Shadow of Empire

by Jay Allan

  The revolutionaries, on the other hand, were clearly willing to sacrifice massive numbers of half-trained soldiers to win battles. That had been obvious, even with the limited amount Shira had seen of their actions. It was obvious, too, that whoever was running the show didn’t care how many people were expended, as long as the revolution was won. Shira felt a wave of disgust. The revolutionaries styled themselves freedom fighters, but the system they’d established was already as rotten as the one the nobles had enforced.

  Besides, she thought, the mercenaries aren’t trying to break through. She’d been surprised as they approached New Vostok and first realized the nobles’ forces were attacking. It hadn’t made any sense then, not based on what she knew of the situation, but now she understood exactly why they had launched an offensive. It was all cover for the abortive snatch-and-grab job on the imperial weapons. She figured the mercs would disengage as soon as their raiding force had pulled back behind the lines, but she had no idea what the revolutionaries would do in response. They were bound to be upset about the destruction of the imperial vessel, and if they pushed hard enough, they might force a climactic battle. Shira sighed. She just wanted to find Blackhawk and get the hell out of here, not bear witness to the final fight for control of the planet.

  She had been pursuing the raiding party since they fled from the spy ship and headed off to the south. Once they had realized their surprise was blown and they didn’t have a chance in hell of getting away with the guns, they had wisely decided it was a lost cause. So they rigged the ship to blow—at least denying the weapons to their enemies as well—and pulled back, taking the three imperial prisoners and Blackhawk along with them.

  Shira was a good tracker, and she’d stayed hot on their heels for a while, but the light from the battlefield explosions had forced her farther back. She was determined to find out where they were taking Blackhawk, but she knew if they spotted her she’d be toast. She figured she could take a bunch of them down, but there were at least fifty, and no amount of surprise would let her kill fifty men and ensure Blackhawk wasn’t harmed. Not fifty trained soldiers. Not with what she had on her.

  She’d had no idea who she was following at first, but they headed almost due south around the perimeter of the battlefield. Shira was less interested in Saragossa than in anything else she could think of, but she was stuck there, so she’d learned as much as she could. The areas to the south of New Vostok were held by the planet’s nobility, the former rulers who’d been driven from the cities.

  It all made perfect sense. The nobles had supplemented their own guards with hired mercenaries from off-world. From what she’d heard, they’d contracted with some of the best companies in the Far Stars.

  The mercs and the noble retinues were better equipped than most of the revolutionary forces, but none of them had anything like imperial tech. They had wanted the weapons for the same reason Arn and his people had. The first two shiploads had been expended hunting down and virtually destroying the splinter rebel groups, but there was little doubt this new shipment would have been deployed against the nobles and their mercenary allies.

  The mercs had been moving quickly, without stopping anywhere, even for a short rest. She wondered if that meant the battle was going badly for them, and they wanted to get through the gap before it closed. Shira didn’t give a shit who ruled Saragossa, but the last thing she wanted was for one side to win and take total control while she and her friends were still there. She was sure there would be an orgy of massacres and destruction when there was finally a victor, and she figured she had a much better chance of rescuing Blackhawk and getting away if the stalemate continued.

  The mercs kept moving, slipping around the end of the battle line and continuing on to the south. Shira looked up at the sky nervously then glanced down at her chronometer. It would be dawn soon, and she would lose the cover of darkness. She’d have to stay well back from the retreating soldiers to remain hidden, and she was worried she might lose the trail.

  They had passed through a section that had once been some sort of farmland, but it was now barren and largely burned out. There were buildings too, shadowy outlines against the dim light of predawn. A few sturdy stone structures were still standing, but others were shattered ruins, charred beams protruding from piles of ash and broken foundations. Like almost every other part of Saragossa she’d seen, there had been fighting here some time ago, or at least heavy shelling.

