Blackhawk: Far Stars Legends I

by Jay Allan

  “Cass?” It was a question, but he already knew the answer. He looked at Jarvis, the cold strength gone from his eyes, replaced by sadness, distress.

  “You have to come now, Blackhawk.” A pause. “Please…she’s calling for you.”

  Blackhawk felt as if gut had turned inside out, the image of Cass, of her broken body suddenly clear, as memory flooded back into this thoughts.

  He turned and ran down the small hill, outpacing Jarvis as he raced back to the scene of his battle with the giant…back to where he’d last seen Cass. He leapt over a series of small craters, twisted around a pile of bodies. Then he saw the corpse of the giant, sprawled across the spot that had been their battlefield. And beyond, Cass, right where she’d been before. Before he’d somehow forgotten about her, plunged wildly into the swirling melee without any thought of her at all.

  Three of the Grays were kneeling next to her. His eyes focused on their expressions, grim, angry. There were tears streaming down their faces. He ran over, dropping to his knees next to her.

  “Cass,” he said, leaning over, his eyes darting over her almost still form. Her body was broken, he could see that in an instant. He was overcome with grief, with frustration, but he wasn’t a man who could fool himself, even to forestall pain. Cassandra Cross had led her people to the Badlands, fought with them for two years. She had reached Blackhawk deeply, more even than Lucerne had, helped to pull him from the lost wreck he’d become. Though he still didn’t understand his emotions, not fully at least, he thought he loved her.

  And now she was dying.

  “Ark…” Her voice was soft, weak. She looked up at him, her eyes dull, hazy.

  Blackhawk’s looked down at her, his hand moving to her cheek.

  “I’m so sorry, Cass…”

  “I thought I was a warrior…”

  Her voice was weakening. Blackhawk struggled against the feelings rising within him. Futility, guilt…grief.

  “You are a warrior. And a leader. You have proven that.”

  He reached down, took her hand in his.

  “Make sure my people are taken care of…please.”

  “I will,” Blackhawk said softly. “I will see to your comrades. And that the money the general promised you gets to the Galadan. You have saved your people, Cass. All of them.”

  She forced a weak smile but it vanished a few seconds later as her body convulsed. She moaned in pain, and tears began to pour down her face.

  “I love you, Ark. I would have spent a lifetime with you.”

  Blackhawk felt the emotions in his head, but they were still foreign, beyond his control. He wanted to tell her he loved her too, but he didn’t know. He didn’t understand himself well enough. Perhaps one day, but not today.

  He opened his mouth, resolved to tell her anyway, to let her hear what she desperately wanted to hear, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He just leaned down and kissed her cheek, still trying to force the words from his mouth. Then he heard her exhale hard…her last breath.

  Cassandra Cross was dead.

  * * *

  Blackhawk stood next to Lucerne as the general addressed the assembled soldiers. His thoughts were bleak, grim. Cass’ death weighed on him, pain at her loss, guilt at himself for losing control in the battle and not rushing to her side.

  And for not telling her he loved her. He was still struggling to understand some of his emotions, but he raged at himself for not saying the words, letting her hear what she had wanted to in her final few seconds.

  What a miserable bit of comfort, and you still couldn’t give it to her…

  Blackhawk knew Lucerne had to be struggling himself, exhausted, overwhelmed with the surprise events of the past few days, but he wasn’t showing it as he stood before his men, both new and old.

  The army had suffered grievous losses, but it had gained new recruits as well. The ranks of soldiers standing before him included men he had called enemies just a few days before, soldiers who had followed General Ghana for years.

  Blackhawk was impressed, staring at the scene and truly realizing that Augustin Lucerne was indeed an extraordinary commander. He’d wandered aimlessly for a long time, and it had been fortune alone that had led him to that tavern, to the encounter with Ghana’s soldiers that marked his turn down this path. Since that day he’d found purpose…he’d found himself, the man he’d become. He’d almost lost it himself as well, surrendered to the monster he’d once been. And he’d found love, or at least the closest he could come to that storied emotion. He’d lost that too, and it had been replaced with grief and regret. But even that suffering marked a difference in him, in what he’d become. And for all it tore at him, he was grateful for it too.

