by Jay Allan
If her people can capture the convoy…take all that silver…
He knew it was far-fetched. That much coin would be well-protected, with enough guards to fight off Cassandra’s band of raiders. But perhaps she could make a deal with one of the armies…or band together the other groups of bandits.
“Gaj,” he yelled.
Yes, he thought. I will send word to Cassandra.
“Gaj!” he yelled louder, just as his apprentice came running into the room.
“Yes, Master Thorn.” Gaj Tryll was young, barely twenty, an orphan Thorn had plucked off the streets five years before, taking him from life as a beggar to work in his store. It had been a good deed, a reaction to something Thorn had seen in the boy, a quality he couldn’t have described but felt nevertheless. And his instincts had been true. Tryll had displayed unflinching loyalty, and Thorn had come to trust the young man with aspects of his business far beyond the sale of exotic leather goods.
“I want you to go find the Grays. I have information I want you to give to Cassandra Cross.”
“Yes, Master Thorn. I will go at once.”
“My message is for Cassandra’s ears only, Gaj.” He knew Cross’ people were loyal, but he wasn’t taking any chances, not when a potential windfall of this size was at stake.
“Understood.” Tryll turned to leave.
“And Gaj…take some guards with you. Half a dozen.” Muscle wasn’t a fringe benefit of the leather trade, but it was one of the side benefits of his interests in prostitution and lending. “Go see Hurin at the White Willow. I will call him and have reliable men waiting for you.”
“Yes, Master Thorn.”
Thorn just nodded, and then he watched his aide slip out the door. Then he reached down and punched a code into his com unit. “Hurin, it’s Thorn. I need six of your best men to take a trip. Basic guard duty…nothing too bad. They’ll be gone two weeks, and I’ll pay them triple what they normally get.” He paused. “It’s potentially a very profitable trip, so I only want your best.”
“Yes, Mr. Thorn. I’ll have them ready in ten minutes.”
Thorn closed the com unit. He was a skeptical man, not prone to letting his hopes get the better of his. But if Cassandra could figure a way to take that caravan…
Chapter Twenty
Near Lucerne’s Headquarters
“The Badlands”
Northern Celtiboria
Blackhawk raced along the tiny ridgeline, staring out into the deep dusk, his eyes scanning for guards, patrols. He’d already slipped past two groups of Lucerne’s men, and he knew the general would have more of them out protecting the approaches to his headquarters.
He’d considered just walking up to the front gate, asking for Lucerne. After all, the general had sent him on his mission. But he couldn’t chance it. Pellier would be there too, and he almost certainly knew Blackhawk had escaped from Ghana. That meant he would be on his guard. And the sentries would obey him as unquestioningly as they would Lucerne.
No, he had to get inside, reach Lucerne. Even then, he didn’t underestimate the challenge that faced him. Aton Pellier had served Lucerne for years. Blackhawk was a drifter, a man in whom the general had placed some confidence, but not one he was likely to believe when he accused a longtime officer of treachery. And Blackhawk knew he had no proof.
He felt an urge to stop, to go back to the Grays, leave Lucerne to his fate. But he couldn’t. He’d felt rage toward the general, sworn to destroy the man. But he’d been wrong. He was certain now, Lucerne hadn’t had anything to do with his capture…with the trap Pellier had led him into. Now he thought back, to the man he’d spoken to in his cell, the leader he’d eaten with, agreed to serve. His old impressions raced back, pushed aside the false anger and need for vengeance that had so consumed him.
Lucerne was a friend. That was an odd realization for a man who had no friends…who had never had any. And now he felt the overhead of friendship, the obligation, the need to help a friend in trouble. The whole thing felt strange…and somehow right. He’d sacrificed comrades before, coldly, ruthlessly. Victory had been his mistress. But now the idea of leaving Lucerne to his fate was unthinkable.
He reminded himself how ready he’d been to blame the general for his capture, how easily he could have killed his new friend, only to discover after the fact he’d been wrong. It was unsettling, and it drove his need to save Lucerne with even greater intensity.
