by S. L. Viehl
“The old men?”
“The big brass, our quadrant commanders. I wouldn’t be surprised if QI sends every ship they’ve got in the quadrant here within the next seventy-two hours.” Deyin gestured toward the view panel. “You’d better have your people prepared to receive them.”
Orjakis released the door panel to admit his guards. “Escort Captain Deyin to the Preparation chamber.”
Deyin stopped on his way out and seized Orjakis’s hand. “How do I thank you? What you’ve done is going to change everything for me.”
“No need.” Orjakis smiled. “There are more changes to come for you.”
FOURTEEN
Hasal had recommended killing Aktwar Navn, but Teulon was satisfied with having the boy kept at the front of the detachment escorting them to Iiskar Navn.
“You could be walking into a trap,” his second protested when Teulon ordered preparations be made for the journey. “Navn has waited a very long time to declare his loyalty to the rebellion.”
“Navn’s people are starving,” Teulon said. “I trust their hunger, not their declarations.”
Hasal stayed behind at the main encampment to finish coordinating the second phase of the attack, but vowed to fly out to join the Raktar as soon as all of the battalion commanders had their troops in place. He handpicked the men to accompany Teulon and had them arm themselves to the teeth.
Teulon preferred to travel light, and knew most tech weaponry was useless on the ice, so he brought only his sword and his blades. The skimmers the detachment used were modified with scan scramblers to prevent patrols from tracking their movements, and had been outfitted with white shielding as aerial camouflage. The Raktar’s own skimmer was modified to accommodate Bsak’s bulk.
The fact that a jlorra would voluntarily fly on a skimmer always impressed the men, but Aktwar Navn was terrorized by the sight of the big cat climbing on behind Teulon. Only when Bsak settled into a crouch behind the Raktar did the boy shut his mouth and climb onto the back of one of the escort skimmers.
The big cat rested his chin on Teulon’s shoulder so it could watch the way ahead of them. Behind them, five guards brought up the rear.
Teulon rarely indulged in any flying himself, so the long, chilly trip to the eastern territory was something of a novelty. It also gave him the chance to oversee the different territories from which they would launch their attack against the Toskald cities.
His gaze shifted. Skjonn hovered above them, a dark smear on the pristine white of the sky. It had been two years since the Toskald had taken him from the death pits and marched him to an abandoned transport dock. The general of Defense himself had been sent to perform the execution, probably as a punishment.
On that day, Gohliya had sent the guards away. You tried to kill him.
Teulon had. I failed.
I will not, Jorenian. He had drawn a pulse weapon. This is no death for a warrior. I will make it swift.
That is not necessary, General. Teulon had stepped to the edge of the platform hatch, and glanced down. The kvinka was a river of air, furious and unforgiving. I am already dead.
“Raktar,” one of his men transmitted. “There is something ahead.”
Teulon and all the pilots wore short-range headgear, salvaged from a Hsktskt wreck, which allowed them to communicate effectively during skimmer flights. Because the tech was designed not to be detected by League monitoring devices, they could use it without risking alerting the Toskald patrols.
Bsak lifted his head.
“I see it,” Teulon said.
On the horizon the air was changing color; bursts of yellow brightened, then faded.
Patrol ships, firing on the surface.
Teulon’s troops had already raided the trenches in this region and left, but that made no difference. The Toskald had found something to attack. “Assume strike formation. Edin, take Navn’s son to the iiskar, and have his men come in over the ice.”
The patrol, a well-organized unit of some thirty ships, was flying attack patterns above a large hunting party pinned down on the ice. The flat plain had forced the Iisleg to use their skimmers as cover and there was no sign that they were returning fire.
Bodies of men and game lay in pools of frozen red slush.
Teulon waited to see the skimmer carrying Navn’s son break off before he moved up to take point. The patrol ships had not yet detected their approach. “Seek out the navigational cluster before you attempt anything else. Don’t ram the engine cowlings; they’ve been reinforced. Bring them down intact if you can.”
