For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  The adherents of the Tro Wa were much practiced by then, having put on the same show in many villages prior to Bal Tee, and wasted little time erecting the portable platform on which martial arts demonstrations would take place, the spirit dancers would whirl, and the orators would weave their many tales. Eventually, when the sun finally set, at least ten initiates would be led away to begin their new lives.

  Meanwhile, as the crowd continued to filter in from the countryside, three males strode among them. In spite of the fact that they were dressed plainly all of them stuck out. First because of the way they held themselves; second because they bore no burdens; and third because no females walked beside them. One was more noticeable than the rest, however, primarily because of his size. He walked at the center of the group, made occasional use of a staff, and wore long, curved fingernails.

  Heads turned, people looked, and most turned away. But a few, those who had met Lak Saa on previous occasions, knew him for who he was: the leader of the Claw. Such individuals brought the tips of their fingers together and nodded. These movements were so subtle as to be barely noticeable to anyone not trained to look for them.

  The eunuch saw the gestures of respect, however, took pleasure in the extent to which his support had grown over the last month, and followed an assistant into the town’s largest bakery.

  The threesome passed through the service area, where customers had queued up to buy freshly baked kas cakes, through the bakery, where hot wall ovens glowed, and through the door beyond. Should Imperial spies be watching the town, as they no doubt were, it would be difficult to keep track of how many individuals entered the shop, how long they stayed, and who they were.

  Now, well within the hillside itself, the Tro Wa passed bins filled with various types of grain, waited for an adolescent to pull a section of shelving out of the way, ducked through a low doorway, and entered a hidden sanctuary. The cave had been occupied long before the village had come into existence and the ceiling was black with ancient smoke. A single hole remained open to the sky far above, providing both access for the single shaft of sunlight that splashed the wooden tabletop and the space with ventilation.

  The table had been a large cartwheel at one time and still bore the marks of hard service. A single male sat on the far side of it, his face set in rigid lines. The reason for discomfort was plain to see. His hands, which were palm down, had been nailed to the tabletop. The heads of the chunky hand-forged spikes could still be seen protruding above the level of his skin. The gray wood was red with his blood.

  The individual’s name was Nah Hee. He was chief of a village that lay one day’s walk to the north. His eyes widened when he saw Lak Saa enter, he tried to stand, but was unable to do so without pulling the nails out through his flesh.

  Lak Saa ignored the chieftain, took a seat at the table, and waited for a young female to fetch a pot of tea. Then, once his spirit had been soothed, the eunuch was ready to proceed.

  Nah Hee, who was in agony, had little choice but to sit and watch as more than two dozen peasants, shopkeepers, and minor nobility were ushered into the cave, given their instructions, and dismissed. He knew each of them would not only be intimidated by the sight of his predicament, but would describe the sight to others, thereby communicating the fear.

  Finally, after hours of such torture, the last visitor was shown out of the cave, and it was Nah Hee’s turn to have an audience with Lak Saa. “So,” the eunuch said slowly, “you prefer the company of hill bandits to that of the Tro Wa.”

  “No, Excellency,” Nah Hee said desperately, “never!”

  Lak Saa thrust one of his razor-sharp six-inch-long fingernails out into the light and examined it for flaws. “Then why,” the eunuch asked mildly, “were hill bandits seen to enter your house?”

  “They came to me,” Nah Hee replied, “during the night. There were a dozen maybe more . . . My wife and I had little choice but to let them in.”

  “So you say,” Lak Saa said cynically, “though it’s my experience that individuals such as yourself will say almost anything to avoid pain. Tell me—do your hands hurt?”

  “Yes, Excellency,” Nah Hee answered truthfully, “they hurt a great deal.”

  “I’m sure that they do,” Lak Saa said sympathetically. “Still, what you presently feel is nothing when compared to what you would experience if my assistants were to skin you alive. Now, with that reality in mind, tell me what these hill bandits had to say.”

