by A. L. Bruno
Maybe Malley’s wrong, Roberts thought. He turned back to the ulaid’s square, transfixed by the approach of the Kionel’s standard. The crowd moved, too, clearing space for it with a practiced ease.
Roberts turned back to Adelisa, still confused. “But you’re of the line,” he said. “Shouldn’t you bear it?”
“In battle, yes,” Adelisa replied, laughing, the idea apparently absurd. “But not during the Nadala Somfar.”
Roberts frowned. “Then who does?” he asked.
Adelisa nodded back towards the ulaid. “They do.”
Roberts turned, following her gaze.
A half dozen boys, barely old enough to be academy plebes, bore the standard forward. Each was clad in black trousers, high black boots, and a dark crimson tunic. They moved in a lock step that would have made any drill instructor proud, their faces expressionless.
A seventh man, much older but also bedecked in the same apparel, stepped alongside his charges, quietly calling cadence. He moved gracefully, beating out each step with a shining golden sword gripped comfortably in his right hand. The older man suddenly swept his blade down until its tip touched the stones of the pavement, and the group stopped as one.
Roberts felt his eyebrows shoot upwards appreciatively. “Who are they?” he asked, his voice hushed.
“They are the Sharluia,” she replied simply.
Not exactly an answer, Roberts thought, but he said nothing. Instead, he watched as the scene played out before him.
The elder Sharluia leader bellowed out a word that Roberts could not make out. More words followed, that in turn became a deep-throated tune, its tone penetrating and clear. The moment the melody floated above the crowd, the boys of the Sharluia spun away, dancing instead of marching to their new positions. The Kionel’s banner spun towards the ground, then arched upwards like a blade in combat. The boys moved—no, they didn’t move, they glided, they danced, they floated—away from each other, each staying a handful of meters away from the standard. Suddenly, with a collective whoop the banner was flung into the air, spinning like a massive gyroscope before it plummeted back towards the ground. The standard bearer, a boy barely old enough to shave, caught it effortlessly, spinning it above his head before, with one swift motion, he thrust it into its waiting stand. He instantly back-flipped away, coming to a stop amongst his brothers. Finally, the Sharluia came to a stop, producing blades from their backs, their faces masks of discipline. For a moment there was silence, the fabric of the Kionel’s standard fluttering in the breeze the only sound.
“Wow,” Roberts whispered.
The elder Sharluia sang another phrase, and Roberts cocked his head. It sounds like Tenastan, he thought, squinting, but it’s coarser, more unrefined. He grunted, frustrated. Damn it, he thought, what are they saying?
Adelisa glanced his way and smiled. “It’s old Tenastan,” she explained, reading his expression. “Not many speak it.”
“Oh,” Roberts said, disappointed.
Adelisa laughed, her eyes gleaming. She stepped closer, her left shoulder brushing against his, and she leaned in close. Roberts caught the sweet smell of her perfume. Finally, Adelisa spoke:
“Our lot was cast
In starlight’s glow
Our souls consigned
To the fires below”
Adelisa translated as the elder sang. Within moments she stopped speaking the words and instead sang, her voice lilting along with the elder’s.
The boys of the Sharluia lowered their heads and the points of their blades struck the cobblestone as one, metal ringing like a chime across the crowd.
The elder’s song continued, rising above the crowd and into the hills beyond.
“We suckled pain
And dined on death
With loss we reigned
‘Til final breath
Born to darkness
Cast to flame
Our future starless
Our wages shame”
She has a lovely voice, Roberts realized, resisting the impulse to look back at the Adishta.
A man with a nimbus of white hair stepped into the ulaid’s square. He wore the colors of the wolf and held a gleaming silver sword that was obviously too heavy for his aged frame. Still, he gazed at the horizon with a defiance Roberts found admirable.
“Wise ones spoke
Souls shining bright
On deaf ears they broke
Their gift a blight
Born to the night
Daylight abhorred
Stranger to right
Death a reward”
Another man stepped forward. Much younger, his hair was as dark as the older man’s was white. He held an axe in his hand, his forearms rippling with casual effort. He stood with his side to the crowd and faced the older man. His face was a mask of defiance, his ceremonial armor the colors of the bull.
“Our memories hearken
To life and joy
Our souls do darken
Hope only a ploy”
The older man—the wolf, Roberts decided—and the bull faced off. Their combat was sudden and brutal. One moment they stood at the ready; the next the axe blade was at the wolf’s neck, and the older man sank to his knees, beaten.
“Born us all
To the midnight star
Daylight a dream
Soul ever scarred”
Why haven’t I heard this before? Roberts thought, confused. He turned to Adelisa, curious.
Adelisa stared transfixed at the performance before her, singing the words before the elder Sharluia even spoke.
She’s reciting, Roberts realized. She sang again and Roberts turned back to the performance.