Bsak crouched low in the skimmer, muscles coiling against Teulon’s back.
The skimmers spread out, each acquiring a ship and breaking out of formation to move in. Teulon flew under three skimmers to emerge just beneath the lead vessel. All Toskald patrol ships possessed standard hulls insulated against temperature and atmospheric debris. Yet because the ships were used exclusively on the planet, and the Iisleg were not permitted any weaponry, the builders had not bothered with protecting certain vulnerable points.
Teulon moved into position and extended modified docking clamps to fix his skimmer to the hull. Once he had a stable platform, he shut down the skimmer’s engine and drew his sword. The central processing unit for the patrol ship’s navigational system lay behind an access panel, which he pried open with his claws. A single thrust of his sword into the aperture destroyed the ship’s primary and secondary guidance and maneuvering systems. He dropped down onto the skimmer and immediately disengaged the clamps; the patrol ship’s pilot had already lost his helm controls.
Teulon flew straight down, crouching low to avoid the jetting debris as the ship he had sabotaged collided with another and exploded in midair. He circled up and went to the next ship.
The Toskald, now only too aware that they were under attack, redirected their weapons and opened fire on Teulon and the rebels. Their tracking systems could not lock on to the skimmers, however, as the camouflage shielding also absorbed the reflective scans, and the barrage was almost completely ineffective. Three patrol ships crashed on the surface, while five more made fairly successful emergency landings. Ten were destroyed in flight, as were four skimmers.
The remaining patrol ships suddenly retreated, flying up into the higher atmosphere where the skimmers could not follow. After firing a few more useless volleys, they flew off on course for Skjonn.
Teulon scanned the ice below. More skimmers were coming from the south, along with men on foot. Toskald infantry poured out of the ships that had landed safely, and began firing pulse weapons at the skimmers as well as the Iisleg still trapped on the ice.
“Land beside the patrol ships,” Teulon told his men. “Engage the infantry.”
For two years Teulon had awaited this moment. He had counted the hours and, at times, in the darkness, the minutes. He had remembered every face, every decision, every moment, that had brought him to this place.
The first had been Teulon’s own decision. He had decided to travel to the Liacos Quadrant with his HouseClan, and stop a war that was devouring systems and destroying millions of lives. As a show of trust, he had also agreed to jaunt over to the League flagship by himself to meet with their commander and arrange the time, place, and goals of the initial talks.
Those were the last free choices Teulon would make for some time.
“I know you came here to negotiate peace between the League and the Faction,” the League general said after his guards seized Teulon. “But that is not why we brought you here. There will be never be peace, and it is time that your people learned that.”
“Think carefully, Shropana,” Teulon warned. “You know Jorenian law. If you kill me, my HouseClan will not rest until you are dead.”
“That is easily remedied.”
Now, at long last, he had the army, and the crystals, and the means to avenge himself. The time to fulfill his promise to his dead kin had arrived.
He landed by the nearest vessel and jumped from his ski
mmer. Bsak, at his side, hissed. Three soldiers rushed at them from opposite directions, firing their weapons.
The seven-bladed sword blazed through the air as Teulon decapitated the soldier in front of him, and turned to skewer the one behind him. Bsak permitted the third a short scream before biting his skull in two. Teulon shook the blood from his blades and strode out onto the ice.
Shropana, standing at the console, had issued the order personally. “Signal the CloudWalk. Tell them that we are sending some Jorenian passengers over to dock with them. Then launch the drone ship.” He turned to smile at Teulon. “Something the Bartermen bought for us from the Hsktskt. It will make it appear as if the stardrive malfunctioned.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him to interrogation.”
In the corridor, being dragged by the guards. Killing them. Finding a com panel. Sending the final signal to his brother on the CloudWalk. “Fire on all League vessels within the vicinity of the ship and destroy them—”
At last. Releasing the beast inside him to run with Bsak was almost painful; it had been tethered for so long. As a soldier charged at him, Teulon snapped his forearm dagger into his left hand, pivoted, and slit the Toskald’s throat. Hot blood spattered his chest and face. At last.
