“I am Colonel Eguey, brigade commander of the space marines’ garrison on orbital fortress Mae. I had nothing to do with what happened in the fortress. I have spent the last two weeks locked up in the fortress stockade.”
The admiral turned to the young girl.
“Is that true?”
She nodded silently.
“So, why did you bring her here with you?”
The girl replied softly, “I decided that it would be unfair if she was to die with us. It was not her decision.” She paused and nodded to her mentor. “Also, I cannot afford for all the royal regalia to die with us.”
Then the royal regalia crashed to the floor out of a simple jute bag. The girl nodded, turned, and walked towards the exit.
“Wait!”
The admiral’s voice spoke quietly but powerfully. Two space marines at the door stepped forward and took the ready position with their plasma rifles. Tera turned back sharply.
“You gave a guarantee of safety.”
The admiral grinned.
“I'm not so stupid, my romantic-minded fool, to let you go just like that.”
“But you gave your word of honor!”
“I have spent too long in a place where honor is no more than an empty phrase.”
A murmur swept through the ranks of the peers. The girl raised her head proudly, “And that is all your word is worth, as member of the royal family …”
“No, that I am not!” The admiral’s hoarse cry drowned out the child's voice. “No, what I am is merely an admiral leading a pirate squadron, devoid of a homeland.”
Then Colonel Eguey suddenly stepped up to the girl. “Regent, I want to ask, whether you still desire to accept my oath of allegiance?”
Everybody stared at the colonel in surprise. “I do not want to be the cause of your death.” The girl shook her head slowly.
“In this case, I'll give it to you willingly.”
The admiral started laughing. The gloomy looks of all those present were fixed upon her. Then she stopped laughing, shook her head, and said, “Is it possible to believe that once, even I was such a naïve idiot?”
She stood up and walked over to the pile of royal regalia. She gently pushed it around with the toe of her boot, then bent down and picked up the crown. Holding it casually, she turned to the young girl, quizzically looked her up and down, then nodded to the space marines.
“Keep all of these where they are and bring the little one to me.”
A space marine dressed in a combat spacesuit took hold of the girl, and the admiral leaned forward and held her chin in her dry stiff fingers.
“Do you know what happens to romantic fools, even though they may be quite courageous?”
The Chamber froze. The admiral slowly raised the crown higher, as about to try it on her own head, then quickly dropped it on top of the girl’s head. It slid down over her ears, but stayed on her head. The admiral finished solemnly, “Over time, they make quite decent queens.”
It took the room a few moments to digest the news, then there was a burst of applause, and no one noticed, as the duke grabbed the front of her parade boot, pulled out a ray gun and shot the admiral. Sandra jerked and wheezed. The space marine standing by the throne, pushed it over, removing the admiral from the line of fire, and rushed towards the murderer roaring. Karsaven moved her fire onto the new target and with her first shot took off the Marines helmet. No more shots followed.
Through the broken pieces of helmet everybody saw the mustachioed face of a man. The room froze. A MAN in the House of Peers! The duke seized on the moment of confusion and pulled the trigger again.
The man froze for a second, protecting himself with the wide blade of the axe, which stopped the ray beam, spilling out short sparks. The next moment he waved the axe, and with one stroke he sliced the duke in half. Then he threw down the axe and ran over to Sandra who was lying on the floor. He picked her up by the arms, broke open the door with his shoulder, and carried her from the Chamber.
This all happened in the space of three breaths. When the devastated hall finally fell quiet, a thin child's voice asked plaintively, “Galiyat, what happened? The crown slipped down onto my nose, and I missed everything.”
For a moment the Chamber went into a deathly silence again, which was then shattered to pieces by an explosion of laughter. So began the reign of the new queen.
PART II
RAID
1
“I was a witness at Zovros to such a miracle, my Noble Dons.”
