by Glen Cook
"Father... Play something... the way you used to."
A tear forced itself from his eye as he remembered a tune he used to tootle for her when she was a child. He unslung the case on his back, praying the cold and encounter with Helga's guardian had not ruined his instrument. He wet the reed, closed his eye, began to play. It squealed a little, but yielded its child-memory. "That one, Honeyhair?"
Silence. The voiceless, bellowing silence of death.
He indulged in a frenzy of rage that masked a deeper, more painful emotion. For one long minute he let his grief take him. His music became an agonized howl.
Valerie was not the first of his blood he had slain. She might not be the last. Practice did not ease the agony. He could not do it without crying in the night forever afterward.
This Storm, the Storm of tears and grief and fury, was the Storm no one ever saw, the Storm unknown to anyone but Frieda, who held him while the sobs racked him.
He took hold. There were things to do. He had learned something. He had to move fast.
He used the dead face of Helga Dee as a will-o'-the-wisp to follow from Festung Todesangst's deeps. He stalked it with the intensity of a fanatic assassin.
He had thought that he hated Richard Hawksblood. That odium was a child's fleeting passion compared to what he felt now. His feelings toward Helga had become a torch he would follow through the darkness all the rest of his days.
He had not asked the questions that had brought him to Helga's World. But their answers were implicit in what he had learned.
They had come to the end of Michael's game. Dee was pulling out the stops, laying everything on the line, risking it all to get whatever he wanted. The Legion and Hawksblood were being pushed into Blackworld like cocks into the pit, to fight and this time die the death-without-resurrection.
Whatever obsession compelled Michael, it was about to be satisfied. Michael was about to attain his El Dorado. There would be war, and there would be feeling in it. The hatreds were being pumped up. The Gotterdammerung could not be averted.
The twilight of the Legion lay just beyond a near horizon. It might mean the end of all mercenary armies...
Storm made a vow. He and Richard might fight, and both lose, but they would go to the shadows with one victory to light their paths to Hell.
The Dees would go down with them. Every last one.
Twenty-Six: 2845 AD
The last snow was melting in the forest shade when Deeth made his second bid for freedom. He had prepared for months. First he concentrated on convincing Jackson that he had resigned himself to his fate. He faithfully did all he was told, and cared for the old man beyond what was demanded. He made no effort to flee when apparent opportunities arose. Nor did he struggle much against perversions or the incessant maltreatment. He suffered in silence, stoically waiting.
He began decorating the stage of his revenge in the fall, under the guise of caring for Jackson. During autumn he carpeted the cavern floor with leaves. When the chills moved in and it became necessary to keep a fire burning, he gathered piles of firewood. While foraging wood he collected small, sharp stones that he concealed around the cave.
On the night he chose he cut his neck rope with an edged rock. Hours passed while he sawed, painstakingly avoiding rustling the leaves of his bed. When he was done he did not immediately flee.
Holding the parted rope round his neck, he rose and stoked up the fire. The old man wakened, as he always did when Deeth stirred. He cursed Deeth for disturbing him. Deeth bowed his head and went on with his work. Jackson settled back into a grumbling snore.
Deeth built the fire higher and higher. It began to roar, and pull a breeze into the cave.
Concealed near the fire were the things he wanted to take: a hide blanket, steel for fire-starting, a package of dried fruit. He tossed them out the cave mouth.
Jackson snapped to awareness, suspicious and crabby. He jerked the rope. It flew into his face. He stared at the frayed end in dull-witted surprise.
Deeth seized a forked stick and shoveled fire onto the dry, powdery leaves. He skipped back and toppled the huge kindling stack, carefully prepared for the moment. It slid into the flames. The fire gnawed at it, leaping higher and crackling louder by the second.
Deeth dumped piles of larger wood.
The old man, cursing, terrified, staggered out of his chair and tried to charge through before the barrier became impassable.
Deeth floored him with a thrown stone.