He jerked to the left, slipped down behind the ridge, an almost instinctive reaction as his eyes caught motion in the near-darkness, another patrol moving across the open desert. He paused, peering over the small crest, his eyes fixed on the soldiers, assuring himself they hadn’t spotted him. Then he moved forward again, with the low ridge between him and the sentries.
Lucerne is a cautious man…his headquarters is well-patrolled.
His admiration grew. Blackhawk tended to be daring, a man willing to take risks…but he respected a meticulous warrior. And from what he knew of Lucerne, the general was also willing to gamble…when the odds were in his favor.
He could see the dark shadow ahead, the ancient castle Lucerne had adopted as his main base. It was perched on a rock outcropping, overlooking open desert in every direction. It wouldn’t be easy to sneak up undetected, but Blackhawk had been bred and trained from birth for this kind of thing. He moved coolly, steadily across the sand, slipping around toward the back of the great edifice, to the only approach that offered some meager cover.
He climbed back up on the rocky spine, crouching, keeping his head down. He peered out over the desert. The patrol was moving away…but he wasn’t going to take any chances. The ridge rose slightly, ending just up ahead in the spur of rock forming the base of the castle. He crept along on the far side, keeping his head below the crest. It was difficult footing, but he managed it well, even at a near run.
A few minutes later he was under the walls of the castle, looking up. It was a long way, a difficult climb, especially without any equipment. He moved closer, looking at the wall. It had been smooth once, but the centuries had taken their toll. There were cracks, holes in the thick stone. A dangerous climb…but a possible one.
He reached up, feeling around with his hands, getting a grip. Then he stepped up, sliding the front of his foot into a crack. It was tenuous, difficult, a slow climb. But it was the only way he could get in undetected.
He continued up, slowly, meticulously, testing every handhold, every perch for his foot. About halfway up, his foot slid, the stone under it giving way. He felt the rush of adrenalin, and his body reacted, instinct and conditioning responding faster than conscious thought. His hands clenched hard, and he drove his other foot deeper into the small crack where he’d shoved it. His heart rate jumped, and for an instant he thought he might fall. But he held…and he pulled himself up, jamming the fallen foot into a higher perch.
He’d moved to the side, following the location of the cracks and holes in the wall, and now he was directly above the small ridge. He paused, rested for a moment. He looked down. It was a long drop, enough to kill a man. He knew his body was strong, sturdy, that his genetics allowed him to survive things other men couldn’t. But he knew a fall meant at the least critical injury. And ending up a cripple on Celtiboria would be far worse than death. He’d seen the soldiers, the men maimed and disabled in the endless battles. Some of the Warlords cared for their wounded veterans, at least to an extent, but most of the amputees and other disabled troopers eventually ended up in the cities, begging in the streets. Blackhawk had found himself shocked at that reality, though he’d immediately realized he had never concerned himself with the fates of wounded soldiers who’d fought alongside him in the past. Now that he considered it, he realized they had likely fared no better…and quite possibly worse.
He took a deep breath and heaved himself upward, scrambling up the last section of wall to the top. He swung himself over the battlement and looked all around, scanning for guards, for anyone who might have
seen him.
His eyes locked on a sentry, just as the man turned and saw him. He reacted instantly, and before the soldier could pull his rifle off his back, Blackhawk was on him.
This is Lucerne’s man, he thought as he lunged forward, and he caught himself, pulled back the lethal attack his training and conditioning had been about to deliver. His hand lunged out, a quick hard chop to the neck…but far enough from the killing zone to ensure his victim’s survival. The man crumpled to the ground, and Blackhawk reached out, grabbed him to ease the drop, and to make sure he didn’t fall off the battlement.
Blackhawk scanned the area again. The walkway was narrow here, barely enough for two men to stand one next to the other. There was an inner wall, waist high, and beyond a courtyard of sorts. To the north was a cluster of buildings…and the main castle hall itself. That had to be it. He scrambled across the battlement, to the next tower, and he ran down the stairs, emerging onto the dirt and patchy grass of the courtyard.