With these words Don Kior stretched one huge paw across the table and grabbed a wooden mug of beer. Blowing off the foam, the old soldier gently lowered the tips of his luxurious black and gray mustache into the mug and sipped noisily. Everyone who filled the tavern: Noble Dons, sailors, soldiers, merchants, prostitutes, and other regulars of such taverns in the port, were noisily discussing what they had just heard.
Questions could be heard from everywhere. Someone chuckled maliciously, inquiring whether Don Kior had measured by how much the contents of his flask had decreased at the time of the miracle. But the Noble Don remained silent, occasionally glancing at the opposite end of the table where a puny, grey, old man sipped his beer with apparent indifference. He wore an ancient, faded robe, with a sword in a sheath that had once been magnificent but was now almost worn out.
The Noble Dons, who were sitting around the table, were also throwing him impatient glances, because this ugly beggar was none other than Don Charleman, nicknamed the Grey Mustache. This nickname itself spoke of the respect he enjoyed among the rowdy Noble Dons, who did not recognize the authority of any human society.
Whiskers were an inherent part of the hallmark of any Noble Don, a sign of belonging to a proud brotherhood. That’s why, of those who had a half-century of conquest behind them, and bore a nickname associated with a mustache, hardly more than a dozen had been recorded. And from those alive now, only three had been awarded this honor. Firstly, Don Katanga, a black giant, a soldier of fortune, an admiral with his own squadron. It was his fourth year of bloodily protecting the interests of the Federation of the Dragon, which, however, around fifteen years ago he had successfully robbed while on duty for the Sultanate of Regul.
This man bore the proud nickname of the Mustachioed Boar.
Then there was Don Krushinka, nicknamed the Bearded Mug, who masterfully wielded an axe. It is rumored to be true that ten years ago, he was a pirate somewhere near the Eagle Claw nebula.
And finally, there was the one who was sitting at the far end of the table, the Grey Mustache. He was a fearless swordsman, well into his second hundredth year of age, which for such hardened warriors as the Noble Dons, was a very advanced age indeed, although by civilian standards this amounted to little more than half the term of a human life.
Apart from that, the Grey Mustache was also reputed to be a skilled storyteller.
Don Charleman took another big sip and set the mug down on the table. Then he gently dried the tips of his mustache, adjusted his sword-belt, snorted, as if remembering something amusing, and in the silence quietly began to speak.
“And yet, gentlemen, Noble Dons,” he bowed his head slightly to the side of the table and to all the gentlemen present, followed by a respectful nod around the room, “there is no greater miracle in our world than the Mitrillov blade.”
There was a respectful pause, after which several voices of dissent sounded out.
“What about Kazgarot?”
“And the Children of Wrath?”
“What about Dagmar the Miraculous?”
“How about the Eternal One?”
Gradually the noise died down. The Grey Mustache slowly sipped his beer and waited for complete silence before he continued.
“All of that is true noble gentlemen. I swear by Dagmar’s Warning and Neerget the Martyr, they are great wonders, even though not all of them have appeared in this world by the will of our Lord, but some of them by his mercy. However, judge for yourself. Wh
at, for example, is Kazgarot about?”
Next moment, the creaking door opened, and a wave of cold air burst into the tavern, carrying with it the sounds and smells of the port. Everyone unwittingly turned toward the entrance. Standing before those present was a man of mighty physique, wrapped in a noticeably shabby thermal coat, but which in some places still showed gold embroidery. On his head he wore a wide-brimmed thermal hat with plumage and ear protectors wrapped under his hood. The stranger shook himself free of snow and threw back the hood, displaying a still young, somewhat rustic face. For a few moments everyone closely examined the newcomer. Suddenly Don Kior grinned and snapped in his famous deep voice, “Yes, it's our old pal Lucky! Hey, Grey Mustache, don’t you recognize Yv Lucky?” He turned to Don Charleman.
The shabby man with the mustache was annoyed that his tale was interrupted at the most interesting part. He muttered something angry and unflattering, but a minute later the joy of meeting with an old pal, who also was never any competition to him as a storyteller, overcame him. Don Charleman smiled and waved his hand, “Come here, my noble friend, these worthy gentlemen will make space for you, and you will find a seat.”