  Nah Hee nodded eagerly. “They said that the people of my village should align themselves with the hill tribes rather than the Empress or the Tro Wa. They said a new leader has emerged, a person with a legitimate claim to the throne, who will lead all of us to freedom.”

  “And did they name this paragon of virtue?” the eunuch inquired softly.

  The chieftain shook his head. “No, Excellency, they did not. I asked, but they refused to tell me.”

  Lak Saa considered what he had heard. The information provided by Nah Hee was consistent with what had been learned elsewhere. The hill bandits were looking for support among the lowland villages. Something they had never attempted before.

  As for the mysterious leader, well, that part was easy. After years of talking about high-flown concepts like democracy, it now appeared that Mee Mas was ready to do something about it. The question was whether he was using the bandits or they were using him. “Interesting,” Lak Saa said noncommittally, “very interesting. Was there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Nah Hee said, eager to earn favor. “Every single one of the bandits wore turbans made of Pur Lor green.”

  In spite of the fact that his face remained impassive Lak Saa felt a rising sense of excitement. The village of Pur Lor was known for many things, including the fine green fabric that came off its looms, the fact that the hill tribes were known to trade there, and the Palace of the Mist. It wasn’t large as palaces go, a mere summer residence, one of many the Emperor had constructed. Mee Mas had spent many a youthful summer there and knew the area well.

  Was he assuming too much? Possibly, but maybe, just maybe, an important blow could be struck. The eunuch nodded. “You have a keen eye . . . and an honest tongue. Be careful of who you spend time with lest both be plucked from your head.”

  Lak Saa turned to an assistant. “Release Nah Hee, see to his wounds, and provide him with five loaves of bread for his family.”

  The eunuch waited until the grateful chieftain had been ushered out of the cave, summoned one of his assistants, and gave the necessary orders. “Send word to the cell near Pur Lor . . . Tell them to watch for the Imperial nephew by both day and night. If he comes, as I believe he will, they are to lay waste to the village and the Palace of the Mist. Mee Mas is to die and every effort must be made to ensure that the hill bandits receive the blame. Am I clear?”

  The assistant bowed. “Yes, Eminence.”

  A runner was dispatched—and death stalked the land.

  THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  Thanks to the fact that the vast majority of the off-world community had partied well into the wee hours, and were therefore still in bed, it was left to the LaNorian street sweepers, many of whom were spies, to see the relief force off.

  Aircraft, like the cybernetic fly-forms normally employed by the Legion, could have ferried the troops into position in a matter of hours rather than days, but the use of such technology outside of certain carefully proscribed locations and situations was forbidden by both Confederate regulations and Imperial decree. That meant the troops had little choice but to make the trip using more primitive means.

  The column, if such a term could be used to describe the assemblage of loosely grouped animals, clumps of off-world personnel, and the mismatched carts assigned to accompany them had assembled itself in front of the Ramanthian embassy, where it now awaited the order to depart.

  The relief force consisted of thirty-nine souls in all. Not a large number—but considered sufficient
given the power of their offensive weaponry.

  The group was led by three heavily armed Ramanthian warriors in company with a harried-looking representative from the Imperial government, followed by Force Leader Hakk Batth along with six additional warriors, all on reptilian mounts.

  Directly behind the Ramanthians were nine Clones, all on foot, two cartloads of Thraki infantry, none of whom would have been able to keep up had they been ordered to walk, the cart assigned to carry Christine Vanderveen, two heavily burdened supply wagons, and Santana’s legionnaires.

  Not only were they to walk, they had been assigned to walk drag. Batth’s orders had been quite specific in that regard and it didn’t take much imagination to figure out why. The column included some sixteen razbuls, each of which would generate up to 120 pounds’ worth of feces per day. That meant that the Clones, having only ten animals in front of them, could expect to walk through approximately 1,200 pounds of shit during a twelve-hour march, while the legionnaires, back at the very end of the line, would be forced to deal with nearly a ton of manure. An indignity which was far from accidental . . . but one Batth could easily justify.