“Okay, General Lucerne…where are you?”
* * *
“Get my bags to the transport, Corporal. I’ll be leaving within the hour. I just need to get something from the general’s quarters.”
“Yes, Major.”
Blackhawk heard the voices from outside the room. Then he saw the light from the corridor, as the door opened. He was crouched down behind the bed, but he knew his cover wasn’t good. Lucerne’s quarters were sparse, simple. Blackhawk had been surprised when he’d entered, and somehow, the simplicity of it all made him respect Lucerne all the more.
Please…don’t make me kill any of his people…
The door opened completely, and an officer walked in, his head down, reading from some kind of small tablet.
“Don’t move.” Blackhawk’s voice was firm, threatening. “Hands out to your sides.”
The officer froze. He didn’t run, didn’t recklessly reach for his pistol. He just did as Blackhawk asked, even as his eyes whipped around the room, locked in on the threat.
“Major!” The voice came from behind, from the hall. Then the sound of boots on the stone floor.
Blackhawk felt his body responding to the threat, the battle trance coming on him. No, he thought, fighting back against his instincts. You can’t go gunning down Lucerne’s men.
“Corporal, hold!” It was the officer. Blackhawk could hear the discipline in his voice, the lack of fear he displayed. “If this man wanted me dead, I’d be dead by now.”
Blackhawk was impressed. The officer was courageous, and he kept his head in a dangerous situation. “I do not wish to harm you,” Blackhawk said, walking out of the shadows. “I have come to speak with General Lucerne. My name is Arkarin Blackhawk. I have vital information to share with him.”
“Mr. Blackhawk…” The officer stood where he was, returning Blackhawk’s gaze. “The general told me all about you. I am Major DeMark…Rafaelus DeMark. I’m afraid the general is not here. He left yesterday with the main field force.”
Blackhawk stood firm, his pistol still aimed at DeMark. Then, slowly, he lowered it. “I am sorry, Major. It was not my desire to hold you at gunpoint.”
DeMark lowered his arms. “That is quite alright, Mr. Blackhawk. I have been through worse ordeals, and I will recover from this one.” DeMark paused, a weak smile slipping onto his face. “I suggest you tell me what is so urgent that you felt compelled to infiltrate our headquarters to reach the general instead of simply walking up to the front gate.”
Blackhawk paused. He’d come to tell Lucerne that Pellier was a traitor. That had promised to be a difficult task with the general, with whom he’d had some kind of connection. Now he had to convince an officer he’d never met that one of his comrades was a traitor…perhaps even an assassin planning to kill Lucerne.
Might as well be direct…
“Major Pellier is a traitor. He is in Ghana’s employ, and I believe he may be planning to assassinate General Lucerne.”
Can’t get much more direct than that…
Blackhawk stared right at DeMark as he continued. “I wanted to get to the general myself because I was concerned that Pellier would block my access if he could.”
He braced for the backlash, for DeMark’s impassioned defense of his comrade. But there was nothing of the sort. The officer just stood silently for a moment. Then he asked, “Do you have any evidence to support this claim?” The question was simple, straightforward.
“The party escorting me toward Ghana’s base was ambushed, destroyed. I saw Pellier go down, shot by the enemy soldiers. Then, weeks later, I heard that he was alive. There was no way he could have escaped…not unless the whole thing was a setup. Your men died in that attack, Major, innocent soldiers from your ranks. At least I assume none of the others returned. Just Pellier, right?” Blackhawk paused. “All so he could turn me over to Ghana…and return to remain close to Lucerne. Until it was time.”
DeMark took a deep breath. “That is not exactly proof, Mr. Blackhawk.” His voice was far less doubtful than Blackhawk had expected. “But I do not trust Pellier. I have long disliked him, and while I never considered the possibility he was Ghana’s creature, I do not find it difficult to believe.”
He turned back toward the guard standing in the door. “Go,” he said. “Now. I want the transport ready to leave in five minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” the non-com snapped back, pausing for just a second, clearly reluctant to leave DeMark alone with the still-armed Blackhawk.