The proud gentlemen moved reluctantly. The guest was clearly an important chap, if ones so well known as Dons Kior the Beer Keg and Grey Mustache, displayed him such respect. Don Charleman politely waited for the new visitor to throw off his coat and hat into the hands of a willing servant, and take his seat. Then he asked the philosophical question, “What wind has brought you to our land?”
The guest rubbed his cold hands together, took a sip of hot punch, brought by the same agile servant, and put the goblet down on the table, warming his hands on the metal cup.
“Like everyone else, I’m looking for work.”
“Yes, I agree. I swear by Saint Nicholas, hard times have come for the Noble Dons,” and Don Kior nodded at the other end of the table in understanding.
“How long have you been here?”
The guest shrugged his shoulders.
“I have been on the planet for forty days already. I arrived at Warang, a coastal port on another continent, but only arrived here just now. There were rumors in Warang that Tahir merchants were here to recruit a squad of escorts.”
Everybody at the table looked at each other in bewilderment, then there was a burst of laughter.
“We heard the same rumors here about Warang,” explained Don Charleman to the astonished guest.
The two sides exchanged knowing glances, and Don Charleman looked pointedly at Don Kior. Like the newcomer, the mustachioed man didn’t laugh either. When these rumors begin to spread at the same time in several ports, it usually means that someone is looking for a few people for some delicate mission.
When the hubbub died down a little at the table, Don Kior rose from his seat, drained his mug in one gulp, and threw his gold coin on the table.
“OK, noble gentlemen, it is time for me to retire,” he said. “I swear by the holy martyr, Boris, at my age, too much drinking can be harmful.”
This statement by the old hell-raiser was greeted with universal laughter. This time Don Kior was laughing with the rest, then he nodded and headed for the small stairs leading to the second floor. Along the way he looked in the direction of Grey Mustache. No one else noticed the secretive glance. When Don Kior disappeared upstairs, everybody sitting at the table turned to Don Charleman, and he turned back to his guest.
“What news from the Borderlands?” asked Grey Mustache.
The visitor nicknamed Lucky just shrugged.
“Just like always. Only silence, but ships disappear from time to time.”
“Demons?” asked a rustic-looking young man dressed in a thermal suit.
At the mention of this word all the Noble Dons became agitated, and making the sign of the cross, spat over their shoulder.
“Do not remember them before for the night, youngster, if you do not want a self-fulfilling prophecy,” admonished Don Charleman.
The trembling young man fell silent. There was quiet in the tavern for some time, which was interrupted only by noisy gulps and loud belches. Yv Lucky pinched the thick thigh of a serving maid and slapped his stomach.
“Meat and beer,” he ordered, and when the girl giggled and pushed her buxom hot body against him, he added, smiling good-naturedly, “then everything else later my dear.”
Don Charleman slowly rose.
“I beg your pardon, noble gentlemen,” he briefly bowed to those sitting at the table, “and beautiful ladies,” he nodded toward the serving maids. “It's time I leave as well.”
A disappointed hum ran around the tavern, but Don Charleman turned with dignity and strode toward the stairs. Yv watched him go. Grey Mustache lingered at the bar, called the owner, and said something to him in a low voice, waving his hand toward the table. The innkeeper nodded. Then Don Charleman turned and locked eyes with Yv Lucky. He lowered his eyes under the glare in agreement.
“Hey, Don.” It was the simple-minded guy that had recalled the Unclean.
Lucky grinned.
“What do you want, village boy?” he asked with the due aristocratic condescension of a Don.
“I want to become a Noble Don,” the young man blurted out loud.
A moment later, the high assembly started laughing. The object of the general fun looked down sheepishly and blushed. A young dandy in a red raincoat and a magnificent beret bent over the country bumpkin, and with a laugh placed his sword and sheath on his back.