  “Soldiers,” Lucerne said, his voice strength itself, “many of you have fought with me for years now. Some were among that first thousand men who marched at my side from our ancestral lands…to fight, to carry forward with honor as well as conquest. To bring justice as well as rule to those we conquered.” He paused. “And some of you are new to these ranks. You have known of me before, but as an enemy. We have fought each other, struggled on the field, spilled each other’s blood…but that is now at an end. We now move past the losses, the fallen comrades, and we step into the future, where we shall fight as brothers, move ahead together.”

  Blackhawk’s respect for Lucerne had only grown over the past several days, a time that had seen the general’s forces swing from victory to defeat…and then to victory again. Blackhawk knew Lucerne’s triumph owed much to his own skills, both in forging his army into the tool of victory it had become, and also in his calm and effective leadership during the battle. But he realized there had been more to this struggle. It had been Bako Ghana as much as Lucerne who had engineered this outcome. Blackhawk knew Ghana had made foolish mistakes, but in the end he had to admit the general had redeemed himself, sacrificing his life to save his army…and protect the Northern Continent from conquest by an outsider. Blackhawk’s entire being pulsated with the instinct to survive, to struggle to the end. He couldn’t imagine killing himself, even in the face of certain destruction. But he had to admit that Ghana had died an honorable death, and he’d prevented himself from being used as a pawn by his enemies. There were worse ways to die.

  “To you men who fought under the banner of General Ghana, know that though I fought your old commander, ever did I respect the man. He will be buried in his homeland, with full military honors. His wife shall live out her days in her home, provided for and protected under my personal guarantee of safety. General Ghana’s sons shall become my wards, and I will see to their care and educations. When they are old enough they shall have the option to serve in my forces…or to make whatever other lives they choose. Never shall they want for anything.”

  Blackhawk had been surprised when Lucerne had told him he would spare Ghana’s sons, put them under his own protection. He had imagined the general might spare the defeated Warlord’s wife, perhaps keep her in some kind of comfortable confinement, but the sons? Ghana’s sons were his heirs, and however Lucerne handled them, they would always present a potential danger. Blackhawk knew that few men in Lucerne’s shoes would have allowed the boys to live. He was certain what he would have done in the past…and he had to admit to himself there was more than a little chance he would have executed them even now. They were just too dangerous, and there was more at stake for Lucerne than personal aggrandizement. He was responsible for thousands of soldiers, millions of civilians…indeed, with Ghana’s lands and his soldiers, and the Badlands as well now his, he was one of the most powerful Warlords on the Northern Continent. Could he risk all that just to offer mercy to two young boys? To grant the last request of a dead enemy?

  But look at the faces on Ghana’s men, the effect Lucerne’s words are having. Honor is a burden, but perhaps it offers its own benefits…

  “We have many battles ahead of us, my soldiers. I would like to say that everyone here will survive them all. But we know that wi
ll not be the case. Many of us will fall, as will comrades who have not yet joined our ranks. I cannot promise you victory, nor wealth and long life. But I can swear that all I have I will give to our cause, and with my last breath I will lead this army, sacrifice anything to its survival and victory.”

  Lucerne paused, and the soldiers erupted in a loud cheer. Blackhawk noted that Lucerne’s old soldiers might have been a second or two quicker, devoted to him as they had already been, for years in many cases. But the new troopers, Ghana’s men, came right behind their new comrades, and in their voices Blackhawk heard sincerity, enthusiasm. He knew in that moment that Lucerne had somehow done it, he’d turned thousands of enemies, men who until the day before had sought to destroy him…and he had turned them into loyal followers.

  Blackhawk watched in amazement. He knew Lucerne would have to be careful, that among the converted thousands there would be a few, the resentful, the angry. It would take time to weed them out, and diligence to ensure they did no serious damage while they were there. But he didn’t have the slightest doubt that the vast majority of those present had set themselves on the road behind Lucerne, and that they would remain there, wherever that path led.

