Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Yang is hetman,” Jana said.

  “Do you try to tell Yang what to do?” the big man shouted.

  Under the light of the stars, Jana shook her head. “I tell no one and certainly not Yang. Yet I would remind all of us that the seeker said we must not harm the pale-skinned outlander. He knows strange lore.”

  “The seeker?” Cyrus asked. “You said the Berserkers don’t have a seeker.”

  The huge primitive—Yang, apparently—stepped up and grabbed Cyrus by the hair, lifting his head. “Who are you to say the Berserkers have no seeker?”

  “I am from space,” Cyrus said, trying to ignore the man’s sweaty odor.

  “You are a demon,” Yang pronounced.

  “The seeker told us—” Jana said.

  Yang released Cyrus and whirled on Jana. The beetle-browed hetman used his spear to prod the woman between her breasts.

  “The seeker is not here,” Yang said. “I am the hetman. I rule the Berserkers.”

  “These two are a gift from the sky,” Jana said. “I saw them slay a demon. They know old lore.”

  “You lie!” Yang said, with a malicious grin. “I know you lie for you saw me trap your so-called demonslayer just now. He was a fool. He fell to Yang. That proves he could never have slain a demon.” The grin grew. “Now that Stone Fist is dead, I say what happens here, and I defy the seeker.”

  “You are the hetman,” Jana said slowly.

  “Do any here challenge me?” Yang shouted, looking around, searching faces.

  “I challenge you,” Cyrus said.

  Yang whirled around. “You?” he said. “You are a captive. You are the spawn of the demons. You cannot challenge me.”

  “Oh, so you’re afraid,” Cyrus said. “I understand.”

  “What?” Yang roared. “Afraid of you? I am not afraid of anything, least of all a pale weakling.”

  “Then prove it and accept my challenge,” Cyrus said.

  It was hard to tell, but in the starry light, Jana seemed to watched him closely. She cocked her head, and she glanced at Yang. “I could defeat the outlander,” she told the others.

  Yang’s eyes widened. “You told us he killed three Berserkers. He killed Stone Fist with a spell wand.”

  Jana pointed. “His spell wand is on the ground. He tried to use it against me, but I kicked it away. Yes, he killed three Berserkers, but I could defeat him now that he lacks his wand.”

  “I am the hetman,” Yang said, slapping his chest.

  “That is true,” Jana said.

  “I decide who will fight whom.” Yang regarded Cyrus. “Without your wand, you have no more power, demon-spawn.”

  “That ought to make it a short fight then,” Cyrus said. “But if you fear me—”

  Yang lowered the spear’s point so it rested under Cyrus’s chin. “I can kill you here and now.”

  “I challenge you,” Cyrus said again. And even though his telepathy was woefully weak, even though the back of his head throbbed, he attempted to tweak the primitive’s mind.

  Show everyone here how powerful you are. Accept the demon-spawn’s challenge and defeat him before everyone. That will make you the champion of champions, for you know that Jana told the truth and these star men killed demons.

  “I should kill you,” Yang said.

  Cyrus’s head hurt, and his eyesight wavered. He sent another thought, another argument, and that was all he could send.

  Yang lowered the spear. “What do the rest of you think? Should I thrash the demon-spawn, the murderer of Stone Fist?”

  “Accept his challenge,” another primitive said.

  “I dare you to fight him,” Jana added.

  “How would you fight me?” Yang asked Cyrus. “What weapon would you choose?”

  “A knife,” Cyrus said.

  A grin spread across Yang’s face. “I accept,” he said. “Put him on his feet.”

  Jana came forward, helping Cyrus stand.

  “Is there something wrong with me choosing the knife?” Cyrus whispered.

  “You have made it a death fight,” Jana whispered in his ear. “Yang has a metal knife, and he has killed with it before. He is skilled with the blade. I tried to help you, star man. The seeker . . .” Jana shrugged. “Try to die with honor, at least. Otherwise, I doubt I will be able to keep Yang from killing your friend.”

  As Jana stepped away, Cyrus blinked several times. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the splotches from them. Afterward, he gingerly massaged the back of his head. The blow to the face earlier was going to mess with his reflexes.

