Orl Kno shouted, “Forward! Kill everyone but the LaNorian! Then he led his troops down the reverse slope to the bridge below. A river broke white over water-smoothed stones, hurried to duck under the span, and rushed toward the sea.
Once across, and on the other side, the oldster planned to send his fastest warriors left and right in attempt to flank the off-worlders. Then, having brought the main part of his force straight up the middle, Orl Kno hoped to engage the aliens and hold them in place long enough for the rest of his troops to close from the sides.
It was a good plan, a sensible plan, and had the enemy force been comprised of LaNorians it probably would have worked.
But the T-2, not to mention its many capabilities, was outside the realm of Orl Kno’s experience, which meant he had no way to know that Snyder had been well aware of Pok Tay’s presence next to the road, had intentionally bypassed the youngster, and monitored their subsequent radio transmissions.
And so it was that the blues charged down the hill, thundered over the wooden bridge, and split into three groups.
Meanwhile, directly behind them, Snyder emerged from under the bridge and opened fire. Her .50 caliber slugs blew big muddy divots out of the ground, consumed one group of flankers, and pounded them to mush.
An energy bolt struck Pok Tay in the small of the back and blew him in half.
That’s when more than a dozen off-worlders appeared on the crest of the hill and opened fire on the Claw below.
Orl Kno fired his rifle on the chance that a miracle would occur and one of his bullets would hit something. The oldster remembered the bench that sat outside his front door, the warmth of the summer sun, and the contentment of old age. That’s when something slammed into his chest and knocked him off his feet. Orl Kno fell—but never hit the ground. There was the smell of recently turned earth, the gurgle of water from the pump, and the sound of his mate’s voice. Dinner was ready—and it was time to go in.
Santana yelled, “Cease fire!” and heard two more shots as muscles reacted to messages already en route from the brain.
Then, with others at his side, the cavalry officer made his way down the slope to where the bodies of the butchers, bakers, and farmers lay tumbled about.
Mee Mas, his bloodstream still full of naturally produced stimulants, gazed in wonder. “Congratulations, Lieutenant . . . You won a glorious victory.”
Santana looked down at an elderly male, arms outspread, eyes staring at the sky. His voice was gruff. “There is no glory here, my lord, none at all.”
THE IMPERIAL CITY OF POLWA, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
The interior of the hodo (warehouse) was a long rectangular space normally used to dry pica leaves—but empty until the end of the rainy season when the spring caravans would arrive from the west. Rain pounded on the boards above, and water dripped, trickled, and poured through the myriad holes, cracks and gaps that penetrated the roof the building. The smell of the spice mixed with that of damp clothing and wet earth to form a thick odor that clung to the back of Dee Waa’s throat and caused him to swallow.
The interior of the hodo was filled with members of the Claw. They lined both walls three ranks deep. Those to the rear stood, those in the middle sat on wooden benches, and those in front squatted on their heels.
A line of vertical posts ran down the center of the warehouse each supporting not only the roof but two fish oil lamps. The soft yellow glow served to illuminate the arena’s center all but surrendering the margins to darkness.
At first there was no noise other than that made by the rain and the insistent beat of a single drum. Then hinges squealed, a door banged open, and clothing rustled as Dee Waa and those around him turned to look. A rectangle of gray light had appeared. It seemed to flicker as a file of fifteen prisoners were ushered into the room. Their clothing was soaked and plastered to their skins.
The prisoners were a mixed lot, including what appeared to be two members of the petty nobility, a scattering of portly merchants, and plenty of sturdy peasants. Something Dee Waa assumed was not only intentional but replete with meaning: No one was so high as to escape the hand of justice—and no one was so insignificant as to slip through the net.
There was something that united the prisoners however—and that was the common denominator of fear. No one had told them their fate but no one had to. There were many crimes that one could commit, but one sentence, and that was death.
Guards positioned the condemned at equal intervals along the length of the hodo. Then, much to Dee Waa’s surprise, each of the prisoners was issued a weapon. Some received swords, others were given spears, and one confused-looking merchant found himself clutching a rusty battle-ax.