The wolf knelt and laid his sword on the ground in front of him. He lowered his head, and the bull raised his axe as if to strike him down. As he did, a young woman—slender, graceful, and sensuous—clad in the colors of the panther sidled forward and suddenly placed a knife blade at his neck. The bull froze where he was.
“The light still cried
With all men slain
One soul died
Another’s loss gained”
The panther pantomimed slitting the bull’s throat, and he knelt to the ground beside the wolf, lowering his head and laying the axe on the cobblestone in front of him in one smooth movement.
Others stepped forward now, and string instruments surged to life from the ulaid. Men and women from the bull, wolf, and hawk banners stepped forward, one at a time, weapons at the ready. They faced off in ornate dances until one kneeled, defeated. An instant later, the panther would sidle up and strike down the victor. Sometimes she would pantomime a knife to the back, while with others she would spin gracefully and end with an exaggerated slit across the throat. Yet every time a victim fell, another would rise to take their place.
“For we were born to the night
And yoked by pain
Made to fight
Peace our bane”
Suddenly, a form leapt up from behind the boys of the Sharluia and rolled through the air like a cannonball. He landed deftly on his feet and swung a golden blade high above his head as if to strike. He froze suddenly, blade at the ready, his body ready to pounce. His face was covered in a golden mask, and for the first time Roberts knew what was going to be said before Adelisa sang:
“Then the night did break
And the sky did fall
The ground did quake
And the Lion did call”
The panther sidled up to a bull, her blade at the ready, but suddenly the lion stepped between them, knocking her blade to the side. The panther whirled away, shocked, and slid back from the lion, circling.
A red-haired hawk in her late teens faced off against the bull, and the bull spun down to a ball of defeat. Again, the panther tried to strike the victor, and again the lion intervened, dance-shoving her back until she landed on all fours, crouching over the cobblestone like a predator.
The music from the ulaid swelled, d
rums beating a martial rhythm across the buildings.
“For we were born to the dark
And in it we found
Forgotten soul’s spark
In starlight unbound
His words brought light
Law from his sword
Might for the right
Above us our Lord
All of us scarred
Pain our desire
The Lion stood guard
Blade lit like fire”
The panther sidled up to an older bull now standing at center stage and instead of knifing him, whispered into his ear instead.
“The dark spread wide
Peace crushed ‘neath wings
And lo women cried
Hope shattered by Kings
For we were born to the black
And to it we ran
The Lion drew back
His words only sand”
The lion turned his back on the bull, and the bull swung his blade at the lion with full strength and speed. Roberts sucked in his breath...
… and in an instant the bull was on his back, disarmed, the lion’s blade at his throat.
“Then we knew
And soon became
How our souls once grew
Before darkness and flame
For we were born in the dark
But need not return
His blade was the spark
For a life once yearned”
Suddenly the lion pulled his blade away and held his hand down to the bull. He pulled him up to his feet and handed his axe back to him.
The bull lowered his head, ashamed. In one swift movement, the bull knelt before the lion.
“Mercy his way
No blood on his blade
The past sent away
A timeless debt paid”
The lion shook his head, refusing the surrender, but the bull nodded and slid backwards. The lion spun to center stage then stopped. He raised his eyes upwards, legs wide, the tip of his golden blade balanced on the cobblestones below.
“For we were born to the dark
And burned in the flame
The changes now stark
Hearts never the same”
The panther whispered to a hawk. The hawk dashed at the lion, and—with a movement so fast that Roberts couldn’t follow—the hawk was disarmed and laid upon the ground. As before, the lion held out his hand to the hawk, and as before the hawk knelt before him. The panther then went to the wolf, and the cycle repeated. The movement abruptly paused, the lion standing at the center of the square, the hawk, bull, and wolf kneeling before him. Only the panther stood back, her body crouched.
The panther lunged at the lion, but the lion stopped her with one hand. As before, he reached out his hand and raised her to her feet, his head bent in forgiveness.
The panther struck again, the strings of the ulaid pounding around them, and again she was defeated and forgiven. Finally, the panther stood, dropped her blade, and knelt before the lion. She held her head high, arms spread out in sacrifice, and she sang:
“Let me die! Chaos cried
It knew no other way
Death alone its only pride
Peace forever prey
For we were born to the dark
But not of the night
Out hatred stark
But with love of light”
The lion raised his voice in song, his baritone echoing off the stone and copper of the ulaid’s dome, the strings a counterpoint to his voice.
“The Lion did smile
His blade still stayed
I am you, my child
Upon which you preyed
Born to war
Raised to light
Hope restored
In darkest night
Together strong
Together wise
We can right all wrongs
If together we rise”
The panther brought her arms into her chest and then, slowly, she lowered her head.
“The Dark behind
The Light ahead
No longer blind
Fears finally shed”
The bull stood and bowed his head.
“H’Tanzia’s heart…”
The wolf stood, his eyes cast to the ground.
“Tenasta’s lathe...”
The hawk stood and moved behind the Lion. She knelt on the ground behind him, eyes cast downward.