“Or perhaps you just want to become the Sultan of Regul straight away, peasant?” The dandy asked him mockingly.
The simple poor lad was ready to sink into the ground in shame. Yv smiled and mouthed softly, “Leave him alone.”
The dandy in the red cloak turned away with a worried look, as if he had forgotten something at the other end of the table. Lucky tapped the young lad on the shoulder.
“OK, don’t be scared,” Yv reassured him. “Many have uttered such words, and usually, the effect was about the same. However, I suggest that you do not involve yourself in such a quest. These days even being a rubbish collector in the port is more profitable than being a Noble Don.”
A servant brought Lucky a bowl of meat and a large mug of beer. While Yv satisfied his hunger, the young lad came to his senses.
“Tell me, Don, who are these Kazgarots?” he asked Lucky, eyes cast down, after Lucky had drained his mug in one magnificent swallow.
The dandy, who now sat defiantly with his back towards them, could not resist and snorted. Yv waited until the maid once again filled his mug, blissfully collapsed back on a chair, and began to slowly explain.
“These are soldiers of the Enemy. They belong to the Lower castes, but are not as numerous as the trolls. Little is known about them, because those who have met with them and survived can be counted on the fingers of one hand. But they say that they have been specifically bred for battle by the Enemy to fight against our people.”
“So, why are they so scary?” The young man continued to ask.
Yv shrugged. “Everybody says different things. I've heard that they can break through three-inch steel plate just using their claws.”
At the table people began gabbling at random.
“They can survive in open space without a spacesuit …”
“No light beam or plasma rifle can damage them …”
“They are tireless …”
“They can sniff out a man’s trail, even after a week …”
The young man looked around him, eyes wide at such fantastic tales, and the revelers, realizing that he was afraid, spoke even louder. When the noise died down a bit, and Lucky had finished his second cup, watching as it was filled for a third time, the young man whispered softly, “Who are these Children of Wrath, are they soldiers of the Enemy too?”
The dandy broke down and turned, choking with laughter.
“You should ask who is Dagmar’s Warning!”
“We always revere our lad
y saints!” The young man said offended.
It sounded so comical that again there was loud laughter. At this point, the young man began to anger, and Yv decided to lighten the mood a little.
“When the Enemy first appeared on our borders, the first planet they attacked was Zovros.”
“I know that,” the young man yelled excitedly. “It was from there that Saint Dagmar sent out her warning!”
Yv smiled.
“Well, if you know everything about it already, why should I tell you?”
The young man blushed. Yv paused, circling the stern gaze of the audience, which was ready to burst out laughing again, then he continued.
“The Enemy gathered all Zovros women and forced them to conceive their soldiers. It wanted to bring about a new breed of soldiers, but the Noble Dons attacked the planet and liberated the women. However, their children were born not quite human.”
“Are they servants of the Enemy?” The young man blurted out excitedly.
At this moment even Yv’s menacing glances could not keep anyone from laughing, including the dandy, who was wiping away tears of laughter, and who muttered, “Never think about saying such a thing in front of them, or they will pull out your intestines and bite off your head. There are no more dangerous opponents of the Enemy in the worlds of man than the Children of Wrath, but they still retain their peculiar habits.”
The poor man was confused even more. Yv shook his head. From which distant hole did this kid come from? How could you know nothing about the world a century and a half after the Conquest … although he had heard that in some farming communities the Three Monkeys sect preached a sheer heresy, saying that what you do not know about, is not dangerous for you. The Holy See looked at them through its fingers, because this heresy was no threat, and by definition, could not go beyond the closed communities. Lucky drained his mug, got up and walked to the counter. The owner jumped out to meet him, and bowed helpfully, pointing toward the steps leading upstairs.
“Please, Noble Don. Don Charleman asked me to convey to you that there is a free bed in his room and he would be delighted,” here the owner chuckled, quoting Grey Mustache verbatim, “he will be happy to share his shelter and hearth with you.”
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