“Go,” DeMark repeated, waving with his hand. Then he turned back to Blackhawk. “Come. This is not something we can trust to a communique. I will take you to the general…and we will get to the bottom of this.” Blackhawk could hear the tension in DeMark’s voice, enough to tell him he’d at least gotten the major’s attention.
“Let’s go, Major,” he said. “My gut tells me we don’t have much time.”
* * *
“We’re in trouble, Jinn. Deep trouble. These Chrono-damned Badlands are going to destroy us before we’re done here.”
Ghana’s voice was rough, defeat heavy in his tone. He stood on a small hill next to Barkus, staring out over the army’s camp as the last rays of sun slipped below the horizon. The war was on again, but that wasn’t the source of his despondency. It was his ally, not his enemy, that fed his hopelessness.
“Perhaps we can prevail against Lucerne’s forces, General. They are capable, there is no question. But we have fought many battles too. The men will fight hard for you, sir.”
“I know that, Jinn,” Ghana said, his deep voice soft. “They are not what concerns me, nor even Lucerne. I wish I had offered him a half share in the Badlands when the fighting first began. He would have made a truly worthy ally, one a man could trust. Instead of a dangerous enemy. Had I been able to put aside ego, to resist the sickness of greed and pride, we would have formed a powerful bloc…and the trade routes would have been ours. Now we destroy each other…and open the door to another.”
“Carteria? You’re worried about Carteria’s forces. Do you think he has designs beyond assisting us? A greater share of the trade revenues?”
Ghana took a deep breath, staring out over the camp without answering. Then he said, “The heat here…it is like home, yet so different. I miss the warm breezes coming off the sea, Jinn. The lushness of the inland rainforests.”
He turned and looked at his officer. “When I was a boy, I would go deep into the forest, hike for days. There are animals there, Jinn, birds and wild cats, like nothing you’ve seen. We fight over this world, my old friend, we spill blood and kill thousands…yet do we ever take the time to appreciate what we struggle to rule? Celtiboria was a paradise once…and now it is a battlefield. Our ancestors stood above the Far Stars, our world first among a hundred, the most powerful by far. Now we are drawn inward, almost completely withdrawn from the interstellar scene. We digress, our civilization declines. Our world produces less than half what it did three hundred years ago, Jinn, and what we do still m
ake is inferior. The armies of the first Warlords were armed to a standard we couldn’t hope to match today. Like gods they would seem to us now, their descendants, fallen so far from their greatness.”
Barkus stood silently, listening to Ghana. He looked as though he might speak, but then he just stood there.
“I know, my friend. You have never heard me speak thusly. No, I long ago lost the gentle simplicity of youth, succumbed to the illness that afflicts the Warlords. I didn’t even recognize the chance to gain a worthy ally, rare creature that such a thing is, and I turned him to an adversary instead. An honorable man, Jinn…can you imagine such a thing? Why did I not realize this before we clashed as foes? Why did I not sit with Lucerne, look with him over a map, drinks raised high in the air in a toast as we drew a line down the middle…and formed an alliance that would have strengthened both of us? Why could I see only total domination? Victory or death?”
“That is the way it has always been, sir.” Barkus spoke softly, tentatively, clearly trying to come up with something to say.
“No, Jinn. Not always. That is man’s affliction, no doubt, and I suspect it will always plague him. But Celtiboria wasn’t always a battlefield. We were a republic for centuries, my old friend, and even before that, under the kings, peace flourished. Now we destroy each other…and a creature like Carteria rises to power.”
“General, Carteria’s forces will give us the victory, they will…”
“They will give Carteria the victory, Jinn. That roads leads only to slavery for us, my friend. Or death.” Ghana paused. “But perhaps we yet have a chance. A last hope to right the wrongs we have committed, to claim the path back to the light.”
“Sir?”
Ghana stared back over the camp, his mind drifting away again. “It has been two years, Jinn, since I have seen my wife. Two years.”
“Yes, sir.” Barkus was nervous, clearly unsure how to address Ghana’s introspection.