The guards who had recaptured Teulon shot him in the chest, arms, and legs. He had been barely conscious when they dragged him to the view panel, where Shropana’s voice, an oiled snake, sank its fangs into him.
“Congratulations, ClanLeader. You’ll be happy to know that your signal—which I recorded—did get through to the CloudWalk. Your people successfully destroyed the drone launch before it docked with your ship. Unfortunately, they also fired on three scout ships of ours that were sent to investigate. I have so notified command, and I have been given the order to defend the fleet and return fire.”
The pain of his body had been nothing then. The House was greater than any one of its Clan, and for his House, Teulon would beg. “There are women and children on board the ship. My bondmate, our ClanSon. He has only three years.” He fell to his knees. “Be merciful. Spare them.”
“Spare women and children who would pursue me to the ends of the universe for killing you? Permit a three-year-old to live who will grow up wanting nothing more than to dig out my guts with his claws? I think not.”
“I will shield you and you can kill me without fear.” Teulon bowed his head. “Spare them, I beg you, and I will do anything you wish.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would.” Shropana gestured to the guards. “Hold him up.”
Pulse fire became sporadic as the patrol’s weapons reacted to the temperature. Men cursed and flung pistols and rifles into the snow as they ran for cover. The Iisleg hunters who had been trapped there now stood and fired their crossbows. The hail of bolts was like a scythe. Men stopped and fell into the snow, cut down as precisely as yborra grass beneath a honed blade. Bsak became a darting streak of wet crimson fur and flashing teeth.
The guards had difficulty holding Teulon, flesh and garments slick with his own blood.
“Hold on to him. No, keep him right where he is,” Shropana told his guards. “I want him to watch. I want him to remember what happens to those who threaten the League.”
Teulon felt the life pulsing out of him from his wounds. He could not take his eyes from the sight of the CloudWalk, surrounded and outnumbered. The Jado’s ship was badly damaged, yet still returning fire.
Shropana sighed. “Valiant to the end.”
Teulon felt the madness roaring inside him as he cut his way through the Toskald troops to join the hunters, now fanning out onto the ice. He kept in front of them, leading them against the frantic patrol troops, severing heads and hands and limbs. Bolts whistled through the air past him, reaching some of the Toskald before his blades did. Mouths sagged. Bodies jerked, spun, tumbled.
The CloudWalk, and every member of HouseClan Jado save one on it, swallowed by brilliant white light as the ship exploded.
Teulon killed every Toskald in his path.
Fewer screams punctured the air now. The sun poured merciless light over the battlefield, illuminating the faces of the living and dying. The snow turned pink and then red before it froze into a gory slush. Bsak walked from body to body, inspecting, nudging, gnawing.
That final conversation, before he was taken away.
“You cannot declare me ClanKill, Teulon Jado.” Shropana appeared serene, even complacent. “You need kin present to do so, and I have just obliterated all of yours.”
Teulon was the ClanSon of a shipbuilder. As a student, he had studied and followed the path of Tarek Varena. He had trained as a warrior, as did every Jorenian, but had vowed never to use a weapon against another living being unless to defend his kin. He had told his HouseClan that there were better paths to be found. He had dedicated his life to making a path of peace.
That path, that life, had ended. He met Shropana’s amused gaze, and uttered the three words. Words that meant he would not rest until each and every member of his HouseClan was avenged. Words that made a monster out of an honorable warrior. No Jorenian since Tarek Varena, who had witnessed the slaughter of most of his kin, had spoken these words. No Jorenian had ever lost all of his family, as Teulon had. “I Choose Death.”
“You no longer have the privilege of choice, slave.”
Some of the Toskald survivors tried to retreat back to their ships, but Teulon saw that Navn’s men had arrived and taken up positions there, waiting for them. Crossbows twanged, and the sound of bolts hitting flesh peppered the air, while ghosts whispered behind Teulon’s eyes.