  Shira moved forward slowly, cautiously, using the buildings and wreckage as cover. The ground was treacherous, with large open pits scattered around. She could make one out ahead of her, a massive trench, at least twenty meters long. It looked like it had been about two meters deep before it had been partially filled. It took her eyes a few seconds to focus, but when they did, she knew at once what it was—a mass grave.

  There were broken pieces of bone, bleached and weathered, scattered all around. It didn’t take her too long to guess what happened. The rural nobles had held this area when the revolution began, and the graves were those of the peasants who had risen. Unlike the factory workers in the cities, the revolutionaries in the countryside had been quickly broken. The retainers of the nobles had done thorough work here, she realized, methodically executing the rebel farmworkers. That had been years before, but the half-buried bodies still lay where they had been placed in the trenches. Nothing was left now but bones; the wild boars and carrion birds had long since devoured the flesh of the dead, and what scraps had remained after their feast had long ago rotted away to nothing.

  The place was thick with the pall of death, and she did her best to ignore it all. She was here to save Blackhawk, not to mourn for a bunch of revolutionaries who had made their move and failed. She’d been called cold—dark, cynical—and she was self-aware enough not to dispute those claims. She could find warmth—heat, even, when it came to the Claw, her family—but she didn’t concern herself with battles that didn’t involve her. To her, life was an ongoing struggle, and the only alternative to killing your enemies was dying at their hands. She didn’t think of it as sad or tragic—simply a fact. It was just how things worked, how they’d always worked, and there was no point in attaching pointless emotion to it. The only reason she was still on Saragossa was because of Blackhawk, and he was the only thing she cared about right now.

  The sky was getting steadily lighter, and Shira knew it wouldn’t be long until sunrise. She slipped forward—slowly, cautiously—taking care to use the shattered buildings and debris for cover. She paused and looked ahead, watching the barely visible silhouettes of the retreating soldiers moving across a broad plain.

  “Damn,” she muttered. The fields ahead were wide open, without a building or structure in sight. Moreover they were fallow, not even a few tufts of young wheat for her to hide behind. She was going to have to let the enemy get even farther ahead, or risk being discovered. But if she allowed them to get completely out of view, would she lose them entirely?

  She looked up, her fists balled tightly in frustration. Then she saw it, a shadowy image at first, almost like a mirage, becoming clearer with each second, as the morning light began to spread across the countryside.

  A manor house, a huge, hulking château, loomed over the sprawling gray fields.

  That’s where they are going, she thought, suddenly certain. The building was enormous, vaster even than she’d first thought. It had to belong to one of the greatest of Saragossa’s families, one of the leaders of the noble opposition to the revolution.

  She sat down behind a pile of stones that had once been a wall, and she pulled out her canteen, taking a small sip. That had to be it, she thought again. And that meant she knew what she had to do. She’d let the soldiers go inside and then, somehow, she would find a way to sneak in.

  Hang on, Ark. I’m on my way.

  Ace breathed a sigh of relief as he turned away from the Claw. He’d lied well to Astra, and the story he’d told her was a plausible one, but he’d still had a knot in hi
s stomach. Astra was smart as hell, something he’d known before but had only recently begun to truly appreciate.

  She was stubborn and suspicious, too, and if she’d have caught an inkling of what was truly happening, God only knew what she might have done.

  Oh, well . . . what’s done is done.

  “You ready, sir?” Sarge walked up behind Ace, followed by his men. Buck and Von were carrying a small autocannon. It was a squad support weapon designed to fire from a heavy tripod. Drake was struggling with a heavy rocket launcher, and a sack of reloads he had strapped across his back. Ace had taken the heavy weapons out of the Claw’s armory. Once the Claw left, they’d be stuck on this shithole planet for close to a month, and there was no telling what they might encounter.

  “I still think you should stay with the Claw, Sarge.” His wound was neatly dressed, but his face was pale and haggard. “Those imperial bullets are no joke.”