The power of hatred was in his arm. He whistled that rock into Jackson's chest with such force that he heard brittle old ribs crack.
Jackson rose for another try. The trap had closed. He retreated instead.
Deeth watched in fascination as Jackson screamed and danced in the fire. Eventually, crazed with pain, the old man flung himself at the barrier again. He crashed through and collapsed outside, twitching all over, feebly crawling toward his tormentor.
Deeth backed a step when necessary, and collected his supplies, but did not leave till Jackson died.
He felt no real emotion afterward. It had not been an execution, even, just an ending of misery.
He started toward the village.
The boy had been scarred. Something had been carved out of him in that cave. Never again would he feel true, whole, mortal emotion. He had become that fearful, wholly pragmatic monster which has no conscience, and no comprehension of emotion. Henceforth he would fake it, when necessary, as protective coloration, and would believe that everyone else was doing the same. The only things with meaning, most of the time, would be his own whims, fancies, and hatreds. Everyone else he would see as objects to be moved and used.
Deeth had acted now because the village chieftain had condemned the girl Emily to another week in the punishment pit. He could spirit her away without having to sneak her out of the chieftain's house.
He had to enter and leave the village past a guard watching for a night raid by neighboring tribes. Going in, the sentry was asleep at his post. Deeth crept past. Keeping to the deepest darkness, he moved to the chieftain's hut.
The pit had been covered with a lid made of hide on a wooden frame. Rocks weighted it down. Deeth removed it.
He lay on his stomach and whispered, "Emily! It's time." He could see nothing below, but knew she was awake. He heard her frightened breathing.
One of the village's domesticated beasts snorted nearby. It sensed his presence, but was neither noisy nor excitable. It did not give him away.
"Emily! Come on. It's Deeth."
She did not respond.
"Come on!" Time was passing. He dared not waste much on a frightened slave. He reached down, tried to get hold of her hair. His arm was not long enough. "Come on, girl. Give me your hand. We've got to get moving."
She whimpered.
He knew she had suffered, but hardly more than he. What was the matter with her? Was the spirit of these animals that easily broken?
"Your hand!" he snapped. He reached again.
And felt her touch and grab him. He braced himself and pulled. Wriggling and whimpering, naked, she slithered out of the pit.
"Now what?" he asked himself. She could not face the cold unclad, nor could she run through the woods naked. The underbrush would flay her. "Get something to wear," he ordered, indicating the chieftain's hut.
She shook her head.
"Move!" Deeth snarled.
Still she shook her head.
"Dammit, go!" He snapped fingertips against her cold bare buttocks. She yipped softly, then vanished into the house.
Deeth chewed his lip, crouched beside the hovel, watched the hills for the ghost of dawn. They had made noise. Had anyone heard?
The animal made more curiosity sounds, a kind of continuous questioning grunt. It could not leave its pen to investigate. The night creatures of the woods hooted and chattered and whistled.
What about those? He had heard of no large predators. That did not mean that they did not exist. He knew Pref
actlas only by what he had seen. Jackson had not let him see much.
The girl returned. She had clothed herself in furs. "Yuloa's things," she whispered. She had stolen them from the chieftain's son.
Deeth chuckled softly, nervously. "We'd better get started. It'll be sunrise pretty soon."
"Where're we going?"
He did not know. He had not planned beyond getting her out of the pit. He just did not know enough about this world.
"Back to the station," he told her. He set off before she could protest. They had to go somewhere, if only to get away from here. She followed after a moment's hesitation.
The sentry had moved, but was asleep again. They passed him carefully.
Deeth stopped after another hundred yards. He did not know the way. The direction, yes, but not the paths.
Pride would not permit him to confess ignorance to an animal. He resumed walking before Emily asked questions.
An hour later, while they were struggling through underbrush on a steep hillside, she asked, "Why don't we use the trail? It's just over there." Panting, she added, "Doing it this way takes a lot of time. They'll be after us pretty soon."
