The Cyber Chronicles - Book I: Queen of Arlin

by T C Southwell

Chapter One

  Tassin gazed across the darkening land as the sun’s afterglow faded. The distant forest grew gloomier by the minute, and she shivered, wishing the strange wizard, Manutim, had not insisted that she meet him there alone tonight. The forest, with its huge, gnarled trees, frightened her. Legends abounded of werewolves that dwelt in its dark depths and emerged at night to hunt.

  Turning from the dusky vista, Tassin scanned the battlements. The sentries’ armour glinted in the light of newly kindled torches. They stood like statues, their faces blank, but for all she knew they could have been the cook’s cousins, since there were so few of her trained soldiers left. Most had perished over the last two months. She wondered how long it would take for the last remnants of her once-great army to lose hope and flee before they too were slaughtered on the battlefield. Deserters had been fleeing the castle for days now, vanishing from their posts in the dead of night.

  Three months had passed since her father’s death, and she still missed him terribly. She now ruled the largest and most beautiful of the five kingdoms, and was the prey of the three unwed kings’ ambition to rule Arlin. They had come courting, and Tassin shuddered as she recalled their bungling attempts to impress her. Fat, bearded Bardock, who smelt of wine and dogs. Old, widowed Grisson, thin and lecherous, who sucked at his food with a toothless mouth. The memory soured her stomach. All her hopes had rested upon the young, handsome King Torrian, the only one she had even considered, until she had found out that he was a rapist and woman beater.

  The unwholesome glint in his eyes had become obvious when she had been informed of his true nature. Her principal lady-in-waiting, Lady Royanne, had told her tearfully, aware that she was dashing the young Queen’s hopes for a happy marriage. During his stay at Castle Alrade, Torrian had attacked one of the serving maids, and his retinue had spread surreptitious whispers of his appetites. The rumours were not supposed to reach Tassin, but Royanne was an able spy, unearthing anything potentially harmful to her monarch.

  Tassin sighed, her eyes sweeping the night-shrouded land. The law said that she must have a husband of noble blood, and the kings could force her to wed one of them if she did not choose a suitable spouse. They had pointed that out repeatedly, and, since the only available prince was Prince Victor of Olgara, her choice was limited. Olgara was a poor kingdom bordering the Badlands that relied on trade to survive, and it could not jeopardise its alliances with the other kingdoms. Prince Victor had not offered suit, and King Xavier, his older brother, had sent only a letter of condolence. She wanted none of the three available kings, however, and had told them so.

  Torrian had been the most outraged, swearing to tear down her castle and drag her to the altar by her hair, as the law allowed. In desperation, Tassin sent invitations to all the unwed noblemen in her kingdom of marriageable age. All but one had declined, and he, a young lord from the southern part of her kingdom, had been waylaid and killed, apparently by highwaymen. She knew the three kings had used threats and blackmail to prevent the other noblemen from accepting her invitation, and in the case of the bravest, had resorted to murder. In the face of this bold treachery, she could do nothing but reiterate her refusal of their offers and weather the storm that followed.

  Torrian had sent men to kidnap her from her bedroom, but they had been discovered and executed after confessing their mission. In a fury of fear and defiance, Tassin had mobilised her soldiers to defend her borders, preventing spies and would-be kidnappers entering. After she had foiled two more attempts with these tactics, Torrian had joined with the other kings to fight their way to her castle and carry her off by force. So the war had started, and, although her army had rallied to her call and her lords fought bravely, she was losing.

  Three armies stood against her, united in their purpose and agreed amongst themselves that the first to reach her side would win her hand and rule Arlin. Pervor had begged her to wed Torrian and end the conflict, but Tassin was adamant that she would not be forced to wed a rapist. In her darkest hour, when it seemed that all was lost and she would end up as a battle prize, the old advisor had told her of the magician Manutim’s promise to her father. The mage’s weapon was designed to destroy the Death Zone and put an end to the monsters that came from it to ravage towns in Arlin, but such a weapon might also help her to win the war.