Some seemed comforted by the gifts, even going so far as to try a few experimental swings with their swords, but most simply stood there eyes on the ground.
Then, as the tempo of the drum increased slightly, the door opened again. A solitary figure stood silhouetted against the gray light. He took a moment to look around, stepped forward, and was bathed in the soft yellow light. The newcomer was larger than the average LaNorian male, and with the exception of a white turban and matching loin cloth wore no clothes whatsoever. He bore no weapons other than the long reinforced fingernails on each hand. A thick layer of fat covered his smoothly rounded torso and jiggled when he moved.
It was a strange, almost comical sight, but nobody laughed, least of all the prisoners, because they knew who he was. This was the noble named Lak Saa, the ex-minister who referred to himself as the gudar (advisor), and the eunuch who carried his privates in a jar.
Dee Waa held his breath as the Tro Wa master closed on the first prisoner and paused. Such was the strength of his voice that every person in the warehouse could hear without difficulty. “Look upon those brought before you and know them for the spies, traitors, and devil lovers that they are. All of them have been sentenced to death, all of them deserve to die, yet all of them have been given the opportunity to live. All they have to do is kill me.”
There was a murmur of protest to which Lak Saa raised his hand. “Thank you. I treasure your loyalty, and take strength from it, but hear me well. Should I be killed you are hereby commanded to set all the surviving prisoners free. That is my wish . . . Do I have your word that you will obey?”
There was a roar of acknowledgment as Dee Waa and all the rest of them strove to shout the roof down. But even as he took part in the demonstration of support, the schoolteacher was busy analyzing the situation. Were the prisoners listening? Truly listening? Because if they were, the eunuch’s words not only provided each one of them with a reason to fight, but to attack as a group.
But that would require a leader, someone with the courage to step forward, and the clarity to formulate a plan under the worst of conditions. Did such a person exist? Or would each prisoner fight singly? Assuming they fought at all.
Lak Saa bowed to both sides of the room, took a moment to leave the material world behind, and entered the shadowy realm that lay between mind and spirit. The eunuch’s feet flowed like water, his hands floated through the air, and his body rotated through the three positions of truth: seeking, finding, and enlightenment.
The first prisoner had been presented with a sword, and while it was true that he had used one before, there was a marked difference between the sort of butchery he and his fellow “greens” practiced on unarmed Transcendental converts and the kind of combat demanded of him now. The prisoner raised the sword high over his head, waited for what he judged to be the correct moment, and brought the weapon down.
Lak Saa glided, spun, and was two paces away when the blade fell through empty air.
Prisoner number one lived long enough to realize that he had missed, that the blood spilling down the front of his tunic belonged to him, and that death smelled like spice.
There was a roar of approval as the first prisoner was executed and Dee Waa absorbed the meaning of the lesson. Here, right before their very eyes, Lak
Saa had demonstrated the power of right thinking, the primacy of spirit over mind, and the manner in which skill can triumph over technology. A sword represents power, yet it, like the weapons manufactured by the aliens, was nothing when confronted with the knowledge of a Tro Wa master. There was much to learn—and much to teach.
The second prisoner, a merchant convicted of spying on behalf of Shi Huu, was armed with a spear. He eyed the eunuch, thrust the spear into the ground, and stood with folded arms.
Lak Saa performed a forward somersault, rose in front of his victim, and used his right hand to honor the sky.
The merchant jerked as the eunuch’s razor-sharp claw ripped through both his clothes and abdomen alike. There was a gurgling sound as prisoner number two’s bowels fell down around his knees, and his eyes went blank.
The crowd roared and the body was still falling as the gudar walked what other Tro Wa practitioners knew to be “the six stepping-stones,” before reaching the next appointment with death.
Except that prisoner number three was a natural leader, who backed by all twelve of his surviving comrades, looked formidable indeed. He roared an order, and charged Lak Saa, even as the others circled to the sides.