“Kalintel’s art
And their ulaid’s faith”
The lion stepped forward and raised his blade in one hand above his head, its surface gleaming in the afternoon sun. Behind him the Sharluia knelt, blades at the ready.
“The night no more
The sun shone bright
Chaos abhorred
Held back by light
The Sharluia wait
A memory long past
Darkness their fate
To their duty steadfast
For we were born to the darkness
And will one day return
When the Star Lion hearkens
And the world again burns”
Finally, the lion knelt, and the crowd exploded into applause.
Roberts turned to Adelisa, his chest swelling. “I owe you a drink for that,” he said.
Adelisa shot him a warm smile, wiping tears from her cheeks. “No,” she said. “You owe me a bottle.”
33
Saranatari, Tenasta
18 Sardua 1066
13:41
They departed the ulaid soon after, Adelisa determined to show Roberts more of the tenali.
Astonishingly, the crowd had thickened. Both he and Adelisa were relegated to easing along narrow streets and under cloth overhangs, the crowd ahead a tumble of Brownian motion.
“Where’s Jagrav?” Roberts asked. He turned a quick three-sixty, his eyes peeled for the Phelspharian guardsman. “I can’t see him!”
“He’s probably…” then the crowd bunched ahead of Roberts and her words were lost to a sudden shower of laughter.
Roberts frowned. “What?!” he yelled. “I didn’t hear you!”
Adelisa turned back to him, annoyed, “I said—” she started.
She didn’t get to finish.
The sword flashed out of the crowd and thrust into Adelisa’s stomach with a sickening wet sound. She doubled over instantly and collapsed, falling to the ground like a discarded sack.
“Aditali!” The word exploded ahead of Roberts just as the first screams erupted from the crowd. A towering, hooded man melted out of the shadows, his black cloak obscuring his form. Roberts caught a glimpse of blonde hair and a facial tattoo common to H’Tanzians but could see little else.
The hooded man sneered down at Adelisa, his lips curled with utter contempt, and spit on her head.
“Z-zakranda!” the hooded man snarled. “Traitor,” Roberts translated. It took him a moment to realize the word was H’Tanzian.
The screams increased, and the crowd scattered, panicked. Roberts dodged, pushing towards Adelisa like a salmon working its way up a vicious waterfall. Where the hell is Jagrav?! he thought as a panicked villager slammed into his side.
Ahead of him, the hooded man swung his sword upwards, his eyes fixed on Adelisa’s motionless body.
Roberts didn’t think. All he saw was the hooded man’s arm’s flex, his feet shift, and his blade twitch. Roberts dove forward, leaping as far as his body would extend, aiming for Adelisa’s prone form.
The blade bit into Roberts’ shoulder; there was the taste of copper in his mouth, an explosion of pain down his spine, and everything went dark.
34
Central Plaza
Saranatari, Tenasta
22 December 2356
18 Sardua 1066
Hyperion’s medical boat Nightingale plunged into Saranatari’s central piazza like a meteor. The Nadala Somfar pyre flared and died, smoke billowing outwards, the flames snuffed out by the boat’s rapid descent. Nightingal
e thumped to the surface, its bright white fuselage and red crosses scorched by the drop. Before the vessel had even settled, cargo doors folded upwards like massive wings, and a fireteam of heavily armored marines swarmed out, weapons at the ready.
Conrad jumped to the ground, his combat boots gripping the rubble left by the panicked crowd at the celebration. He moved his head on a swivel, scanning his surroundings for potential targets. In any other circumstance he would have found the village’s buildings quaint, but at this moment he only saw rooftops from which snipers could strike or cover from which they could be attacked. While he trusted his helmet to protect him from small arms fire, Fitzpatrick’s pre-drop briefing had been blunt: “If they hit you with one of their heavy rifles,” he had warned, “you’re going down.”
The AI augmentation from Conrad’s helmet visor kicked in a moment later and left little to the imagination. Real-time overlays, fed by both Nightingale’s sensors as well as those in his suit, painted hundreds of thermal tracks in the area. Most were people, clustered inside buildings or along the roads leading away from the tenali, with more than a few larger animals in the mix. A moment later he sighed, relieved that his systems had yet to spot a single weapon in the mix.
“Clear!” Lieutenant Fitzpatrick called out to his fireteam. He pointed to a spot a few meters ahead, then pumped his arm vigorously as the surface of his armor adapted to match its environment. The first movement meant “here” Conrad remembered, followed by “move quickly”. Fortunately, the marines were far more comfortable with their leader’s silent directives. They sprinted ahead, dropping into cover-fire positions once stopped.
Conrad turned at the clatter of boots on cobblestones behind him. He spotted Dr. Nesheim exiting Nightingale, her med team in tow. She, too, was covered head-to-toe in combat armor. But rather than the adaptive camouflage of the Terran marine’s gear, hers was bright white with deep red crosses on her chest and shoulders. The med team was lightly armored, however, their backpacks filled with emergency equipment.