  “Let us get this over with,” Yang said. “We have a long journey ahead of us tonight. Quit delaying.”

  As he spoke, Yang removed the fur cloak from his shoulders. Then he drew a broad-bladed iron knife from the sheath on his chest. He took several practice slashes before leering at Cyrus.

  “I will cut you ten times and watch your blood water the ground,” Yang said. “Afterward, I will eat your heart and gain your knowledge, man from the stars. All will acknowledge Yang as the greatest Berserker of all.”

  Cyrus shook his arms. His face ached, talking hurt, and if he moved too fast, his eyesight wavered. It was a bad combination for a knife fight. He needed nimbleness, and instead it felt as if he were moving through water.

  “Hurry,” Yang said. “Draw your blade, star man. Face me and die in a death challenge.”

  It would have been better if Skar fought the monster. Cyrus glanced at the soldier under the net. Now that he thought about it, Yang had clubbed Skar hardest of all. In some manner, it appeared that Jana wanted him to succeed.

  The most interesting thing was this: Jana had lied about the Berserker Clan lacking a seeker. Why would she have done something like that?

  “Draw your blade,” Yang repeated, sounding impatient.

  Cyrus licked his dry lips, flexed his knife hand and let it settle on the hilt of his blade. He’d acquired the weapon on High Station 3. A criminal had fought him. He’d gained use of the man’s knife and killed with it. He liked its heft. Too bad it wasn’t a vibrio-knife.

  “Are you afraid?” Yang sneered.

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said. “I’m afraid you’re going to shit your pants once we start and that I’ll gag on the stench of it.”

  Yang stood motionless. Then he howled with rage and charged. He moved like a legendary rhinoceros, an extinct Earth beast, a mass of muscle and heavy bones. The knife thrust and Cyrus twisted aside. He didn’t attempt to draw his blade—he tried to avoid death. The enemy knife slid past his chest, slicing fabric and scratching his flesh. Cyrus had been in many knife fights, and he had practiced long and hard. On the voyage to New Eden, he had learned new tricks from the space marines. He wasn’t a fancy fighter, but he was gifted in pragmatic tactics and he was exceptionally fast.

  Cyrus twisted out of the knife’s path again and managed to stretch out his right leg. As Yang continued lunging, moving forward, his right shin crashed against Cyrus’s outstretched limb. The big man tripped, and he went flying. The crash of leg against leg nearly crippled Cyrus. He shouted, pulled in his leg, and hobbled in agony. Meanwhile, face-first, Yang thudded onto the stony ground. Like a maddened beast, he surged to his feet, spun around, and snarled with fury.

  Cyrus drew his knife, and he knew by the look in Yang’s eyes that he should have attacked while the big man lay on the ground.

  Spitting with rage, Yang advanced in a knife fighter’s crouch. Shame, fury, and blood vengeance seethed in his dark eyes.

  “You are quick,” Yang muttered. “You are devious.”

  “You’re a clumsy oaf,” Cyrus said. “You’re cross-eyed and you’re stupid.”

  An evil grin stretched across Yang’s face. He rumbled a low-throated laugh.

  It chilled Cyrus, and made his spine tingle with unease
.

  “He is a warrior,” Yang shouted to the others. “He tries to goad me to fury. This one thinks. Jana was right about him.”

  “Kill him,” a primitive said.

  “Yes, kill him,” another called.

  “What do you say, Jana?” Yang asked. “Should I kill him?”

  “The seeker wishes him alive,” Jana said.

  “I did not ask you what the seeker thinks,” Yang said. “I asked what you say.”

  “You are the hetman,” Jana said. “The decision rests with you.”

  “I am the hetman.” Yang regarded Cyrus. “Do you seek death this night, pale one?”

  Cyrus remained silent, waiting for the attack.

  “He is devious,” Yang told the others. “And the seeker said this one performs magic. Tell me, Jana. Is it the Berserker custom to let a captive challenge the hetman for leadership?”