  Military doctrine called for the two officers to be separated should the column be cut in half—not to mention the fact that Santana commanded the single cyborg that Miraby that had agreed to release. Still another decision which could be justified by the need to protect the column’s six and the wagons loaded with supplies.

  In spite of the fact that Batth had done nothing to rectify the fact that the weapons issued to his troops were incompatible with those possessed by the Thrakies, which were different from those carried by the humans, he had taken steps to ensure that all the com gear was compatible, which meant that Santana and his troops heard the order to move out at the same time everyone else did.

  In spite of the fact that he could have climbed up onto Snyder’s back and ridden the T-2 all day, the platoon leader was determined to walk with his troops. The razbul manure was meant for him and the least he could do was deal with the same unpleasantness that they had to.

  Santana waited for the last supply cart to jerk into motion, managed to sidestep a large pile of steaming green dung, and began what promised to be a long and unpleasant journey. Thankfully the weather was good and there was no need for the troops to carry more than their weapons, ten spare magazines, and two days’ worth of rations. The rest of their gear was loaded on the second supply wagon located directly in front of them. A discipline Santana insisted on.

  Two carts farther up the column Vanderveen nearly spilled hot tea on herself as the LaNorian driver slapped his razbul into motion and the cart surged forward. The diplomat swore, took a quick sip of tea to lower the level in her mug, and felt a strange cocktail of emotions. Excitement regarding the opportunity to actually do something, fear lest she commit some sort of error, and a feeling of regret where the nearly nonexistent relationship with Santana was concerned.

  Sure, it would have been nice if the legionnaire had been more understanding where her feelings were concerned, but she had been equally if not even more insensitive to his situation.

  Still, there wasn’t much she could do about it, not at the moment anyway, so the FSO settled back into the cushions purchased for the journey, threw her boots up onto the front partition, and resolved to enjoy the journey to whatever extent she could. Vanderveen looked out through the left window, saw the Clone embassy’s sterile facade drift by, and knew the column would soon leave the confines of Mys.

  Even farther forward, up where the Imperial guide hurled imprecations at the guards, Force Leader Hakk Batth considered the long mostly thankless task ahead. The column would never reach its destination, that much was certain, but he had worries nevertheless.

  Thanks to skillful negotiations on the part of his lifemate, Regar Batth, neither the Hudathans nor the Prithians were represented in the column, but the Clones were, and they, plus the legionnaires, could be expected to fight. To save their own skins if nothing else. Something he could hardly prevent them from doing. That’s why timing and coordination would be so crucial. Yes, the Ramanthian concluded, even treachery requires a certain amount of skill. The thought pleased him and something only a fellow Ramanthian would have recognized as a smile flitted across his face.

  The gate creaked open, the column crept onto the northern plain, and Imperial troops parted to let them pass. Harness bells tinkled, carts creaked, and a razbul passed gas. The relief force was on its way.

  The first day stretched long and hard as the multinational relief force marched first to the north, and then to the east, each step taking it farther from Mys and the neighboring city of Polwa. As the outlying villages fell behind, and the air started to clear, the road wound its way between tiny lowland farms, carefully maintained woodlots, and scarcely populated pastures.

  Their carts, plus thousands of others that contributed to LaNorian commerce, had worn deep ruts in the dirt road. For that reason progress was measured by sighting the workers that Santana thought of as “road men,” each being employed by the government, and having responsibility for a three-mile stretch of road.

  The essence of the job was to prevent the ruts from going so deep that the average cart would find itself high-centered on the ridge in between, keep the many bridges in good repair, and assist any travelers who might require help. No small task but a crucial one if food was to make its way into Polwa, if manufactured goods were to reach the provinces, and should Imperial troops need to move from one place to another in a short period of time.