  “Not on your life, sir. Not while the captain’s in trouble.” Sarge was normally respectful to rank, but Ace could tell from his tone that no orders were going to make him stay behind. Still, he didn’t look like he could handle a rifle very well. But he had a big machine pistol in a holster on his belt, and a half-dozen throwing knives hung from his shoulder strap. Ace had watched him use those knives a hundred times, and he’d never seen him miss—right or left handed.

  “All right, Sarge. But be careful, and don’t tear open that shoulder. We’re leaving in five minutes, so get your men ready.” He looked over the noncom’s shoulder toward Ringo, who was limping around on his bandaged leg, carrying one of the heavy particle accelerators. He glanced back toward Sarge. “Are you sure Ringo’s up to this?”

  Sarge stared back with cold eyes. “He won’t stay behind while the captain’s in trouble, sir. No more than I would.”

  Ace frowned. It wasn’t really an answer to his question, but he had a pretty good idea it was all he was going to get. He just nodded and turned to head back to get his kit.

  Doc Sandor was digging through the pile of supplies. He had his portable medkit strapped across his back, and he was rummaging through the weapons. He already had a holstered pistol on his belt, and a small survival knife. He pulled an assault rifle and a shoulder belt full of fresh clips from the crate.

  “I’m still not sure how you convinced me to let you come along, Doc.”

  “It’s easy, Ace: I’m a little older than you, and a whole lot smarter. But even without that, I’m also part of this crew. I owe as much to Arkarin Blackhawk as anyone here, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stay behind while he’s in trouble.” He whipped the assault rifle around, strapping it across his back. “He may be wounded, or one of you may walk into more enemy fire. Without me what will you do? Tie up your wounds with the filthiest piece of cloth you can find? As much as I enjoy trying to kill every Saragossan microbe that crawls into your bodies, I’d just as soon do it right from the start.” He stared at Ace with piercing green eyes. “So let’s cut the shit and get moving.”

  Ace nodded. There was no point in arguing, not with any of them. Not while Blackhawk’s life was on the line. He smiled. The captain deserved this kind of loyalty, and Ace was satisfied to see that he had it. Blackhawk had a dark past, one that tormented his dreams, one that he wouldn’t discuss with anyone. Ace knew that much. But he knew one more thing. He didn’t give a shit. The only thing that mattered was here and now.

  Ace Graythorn was ready to die for Blackhawk. So were Sarge, Buck, Doc, and everyone else who had stayed behind. They weren’t going to abandon their captain.

  Not ever.

  CHAPTER 23

  “I HAVE BEEN SENT TO EXPRESS THE DEEPEST DISAPPOINTMENT of Lord Governor Vos, not only in the original failure that allowed Astra Lucerne’s rescue, but the subsequent inability to pursue and find this—it was a single ship, was it not?—that escaped from your entire fleet.” The speaker was insolent, showing barely any trace of respect in his tone as he addressed the monarch of Kalishar. He knew any local who’d dare to speak to the ka’al in such a manner would have been impaled or crucified, but he had come from the imperial governor, and he knew the ka’al’s fear overrode his anger.

  Sebastien Alois de Villeroi was the bastard son of an imperial viscount, the product of his father’s incestuous liaison with an underage cousin. The notoriety of his birth had compelled him to live a quiet existence out of the public eye—comfortably provisioned, but utterly without influence or power and with no chance of succeeding to his father’s titles and estates.

  Bored and restless with such a cloistered life, he’d chosen to leave his father’s world of Aquillar to seek adventure and fortune as an agent in the imperial intelligence service. His controversial lineage was no bar to success among the cutthroats and schemers engaged in espionage for the empire. Even more important, his work as an imperial spy offered an outlet for his nearly unbridled sadism. Villeroi loved inflicting pain—on his enemies, on innocent bystanders, even on his lovers. He derived pleasure from tormenting his victims the way others did from love or lust or accomplishment.

  And the imperial intelligence service offered endless opportunities to profit from his cruelty.