  Turning back to the battlements, she gripped the cold rock and gazed into the darkness. Manutim’s promise of help gave her a vestige of hope, for he was a wise and powerful mage. The weapon he had promised her father must be fearsome indeed if it could win the war. She had sworn to die in battle before marrying any of the vile kings. Then her cousin, a weedy boy of twelve, would inherit, and her uncle would be regent until her cousin was sixteen. Raising her chin, she caressed her sword’s chill hilt. She was a warrior queen. She would fight for her right to be free and choose her husband.

  The last shreds of light faded from the sky with the closing of a fist of darkness. Tassin pulled her fur coat around her as the night air nipped at her skin. A cold breeze had sprung up from the east, laden with the scent of earth and vegetation. Shivering, she walked along the battlements to the stairway that led down to the courtyard where her horse waited. Stony-faced guards watched her pass, their eyes glittering as they tracked her movement. If they had opinions on the rash course she had set herself, they knew better than to air them within range of Royanne’s sharp ears.

  Deserters slipped away in the night, fleeing the coming bloodbath. The crippled guard captain, lacking an eye and half of his face from a sword cut many years before, kept tally of the dwindling men and informed her daily of their numbers. He did not offer to hunt down the defectors, his reticence informing her that he did not blame them for their cowardice. She did not, either. It was cruel to ask men to lay down their lives merely to keep their queen from a marriage she did not want. In a land where women were little more than chattel, a queen reigning alone was unheard of, and to most, her decision to fight must seem worse than folly.

  The head groom bowed as she approached, offering her the reins of her iron-grey charger, a warhorse of the highest calibre trained to kill with teeth and hooves. Falcon snorted, his ears twitching, and she stroked his muzzle when he snuffled her. A mounting block was put in place, and she swung into the saddle, gathering up the slack in the reins as he pranced and sidestepped. Falcon stood eighteen hands tall, his steel-shod hooves the size of soup plates, a behemoth of muscle clad in plates of armour. He was not the sort of horse that could be ridden side saddle, and she rode astride, the split skirt of her royal blue riding habit allowing her to do so.

  “Open the gates!” the head groom shouted as Falcon paced towards the portcullis, his hooves striking sparks from the courtyard’s cobblestones. The portcullis rose with a rumble of chains, and the drawbridge beyond descended. The captain watched her pass, his disapproval of her solo, nocturnal jaunt clearly written on his scarred visage.

  Falcon thundered across the drawbridge at an eager canter, defying her control. Once off the drawbridge, she let him have his head, his muscles surging beneath her as the cold wind tore her hair from its pins. She revelled in the freedom of the wild gallop, wishing she never had to return to her father’s castle and the incessant, losing war with its inevitable tragic conclusion. Slowing Falcon to a bouncing canter, she turned him towards the wood. The stallion fought her with good natured spirit, both of them knowing he could defy her if he chose. The trees loomed ahead, and Tassin prayed that Manutim would be waiting. As they entered the forest, she slowed the mettlesome charger to a walk, only the crunch of leaves under his hooves breaking the breathless hush.

  The largest of the three moons had risen by the time she reached the glade with its ring of stones, flooding it with silver light. She reined Falcon in and stroked his thick, arched neck while he fidgeted, alert to every whisper of sound. An owl’s hoot startled her as the winged shape flitted between the trees in search of prey. Her eyes darted amongst the ominous shadows that seemed t
o move and creep in the moonlight.

  Tassin slumped when a white-robed figure emerged from the trees and walked into the centre of the ring of stones. Manutim’s hooded robe covered all but his pale hands, and the hood’s deep shadows hid his face. She guided Falcon over to him, and he stroked the warhorse’s velvet muzzle while she dismounted. Although she had never seen his face, she had trusted him since her father had introduced him eight years ago, and he had not betrayed her. The villagers spoke of strange lights in the sky when Manutim visited, but his aloof demeanour did not encourage questions. He had given her a wealth of advice and taught her a great deal about life and politics, however.

