories, terrible memories…not only of things he’d seen, but also deeds he’d done. Those images had tormented him, driven him to keep moving, to medicate with whatever mind-numbing substance he could lay his hands on. But that was a dead end, and he knew it. He’d come to a stark choice. Move past the guilt, the nightmares…find a new life, build one…from scratch, if necessary. Or die. He knew he couldn’t kill himself, that his mental defense systems wouldn’t allow it. But he could pick a fight, one he had no chance to win. He could die as he had lived, weapons in hand.