Deeth frowned. Was she going to be a talker, all the time questioning and nagging?
She had a point. And had presented it without questioning his reasons for doing things his way. "You could be right."
He went in the direction she indicated. He encountered a narrow track. The going became easier. They reached the forest's edge as dawn began painting bold strokes of crimson and gold on a canvas of indigo clouds.
"We'll rest here," Deeth said. He settled down with his back against the trunk of a huge tree. Two giant roots made arms for his momentary throne.
Before him lay the plain the Norbon had cleared when first they had come to Prefactlas. It was lifeless now, except for a few feral grazers and the morning birds dipping and weaving after insects. Nothing but ruins remained where the Norbon complex had stood. Even the great-house, which had been constructed as a fortress, had been smashed level with the plain. Grass and moss colored its fire-blackened remains.
Of the other structures there was even less evidence. The human Marines had done a thorough job.
And then they had gone. Not even a watch unit had been left behind. The baked landing sites of their assault craft had disappeared under new growth.
He stared and thought. There would be little here for him. Nothing lay behind but torture or death. He had to go on.
Where to? Any animals they encountered would treat them no better than those they had known. And if they reached an area controlled by Confederation humans? The girl would give him away.
Tomorrow and tomorrow. This was today. He had to meet the problems as they arose. Right now he had to keep moving.
"Deeth? Maybe we shouldn't stay here too long. They know I'm gone by now."
Deeth rose and walked toward the ruins. Maybe he could find something useful.
The lower limb of the sun cleared the horizon before they reached the site. Their path led them past scores of skeletons. Some had been scattered by scavengers. Shreds of Sangaree clothing clung to most. Deeth found one small one wearing Dharvon w'Pugh's bright party pantaloons. His skull had been crashed.
Deeth stood over his old enemy. That was no way for an heir to die.
He looked for the kitchens. They seemed the most likely source for something useful.
He poked around for an hour. It was useless. The ruins had been picked as clean as the Sangaree bones. Emily said all the nearby villagers had appeared once the Marines departed.
He came up with a battered aluminum cup and a butcher knife without a handle. He gave them to Emily. He scrounged a pointed, foot-long shard of glassteel for himself. He might be able to mount it on a handle or shaft. He moved to the armory, hoping to find a weapon. The raiders and scavengers had been thorough. He came up with nothing but a bottle of lasegun coolant he could drain for use as a canteen.
He was empting the bottle when the girl shouted. She waved at the sky. A faint chuga-chuga-chuga came from hight overhead.
A Confederation support ship was moving south. Deeth scrambled across the rubble, knocked Emily down. She kicked and screamed and...
The patrol dwindled into the distance. They watched it go. Deeth helped Emily up.
"Why?" she demanded. "They would've helped us. Oh. Well, I could've gone with them."
"You're Norbon." Deeth turned his back. He started kicking rubble around, remembering.
He had been on Prefactlas just one week when the raiders came. Not long, but long enough to have fallen in love with the station and staff. It had been his first trip off Homeworld. Everything had seemed romantic. Especially old Rhafu.
What had become of the breeding master? He had been a real man. Probably took several of the animals with him.
"Time to go, Emily," he said. "We should be off the plain before they track us here." He started after the copter. South was the only direction to go.
He was not ready to confront Prefactlas's conquerors, but had to be near their main base when he was. Their headquarters, he guessed, would be the Sexon holding. It was the biggest on the planet, most easily defended, and had the best communications facilities. It would make an ideal bridgehead for human occupation. It lay near the planet's main spaceport, a facility capable of handling the heaviest lighters.
That would have to be their destination. Only there could he get off planet.
There was one small problem. The Sexon holding lay more than a thousand miles away.
The journey took the youngsters three years. It was punctuated by interims of slavery as grim as their first. Adversity forged nickel-hard transethnic bonds between them. They became a survival unit.