  Left to his own desires, Villeroi would already have hoisted the obese Tarn Belgaren onto a spit and roasted his carcass. But General Wilhelm had been clear that the ka’al was not to be harmed or deposed unless Wilhelm specifically ordered it. The agent could verbally torment Kalishar’s ruler—he could threaten him and plot with conspirators to prepare a revolt—but he was forbidden to go any further without a direct command.

  “Agent Villeroi, the situation is not as simple as you imply.” Belgaren was struggling to keep his voice firm, but his fear was apparent to Sebastien. The imperial spy had heard stories, tales of a younger, bolder ka’al from years before, one who would have taken his head for such impudence. But he could see age and decades of comfort had softened the ka’al, draining away his courage and leaving almost no trace of the proud and violent young pirate who had seized Kalishar’s throne so many years before.

  “And how is that so? Did your man not arrive on Kalishar with Lady Lucerne? Was he not already on your world when this rogue adventurer plucked her from under your nose?” He ignored the ka’al’s titles, and his tone continued to drip with disrespect.

  Maybe I can provoke him into doing something rash, so I can then fillet the skin off his greasy hide . . .

  Regrettably, the ka’al seemed to get his rage under control. “Arkarin Blackhawk is a dangerous man, Agent, and his crew is made up of the worst rogues in the Far Stars. They . . .”

  “Yet you were able to capture this Blackhawk before he could escape,” Villeroi interrupted, staring into the ka’al’s puffy eyes as he did. “And then you lost him, while you—and all your guards—watched.”

  “That is enough, Agent.” The imperial envoy’s abrasive manner finally sliced through the ka’al’s fear, provoking an angry response. “You misrepresent what occurred. Lady Lucerne had not yet been delivered into my hands. Captain Mondran had just landed, with Wolf’s Claw in close pursuit. Blackhawk’s people intercepted his crew before they could reach my stronghold, and Mondran and his people were all killed in the subsequent battle.”

  “An entire crew of one of your ships, slain by a small group of smugglers and petty adventurers?” Villeroi ignored the ka’al’s mounting anger. He was here to disabuse the monarch of any notions he might have that he was anything but a servant of the governor. He’d been bought and paid for with the imperial gold that saved Kalishar from economic collapse and the revolution that almost certainly would have followed in its wake, and he would have to learn to serve his new master. Villeroi stared hard into the ka’al’s wavering eyes. “And how many of the enemy did your men slay while defending themselves against this attack? They would have outnumbered Blackhawk’s people by what . . . two to one, three to one?” He paused, savoring Belgaren’s anger and discomfort—since he was limited at present to infl
icting psychological abuse. “Is it possible that an entire ship’s crew of feared pirates could not kill even one of their assailants?”

  The ka’al shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the rolls of fat on his enormous bulk jiggling as he did. “You do not understand, Agent Villeroi. Blackhawk’s crew is extremely dangerous. Mondran’s men fought well, but they were facing two giants along with the others.”

  “Giants?” Villeroi’s tone was thick with mockery. “Perhaps there were gremlins as well . . . or a dragon?” A caustic laugh escaped his lips. “And what of the fleet you sent in pursuit? What news from there? None, I suppose. Just more excuses.”

  The ka’al twitched angrily on his throne, but he took no action.

  “I have dispatched my entire fleet to search every nearby system. They are the best trackers in the Far Stars, the scourge of the entire sector. They will find Wolf’s Claw and bring Astra Lucerne back to Kalishar.”

  Villeroi stood unmoving, silently glaring at Belgaren for a few seconds and making no effort to hide his disgust. “Well, I hope they are successful. Because Governor Vos will not be pleased if the Lucerne girl escapes. Or even if she is killed in a botched rescue attempt.

  “Do we understand each other?” His voice was like ice.

  Villeroi watched as the ka’al struggled with what he was about to say. A promise like the one Sebastien demanded was nonnegotiable. If he or his men broke his word, the ka’al’s life would be forfeit . . . after a time at Sebastien’s itching hands.