  Some of the road men were more industrious than others, as could be seen and felt as the column traversed three miles of well-kept road, while others had a tendency to slack off as evidenced by deep ruts and unrepaired storm damage.

  There were other ways to mark the journey as well, including the compact-looking fortresses that squatted on the higher hills, walled villages that closed their gates at dusk, isolated farmhouses that lay in ruins, groves of “spirit” trees planted by an emperor long dead, bargelike ferries on which the carts were forced to ride, and all manner of traffic both rich and poor.

  But if the off-worlders were looking at the countryside the countryside was also looking at them. Entire villages turned out to stare at bugs mounted on razbuls, a group of identical aliens, furries who rode in carts, and, most fantastic of all, the machine that brought up the rear.

  Most simply stared, but some of the braver souls shouted Claw-inspired threats, or threw rocks many of which were directed at the T-2. Metal clanged as the missiles struck and bounced off Snyder’s armor. A mostly harmless activity so long as the incoming objects were stones rather than grenades.

  However, when some of the rocks started to strike flesh rather than metal, Santana waited for Batth to issue orders of some sort, and hearing none, authorized the cyborg to mark the worst offenders with a targeting laser. The villagers pointed at each other as the red dots appeared, screamed, and ran for the safety of their houses.

  Still, in spite of the overt hostility expressed by the LaNorian villagers, Santana failed to see any sign that Claw cadres were out and about. He believed that he could feel them however, peering at the column from distant clumps of trees, while tracking the off-worlders’ progress. Or was that his imagination? There was no way to tell.

  The column paused for a brief lunch and was back on the road thirty minutes later. The legionnaire had seen Vanderveen leave the privacy of the cart to stretch her legs but made no attempt to approach her. Now, having had time to reflect on the evening’s interchange, Santana realized that what he saw as little more than a threat to his troops the diplomat saw as an opportunity to do what she’d been trained for.

  Still, that was the second time she had used his military record as a way to strike back at him, and once had been more than enough.

  The afternoon passed much as the morning had with one notable exception. The relief force had just topped a rise, and was about to descend into a valley, when
they heard the long lonely scream of a steam whistle and turned toward the sound. They saw a pair of shiny north–south tracks and telltale puffs of smoke as the heavily burdened locomotive made its way up a grade and hove into sight. Though a lot more streamlined than its ancient ancestors, and a good deal more efficient, the basic technology was pretty much the same. Something which off-world corporations were forced to accept in return for the right to operate on a Class III world.

  The train, which consisted of the locomotive plus twenty cars loaded with newly mined coal, made a distinctive chuga, chuga, chuga sound as it passed in front of the relief force, whistled by way of a greeting, and disappeared to the south.

  Vanderveen thought about Mee Mas as her cart bumped over the tracks and followed the road up the slope beyond. A whiff of smoke blew in through the window. Assuming that the Imperial nephew was sincere, he envisioned railroads that crisscrossed the country, prosperity for all, and a democratic form of government. Was that realistic? Would it truly be good? The government she was sworn to represent thought that it would be. She hoped they were right.

  Eventually, as the sun fell toward the western horizon, and even the razbuls began to tire, Batth finally called a halt. Then, climbing a hill to the ruins of an ancient fortress, the Ramanthian ordered his troops to make camp. The relief force was well short of the point that Batth had optimistically designated as way point one . . . but no one chose to complain.

  Santana, who approached the Ramanthian looking for orders, was dismissed with a contemptuous, “Do what you’re supposed to do,” and left to his own devices.

  The legionnaire found the Ramanthian’s low-key almost negligent manner to be more than a little surprising especially in light of his experiences on Beta-018 where no detail had been too small for Batth to comment on.

  Now, as the relief force placed sensors around the perimeter, sited defensive weaponry, and prepared to settle in for the night, it was as if Batth was simply going through the motions. In fact, it was almost as if the Ramanthian knew there was nothing to be concerned about. But that was impossible—or should have been.