  For a moment, it seemed as if a secret grin twitched across Jana’s lips. Then her eyes widened—it seemed overdone. She glanced almost theatrically from Cyrus to Yang. “He cast spells here among us?” Jana asked.

  Yang grunted an affirmative.

  “He used them against you, my hetman?” Jana asked.

  “He is dangerous,” Yang said.

  The primitives began to murmur among themselves.

  Cyrus realized he didn’t have much time. If he was going to strike, he had to do so now. Yang was big and strong, with huge bones. Even if he stabbed the man a killing blow, it might not prove fast enough—the hetman could still deliver a deathblow against him. With a quick flip, Cyrus reversed his hold, pinching the blade’s tip between his thumb and index finger. Swiftly, he drew back his arm and snapped it forward, hurling the knife. It spun once, and would have struck Yang in the eye, but the hetman was quicker than he looked. He parried the spinning knife. A spark erupted and iron clanged. Then Cyrus’s deflected knife flew into the darkness and struck a rock.

  “Very devious,” Yang said, and it seemed as if the fury no longer shined in his eyes. “But the star man has never fought man-to-man against a Berserker before.”

  Cyrus wasn’t sure what was going on, but suddenly Yang didn’t seem to be quite the simpleton he’d appeared to be at first.

  “The pale outlander can fight,” Yang said, “and he knows mind magic. But his mind powers cannot sweep all of us into his net at once. Otherwise, he would have cast the spell against all of us, not just me. Therefore, three Berserkers will watch him at all times.”

  “You’re not going to kill me?” Cyrus asked.

  Yang snorted. “You are from space. The seeker . . . you will learn about her soon enough. If you try more trickery, I will beat you. If you refuse to learn, I will break your legs so you will never walk again. I will bring you to the seeker, but I will first draw the poison from your fangs.”

  “What about Skar?” Cyrus asked.

  Yang glanced at the entangled soldier. “He is the demonslayer. He is very dangerous. This we know, because Jana told us. But your friend is not a seeker or a wizard. Strong cords will subdue him until the seeker says otherwise.”

  “Do you know Klane?” Cyrus asked.

  Yang’s eyes seemed to glitter, and he no longer seemed like a stupid brute. “The less you speak, the better it will be for you. Gag him, tie his hands, and ready the demonslayer. We must be far from here by the time the sun rises.”

  12

  Klane crept past the leafy green fronds of puffer plants. They stood a little taller than his head. The first puffer fruit had started to appear under the widest fronds. They were little brown nodules no bigger than his fingertip. After every few steps, Klane plucked several and deposited the hard fruit into a pouch.

  He had seen such fruit before, of course. Puffer fruit didn’t grow in the uplands, on the Tash-Toi plains. They were Demon Valley produce. In his time, the seeker had possessed several puffer seeds. When crushed and mixed with gat juice, it made a powerful healing salve. Klane remembered as a child asking the seeker where puffer seeds came from. The wise old man had said, “The Valley of the Demons.”

  Klane had believed him as a child. These last few years, he had begun to wonder about that, though. Who would dare climb down into the valley to gather seeds? The small fruit in his pouch was proof that the seeker had told the truth.

  Klane exhaled sharply. He had aged these past few days since leaving the caves of the singing gods. Wisdom and sadness now mingled in his blue eyes, and his facial skin was no longer as tight as before. That might have been because he had lost considerable weight. Then again, maybe it represented the heaviness in his soul. He wasn’t sure.

  Klane had rehearsed his magic as he traveled into the Valley of the Demons. He could levitate, move rocks, and far-cast with his mind. Far-casting was the ability to search ahead. Several times he’d spotted demon sky vehicles before they appeared in the air. He hadn’t attempted to probe a demon’s mind. A strange sizzling aura protected each one. The sizzling aura did not originate in its mind, but from a device like a junction-stone that it kept on its belt.

  One thing Klane had learned: the demons had slaves who practiced magic. He had felt them like feathers on his skin at night. Because of the magic-wielding slaves, he had not dared to mind search for the seeker.