The eunuch was a leaf, propelled by the wind, skittering along a forest path. He touched a tree, then another, and still another knowing that each would fall.
Then, spinning as leaves do, he released four additional souls from their bodies even as spears slid along the surface of his skin, swords hacked at his legs, and a battle-ax nicked his throat.
Now, with only six opponents left, the Tro Wa master accepted a sword from a dying hand, appropriated another from the ground, and caused both to dance. The blades glittered like sunlight on the surface of a lake as the eunuch attacked the spaces where the remaining prisoners would have little choice but to appear. One by one they went there, throwing themselves under the bloody blades, falling as metal bit into bone.
Then, with only one prisoner left, Lak Saa did a strange thing. Rather than take the farmer’s head off, as Dee Waa had assumed that he would, the Tro Wa master dropped both weapons onto the floor.
The prisoner had soiled himself by that time, and made no attempt to escape as Lak Saa approached to place a single finger on the peasant’s chest. Then, speaking with an authority that penetrated every corner of the room, the eunuch uttered a single word: “Die.”
The farmer’s eyes rolled back in his head, his heart stopped, and he died. The onlookers stood, stomped their feet, and shouted Lak Saa’s name.
Dee Waa, ever the student, knew what would happen next. Every person present would go forth and not only tell the story, but elaborate on it, until a new legend was born. A legend in which Lak Saa ordered a hundred traitors to die and they hurried to obey him.
And it was that moment when the teacher, not to mention all those around him, knew he had chosen the correct side. Nothing could stand in the way of the Claw . . . and victory was as sure as the dawn of a new day.
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
The room was just large enough to contain a gigantic bed, an oversize dresser, and an enormous easy chair. Rain splattered on the only window. With the exception of the metal-framed mirror that hung above the dresser the walls were bare. A monastic space but one that more than met the needs of its current occupant.
It was late afternoon and Legion Captain Drik Seeba-Ka was in a foul mood. Not because of the rain, which was nothing by the standards of his native planet, but because the damnable Dracs had seen fit to throw a party, which meant he would have to go.
It was difficult to gauge which was worse, the tight, stifling embrace of the dress uniform now laid out on the surface of his bed, or the absurd small talk that diplomats loved to engage in.
Even more unpleasant, from Seeba-Ka’s perspective at least, was the purpose of the gala, which in the words of the written invitation was “. . . to celebrate Force Leader Hakk Batth’s safe return and hear of his many adventures.”
This, for an officer who the Hudathan believed should probably be under investigation for incompetence, but had been received as a hero.
The officer’s thoughts were interrupted by three sharp raps on the door. He turned toward the sound. “Enter!”
The door swung open, and First Sergeant Neversmile stuck his head in. “Sorry to bother your, sir, but I have good news. Very good news.”
“That seems hard to believe,” Seeba-Ka said, buckling his belt, “but I’ll take it . . . What’s up?”
“Bagano picked up a radio message, sir. It was from Snyder . . . She says there was some sort of ambush, and Batth took off with the only long-range set. It seems that Santana, Hillrun, Dietrich, Taz, Kimura, Pesta, Seavy, and Horo-Ba are all alive and their way in.
“Kashtoon was KIA (killed in action) along with half the Thraks plus some of the digs, but the Clones made it, along with FSO Vanderveen and some prince or other. The whole lot of them should hit the North Gate in an hour or so.”
Like most Hudathans, Seeba-Ka wasn’t known for demonstrations of emotion so when the officer slammed his ham-sized fist down on the dresser, and said, “Yes!” Neversmile knew the company commander was happy.
“So, I should tell the ambassador?”
Seeba-Ka’s mind began to race. “No,” he said thoughtfully. “Nobody talks to Pas Rasha until I have a chance to debrief Santana. In the meantime I want you to find Lieutenant Beckworth. Give her the good news and tell her I want a couple of T-2s along with her entire platoon out in front of the North Gate. I’ll meet her there . . . And another thing, tell Beckworth to take the back way out, rather than march down Embassy Row.”