Emily lost any desire to be away from or to betray him.
Years passed after their arrival. They begged. They were forced into schools or orphanages. They did odd jobs. Emily got work as a cleaning girl in the offices of Prefactlas Corporation. They survived. And Deeth almost forgot his father's parting charge.
They were sixteen when the wildly improbable happened. Emily became pregnant.
Deeth's world shifted its axis. He woke up. He began looking in new directions. He could not raise a child himself. He was Sangaree. He had a duty to the infant, wanted or not.
Emily's job had brought her into contact with the President of the Corporation. He was bemused by the girl. He kept plying her with little gifts.
Deeth went off by himself. He did a lot of thinking. And hurting. Emily's suitor was the man who had led the attack on his family. His orders had caused all the deaths at the Norbon station. The man was his dearest enemy. And the one real hope for his unborn child.
Sangaree prided themselves on their pragmatism.
"Go to him," Deeth told Emily. "Make him your man. Don't argue. He has what you need. Yesterday is done. Tomorrow we begin new lives."
She refused. She fought. She cried.
He put her out of their shanty and held the door till she went away. He sat with his back to it and wept.
Twenty-Seven: 3031 AD
The brothers Darksword looked like regimental file clerks. They wore that look of perpetual bewilderment of the innocent repeatedly slapped in the face by reality. Wizards of the data banks. Easy prey for the monsters in the human jungle.
They were short, slim, thin-faced, and watery-eyed. They had pallid skin and stringy brown hair so sparse it belonged on an endangered species list. Helmut affected a pair of pince-nez. The more bold Wulf had had his vision surgically corrected.
They were antsy little men who could not stand still. Outsiders pegged them as chronic hand-wringers, nervous little people who faced even petty troubles with the trepidation of an old maid bound for an orgy.
It was an act they had lived so long they almost believed it themselves.
There was as much ice and iron in them as in Cassius or Storm. Had Storm meant it, they would have killed the mining official without
qualm or second thought. Disobedience was an alien concept.
A matched set of stringy old assassins.
Their lives, emotions, and loyalties had been narrowly focused for two hundred forty years. They had followed Boris Storm as boys, in the old Palisarian Directorate. They had attended military school with him, joined Confederation Navy with him, and became part of Prefactlas Corporation with him. When Ulant struck they returned to service with him, and afterward helped him create the Iron Legion. Following Boris's death they had transferred their devotion to his son.
They had been born on Old Earth and taken to the Directorate young. They had learned the motherworld's harsh lessons in Europe's worst slums.
Two things matter. Sign on with the gang with the most guns. Serve it with absolute devotion as long as it serves faithfully in return.
The centuries had garbled those truths a tad. They could not abandon the Legion now, biggest guns or no. One occasionally reminded the other that it looked like time to get out. Neither moved. They continued serving Gneaus Storm with the implacability of natural law.
Storm had left them in command of the Fortress. The simple fact of his absence presented them with enough problems, Wulf claimed, to frustrate a saint into a deal with the devil.
The Darkswords were curious in yet another way. They were that rare animal, the true believer in an age of infidels. Only they understood how they squared their actions with the moral demands of a Christian faith.
Michael Dee was human quicksilver. Pollyanna, without Lucifer there to compel discretion, seemed to have set herself the task of engulfing every functional penis in the Fortress. She had become a crude joke.
Lucifer had been gone only two days when she lured Benjamin back to her bed, with such indiscretion that everyone in the Fortress knew. Frieda became a volcano constantly on the edge of erupting.
The traditional morality had little weight in the Fortress of Iron, but one tried to avoid needless friction.
Pollyanna did not seem to care. Her behavior was almost consciously self-destructive.
Bets were being made. Would Lucifer return so incensed as to repeat the blood-spill he had attempted earlier? Would Benjamin's wife finally decide that she had taken enough and cut off his balls? It was a crackling tense situation made to order for a Michael Dee.