  With his magic, Klane had slain several creatures for meat. He had dug up roots and drank water. Each time he ate until his stomach felt bloated, yet still, he had lost weight.

  Am I dying?

  He didn’t think so. Certainly, he had changed. The experience in the caves, the teleporting, the levitating, and the mind healing: he was different from the youth who left the clan.

  Now he had reached the valley bottom, and the air was heavier, the days and nights warmer. Sweat remained on his skin longer and the very air smelled of moisture. Crops must surely grow better in such a place.

  Klane crept through the field of puffer plants. The demon river gurgled just out of sight. Earlier, he had called river fish to his hands until his thumbs poked through their gills. Who needed a hook and line when his magic could supply him with food?

  He came to the edge of the field. Klane paused there, collecting his resolve. He drew back a frond. It had a sticky underside. He’d have to grab them from the top from now on. After pulling the frond back, he peered at the nearby demon city.

  There were big domed structures with cellular divisions on the outer surface. Towers had fluted roofs and bridges like spiderwebs connected them together. Squinting, Klane was sure he made out a demon—a speck from here—stalking across a high bridge, moving from one tower to the next.

  For some reason that particular sight struck Klane with awe. He froze, with his left hand on the frond. All his life he had heard of this terrible place. Even now, as he breathed the moisture-laden air, he realized that he had descended into the Valley of the Demons. He had expected his spine to shiver and his teeth to chatter.

  This was the locus of evil in the world, the abode of the grim demons who haunted humanity. The vile creatures had taken his best friend into the lair of evil. He was about to attempt an impossible feat. His stomach should have curdled at the thought, but it did not.

  He wondered why. Did it have anything to do with journeying through the darkness of the singing gods? Had he gone from death to life, and because of that, power filled him as never before? Maybe that was the answer, or maybe doing a thing was less frightening than thinking about it and making himself scared to death.

  I am not a warrior, but I have become a man of action. No one else in Clan Tash-Toi has dared such a thing as this. I alone had the courage to come here.

  He shook his head. This was a foolish place to make boasts. He had entered, or was about to enter, the foulest lair of evil ever: the demon city. Should he contact the seeker now?

  That was a weighty question. If he contacted the old one too soon, the seeker m
ight give away the plan to his captors. Demons were sly and devious. Yet if he waited too long to contact the old man, he might waste time searching in the wrong places.

  I will wait, Klane told himself.

  He let go of the frond and retreated several paces into the puffer field. He lay down, stretched out, and closed his eyes. He needed the cover of darkness, and he needed to rest. Tonight, he would strike for demon city, and if the dice of fate tumbled the right way, he would contact the seeker of Clan Tash-Toi.

  13

  Chengal Ras rustled his streamers in agitation. The mentalist looked up at him, and the small creature made a weird grimace.

  The 109th stood in a domed chamber filled with medical and mentalist equipment. Machines hummed, gurgled, buzzed, and flashed lights. Tubes, screens, boxes of machinery, illuminated globes, computers, life-support systems—the items cluttered the chamber. It was a mess, and to his way of thinking, it indicated a troubled intellect.

  Mentalist Niens was a thin human and wore a long white coat. He reeked of recent sex and pungent foods, and his breath stank abominably. For a human, Niens had narrow features, a beak of a nose, and spidery fingers. He looked devious, but was supposed to be the best at these brain scans.

  An even thinner, older, naked human lay on a scanning bed. Mentalist Niens had attached leads, tubes, and other paraphernalia to the ancient, and now lowered a metal dome onto the creature’s head.

  Chengal Ras had read the information concerning this one. He was a seeker, a psi-able shaman among the human primitives on the game preserve. He had belonged to Clan Tash-Toi. It had been Zama Dee’s policy to send failed experimental creatures into the uplands. Chengal Ras wondered about the wisdom of that, but the 73rd had her own schemes and theories she wished to test.

  “Do you wish me to explain the procedure, Revered One?” Niens asked.

  Chengal Ras swished his tail in annoyance. The creature’s offensive breath reached his nostrils. Was this a subtle insult on the 73rd’s part? Had she known about the cattle’s habits and offensive stenches?