  Blackhawk had led soldiers before too, though there had only been one tool to control them—fear. But Lucerne had made no threats, used no force. He’d shown these men mercy, respect, honesty. He’d washed away the past, the enmity between them. He had sliced through their hatred, their resentments, their anger. And they had responded.

  You must learn from this man. You must come to know different ways than those of your past if you would win the admiration of those around you, the respect.

  Blackhawk stood in awe and stared at the crowd…and within a moment he realized he too was cheering for General Lucerne.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Outskirts East of the River Cities

  Just West of the Badlands

  Northern Celtiboria

  Augustin Lucerne stood in front of the group of officers, clad in his finest dress blues. He wore the emblems of all his lands…including his newest ones, those along the Palm Coast that had belonged to General Ghana. His boots were black, polished to a mirror shine. Lucerne wasn’t a man who normally paid much attention to such things, a footsoldier’s general, more apt to wander the field in an enlisted man’s overcoat, threadbare and splattered with mud. But now his purpose required this, the splendor of war, the frill and glitter so many mistook as the badges of true power.

  He knew most of those present, at least he was aware of who they were. Most of the mercenary commanders of the Northern Continent were there…along with another man, unfamiliar, strangely dressed in exotic civilian garb.

  The Carterian.

  “I have asked you here under flag of truce,” he said, his eyes scanning the group, looking for reactions, signs of what the officers were thinking. “I have done this so you may learn of news you might find relevant.” Lucerne paused. He was unassuming for a man of his power and accomplishments, and he despised braggarts. But this time he had come here to boast of his own victories, at least after a fashion, and to use them to win yet another, hopefully without a shot fired.

  “To the east my army has prevailed. Ghana is dead. I now command both my own forces and those soldiers formerly sworn to serve my rival. Our forces have already joined, and they are camped close to this spot, along the edge of the Badlands.”

  He could see varying levels of surprise on those standing before him. He knew some word must have reached them of what had transpired, but he was sure they couldn’t know everything. Not yet. But they would in a moment.

  “The Carterian force sent to bolster—and then betray—General Ghana has also been defeated. Half its soldiers have been slain, and the rest are my prisoners. Not one man in fifty escaped, and what fugitives successfully fled the battle are lost in the deep desert, pursued by my hunter teams.”

  He could see that last part had been unexpected, though he wasn’t sure if it was the defeat of Carteria’s forces or their very presence that surprised the mercs.

  Whatever…it doesn’t matter. This will be a surprise…one cutting close to home for them.

  “And my forces have intercepted an armed convoy, one carrying silver ducats…funds intended to pay your forces, I believe.” His tone changed, becoming harsher, a hint of anger slipping in. “Your wages, your base pay…for serving a foreign master, one you would have helped to conquer the Northern Continent. Your home.” He didn’t try to hide the disgust in his voice.

  He could see the discomfort in the faces of the officers. There was a hint of fear, but it was ephemeral. His reputation was well known, and the mercenaries knew he would never violate a flag of truce. Even if they believed he would enjoy ordering them gunned down…

  “General…” The voice came from the center of the group, but it faded off, as if the speaker had wanted to say something, to make an argument of some kind. But the words didn’t come.

  “Colonel Dolokov, in my experiences you have never been a man to fumble with his words.” Lucerne glared intensely. “Have you nothing to say to the man who has the silver, the coin you promised to your men? What will they say when you tell them their payroll is not coming? That they have gathered here under false promises. What will they do?”

  Lucerne was speaking boldly, proudly. But Blackhawk knew the general hadn’t lost sight of reality. His position had its strengths certainly, that much was clear. But there were weaknesses too, and his strategy here was half bluff. Even with Ghana’s men, he had barely forty thousand combat-ready troops nearby that he could put in the field. The final battles had been bloodbaths, and beyond the thousands dead, the field hospitals were overflowing with wounded and sick. And the men he did have in the ranks were exhausted and low on ammunition, half of them Ghana’s people, new to his command, to fighting alongside his veterans.