The NCO nodded. “Sir, yes sir. And Major Miraby? What shall I tell him?”
Seeba-Ka turned to the mirror mounted over the dresser. “Tell him everything you know, if you can find him, which might be difficult what with the party and all.”
The real meaning was clear, and the Naa grinned. “Sir, yes sir.”
The door closed and the Hudathan crossed to his bed. The sword, which had been in his clan for hundreds of years, lay gleaming on the Legion-issue olive drab blanket. Its name translated to “Death Giver,” and it hadn’t seen action for a long time.
Metal sang as the soldier pulled the blade out of its scabbard and allowed the light to ripple along its carefully honed edge. The clans still existed, in name at least, but not for long. Soon, within a hundred years, the Hudathan population would be as homogenized as the humans were.
But one clan would live on, a clan forged in the heat of battle, and to which a warrior could be true. That’s why Seeba-Ka had paid an armorer to inscribe new words on old steel. Legio Patria Nostra. “The Legion Is Our Country.”
Santana had mounted Snyder’s back in order to get a better view. Finally, as afternoon gave way to evening, the rain dwindled to nothing. Not the mud however, which continued to slow the column’s progress, and made the march miserable.
Of more concern, to Santana’s mind at any rate, was the scene that greeted him as the T-2 topped the last rise and provided the officer with a sweeping view of the plain on which Polwa, and eventually Mys had been built. There were campfires, thousands of them, and they glittered like rubies.
The fires closest to the city walls, where the Imperials were camped, had been laid out in precise rows. Farther away, and outnumbering the Imperial fires at least three to one, the officer could see a random scattering of civilian encampments. The road, which appeared as a ribbon of black, wound its way between the fires to terminate at the North Gate.
Above, beyond the thick walls, Santana could make out the glow that emanated from Mys and Polwa beyond. What was going on in within he wondered? Had conditions deteriorated? Or stayed about the same?
The question foremost on his mind however was how many of the fires in front of him belonged to the Claw? How good were the Tro Wa’s communications? And did the locals have orders to attack his column regardless of c
ost? If so, the troops under his command were outnumbered thousands to one, and no matter how hard they fought the column would never make it to the gate.
Still, assuming that the forces in front of him were the anvil, and those eliminated in the recent ambush had been the hammer, then it was possible that the locals didn’t know that the column existed.
But there were other concerns as well . . . Batth had been back for days by then, or so the cavalry officer assumed, which meant that the authorities had only one version of what had taken place in the swamp, the Ramanthian version, which was certain to be full of lies.
Would Seeba-Ka and Miraby believe his version of events? Especially given the history between Batth and himself? There was plenty of room for doubt.
But that would have to wait. First, Santana had to cross the plain successfully and enter Mys. The officer ordered his column to “Close it up,” pulled the intercom jack out of Snyder’s neck, and jumped to the ground. His boots sank a good four inches into the mud and it took considerable effort to pull them out. Vanderveen appeared at his elbow and it seemed natural to fall into step with her. Mee Mas, disguised to look like a legionnaire, was to the rear with Hillrun.
“So,” the diplomat said, “this should be interesting.”
“That’s one word for it,” Santana agreed soberly.
“You’re worried about Batth, aren’t you?”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”
Vanderveen looked into Santana’s eyes. “I was there . . . I’ll tell them what happened.”
Santana nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate that, I really do. However, even if I’m able to prove that Batth was derelict in performing his duties, the bastard could still nail me for disobeying a direct order back in the swamp. Even a bad order. That’s how the military works.”
Vanderveen was about to offer her opinion on how the military functioned when a pair of flares soared upward, made an audible popping sound, and started to drift downward. An eerie blue-green glow lit the landscape. Anyone who hadn’t been paying attention suddenly was and all eyes turned in the direction of the road. The good news was that Santana could see his surroundings—and the bad news was that his surroundings could see him.
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