“Jorenian male, sold to Trader Ivicis for one thousand credits.”
When the last death cry faded, more than two hundred Toskald lay dead in the snow.
“Gift to the Kangal of Skjonn, Jorenian slave, male, from Trader Ivicis.”
Teulon came back to himself slowly. He found he was standing over the headless body of a Toskald officer, sprawled on the ship ramp up which he had tried to run before meeting the Raktar’s sword. In his hand was a timed explosive device that had been activated.
“Presentation of prospect nine-two-one.”
The Toskald knew what the Iisleg would do to their ships, and preferred to destroy them before they could.
“Do not clean him. We like how the blood and the sweat make his skin gleam.”
Teulon knelt to disarm the handheld bomb, and set it aside. He sensed the hunters drawing close, gathering around him. Many were hurt, bleeding, exhausted. All were silent as they watched him stand and face them.
Bsak padded over to sit at Teulon’s side.
“He tried to kill us. Look, we are bleeding! Give him to the kvinka.”
A few moments before Teulon had boarded the launch to fly to Shropana’s ship and begin the peace negotiations, Teulon’s bondmate, Akara, had suddenly flung herself at him and embraced him. It was not unusual for bondmates to show strong emotion at being separated even for short periods of time, but this was different. Akara was sensitive to many things, and for some unknown reason, she had been frightened.
She had, in fact, been terrified.
Standing in the light now, blood dripping from his sword, Teulon again heard the last words Akara would ever say to him. She had whispered them against his skin. She had burned them forever into his soul.
Do not go, my heart. I fear for you.
She had been right to fear.
“It begins now,” Teulon told them. “What is done here can never be undone. There is no apology that can be made. No tithe will pay for this. No Toskald will ever forgive us this. They will know we are no longer their slaves.”
Teulon knelt beside the body, and used his claws to tear open the man’s uniform. With a second swipe of his hand, he did the same to his belly. He buried his hand inside, digging deep, and wrenched out a steaming mound. He lifted the man’s intestines up over his head, displaying them for his men, and for the dead who were all around him now.
“Now.” He loo
ked at the pale, bloodied faces, saw the reflection of his trophy in their eyes. “We fight, or we die.”
Resa reached up to touch the smooth mask the blob had formed over her face. Just as Jarn had said, she could see, breathe, and speak through it.
“It will not hurt you,” Jarn promised as she tested the depth of the snow with her walking staff.
“It grows hard.” It had a smell to it, as well, sharp like cold air was to breathe, but Resa was growing used to it. Still, she would rather have covered her face with a wrap. “Must wear?”
“Yes. Cloth falls away when you are bending over someone.” Her tone changed. “There will be many, from the sound of it.”
The terrible noises, Jarn had told her, were from ships firing at the surface. The healer had little more to say than that as she prepared her medical packs.
Daneeb had arrived after the worst of the noise died away, and had immediately raised strong objections to Jarn’s taking Resa with her to see to the wounded.
“At least I know how to put on the charade,” the headwoman had argued. “She can barely speak coherently, and you only began talking again last night.”
“We both speak fluent Terran, so we can communicate easily,” Jarn had said, “and we do not have to talk to the wounded. Stop your worrying, Daneeb. I will not let anything stray from us again.”
Resa had not been with the skela long enough to judge, but she wondered at times if the healer deliberately meant to provoke the headwoman. Their conversations were never very quiet, at least, not on Daneeb’s side. Jarn always seemed a little odd whenever she spoke about Resa. As if she was angry with Daneeb over her.
Before they had left, the worst argument of all happened.
“What about him?” Daneeb jerked her chin toward the unconscious ensleg.
“The cats will guard him.” Jarn helped Resa into the strange clothing that she said she had to wear to go with her.
Daneeb seized Jarn by the arm and turned her around. “He tried to kill me. I have the right.”