  The mercenaries had at least one hundred thousand troops fully mobilized, and they were the better supplied of the two forces now. They were short of funds, and they couldn’t last long in the field without financial support. But if Dolokov and his associates had the courage to stand up to Lucerne, to threaten an invasion of the Badlands unless he released their coin, it would have been a deadly danger.

  Blackhawk didn’t know what Lucerne would do if it came to that. He didn’t know because the two men had talked the night before, and the general himself had confessed to Blackhawk that he simply didn’t know what he would do.

  Lucerne just stared, his eyes boring into the mercenary’s, and Blackhawk saw no hint of any concern the mercs would stand up to him. Whatever doubts he harbored, Augustin Lucerne was broadcasting pure strength, almost arrogance.

  “What will you do, General?” Lucerne stepped forward as he spoke.

  Blackhawk saw the doubt on Dolokov’s face, and he knew immediately his ally had won the battle of wills. Lucerne was prepared to give Dolokov an out, and now Blackhawk had no doubt the mercenary would take it.

  “Will you serve this distant Warlord for no pay?” Lucerne asked, taking a step forward as he spoke. “Would your soldiers follow you if you did?”

  Lucerne paused. “Or would you follow me instead? Will you join my cause?” Lucerne stared at the officers, his gaze cold, hard. “I will hire no mercenaries, no freebooters who sell their swords to the highest bidder. But if your men will swear an oath to serve me—if you and your fellow officers will so swear—then I shall welcome you all into my service. I shall accept you as friends.”

  Dolokov stared back at Lucerne, unable to hide the shock in his expression. Blackhawk didn’t know what the mercenary had expected to hear, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t it. It was a good offer under the circumstances, and making it required another leap of faith by Lucerne, to allow men into his service without his usual vetting process, to rely on his leadership abilities, and the elan of his men, to turn these swords for hire into loyal soldiers.

  Blackhawk wasn’t sure what the mercs
would do. A year before, Lucerne’s reputation had been one of a capable general, leading a small but effective army. He was respected, but not feared. But things had changed over the past few days. If Lucerne added over a hundred thousand more veterans to his army, he would jump to the top of the Northern Continent power struggle…and his new soldiers, and their officers, would go with him, become part of the strongest power in the hemisphere.

  “The Red Wolves have existed for over a century, General Lucerne. Some of the other companies for even longer periods. You expect us to abandon our legacy, case our colors…swear oaths to you?”

  Lucerne stared at Dolokov. “Yes, that is exactly what I expect. Times change, Colonel. Men change with them…or they fade away.” He paused. “We can win battles together, honorable triumphs. We can make a difference.” Another pause, longer this time. “Or we can be enemies. We can seek to destroy each other. There is no other ground here.”

  Blackhawk was startled by the last bit. He looked at the mercenary commanders, hard men all, expecting them to scoff at Lucerne’s idealism. But there was nothing, not a hint of mockery or doubt. Only fear. And respect.

  “You speak of lofty things, General Lucerne. But as you noted, our forces have not been paid in many months. Would you expect them to join you, and wait months more, even years before your next campaigns provide booty to fund their wages?”

  “No, Colonel Dolokov, I would not expect that. I have booty now, millions of silver ducats, courtesy of Marshal Carteria.” A pause. “And I will pay the wages of any man who signs on to my service.”

  There was a hushed murmur from the officers. Dolokov turned and looked back at the others before returning his gaze to Lucerne. “You are keeping the Marshal’s silver?”

  Lucerne stood stone still, his voice loud booming. “Indeed, I am, Colonel. The Marshal has committed acts of war against me, supporting my enemy, sending soldiers to fight my own, hiring mercenaries to battle against me. By all rights, I should embark my army, travel to the Southern Continent, bring the fires of war to his homeland as he has brought them to ours. But I shall not demand such harsh reprisals. I will keep the coin, sent here for dishonorable purposes, and accept it as just compensation for the wrongs done to me.”