  “Well met, Majesty,” he greeted her in his soft, strangely accented voice. “How goes your war?”

  “Badly. I rejoice to see you again. Have you been well?”

  His head dipped. He never bowed to her, but always appeared respectful. “I am well, Majesty. I hope you are also in good health.”

  She sighed a cloud of steam. “I despair. I am losing this war, and that I will not accept. Before any of those three foul kings lock me in his castle, I shall kill myself. I fear that time approaches.”

  “I did advise you against this many years ago, did I not? Do you remember my telling you not to start a war you could not win? Truly you have disappointed your teacher, little one.”

  “What would you have me do? Wed that rapist monster, or one of the doddering fools?”

  “Indeed, your options are not the best. You could abdicate in favour of your cousin and put an end to their plotting, but I know you would not consider such a move, although to die with your soldiers seems rather extreme. It is not too late to reconsider.”

  She shook her head. “I shall not be defeated except by death. That at least is honourable.”

  “Ah, and teach the kings a lesson, no doubt. Such pride is foolish, but you are too young to know the folly of your words. You will not realise how final death is until you stare into its face and feel the cold touch of fear.”

  “Your words are cruel. Have you no other solution to offer? Pervor said you would help me.”

  “Do not despair, My Queen. I have the answer to your troubles.”

  “You are indeed a great wizard. What have you found?”

  “I originally purchased it for your father, may his soul rest in peace. He asked for my help to deal with the Death Zone, and the weapon I have brought was for this purpose. But it will serve you just as well in your need, after which you may send it into the Death Zone to complete that mission. It resides in your dungeons, where I have conjured it. I searched the universe for this thing, and it cost much, yet I am happy for you to use it. When your war is won and the Death Zone destroyed, I shall return for it, but until then, it is yours.”

  “What is it?”

  “You will see that for yourself, but do not doubt that it will defeat your enemies, no matter what you may think. Do not be deceived by its appearance. It is a powerful weapon.”

  Tassin disliked the mystery, but Manutim had always been an enigma. “Thank you, good wizard, your help is much needed and appreciated. I trust your judgement, and if you say this thing is the answer to my troubles, it must be so. Take this as a token of my gratitude.” She slid a ring from her finger, set with a green-streaked blue stone, and held it out.

  Manutim’s slender fingers closed around it like a spider clasping its prey, and he raised it to the light to examine it. “I require no payment, My Queen, but I shall treasure this gift since it is you who gave it.”

  Tassin smiled, turning away to find a suitable stone to use as a mounting block. “I must hurry back. I am curious about your gift, and it is not safe for me here.”

  Manutim pocketed the ring. “In your dungeon, you will find a casket. Press the button on its side, and within a few moments it will open and your new weapon will be revealed. I must leave, so you will not see me for a while. When I return, your war will be over and the Death Zone destroyed.”

  The wizard turned and sauntered into the forest, vanishing amongst the shadows as swiftly and silently as he had appeared. Tassin stared after him, then led Falcon to a rock and mounted, guiding him along the faint, moon-silvered trail that snaked between the trees like a tarnished serpent, dappled with flecks of shadow. The dark forest’s silence pressed in upon her, oppressive and pregnant with unknown dangers. As she neared its edge, Falcon tossed his head and pranced, ignored her soothing murmurs and communicated his unease. She wanted to give him his head and race from the wood, but good sense prevailed, for an overhanging branch was too likely to sweep her from the saddle. The shadows took on a sinister air, and every looming tree seemed like a dark warrior with woody hands outstretched.

  Black figures burst from the undergrowth and leapt into her path, naked swords gleaming in their fists. Falcon stopped, trembling as he awaited her command. A suave, smug voice spoke from the darkness beside her, making her jump and whip around.

  “So, my pretty, it seems I have won. There is no escape. You are now mine.” Torrian stepped from the forest, a smirk on his strong-featured face, which, although considered handsome, was somewhat coarse.

  She forced a smile and spoke in a gasping voice. “You overcome me, Torrian. I knew you would be the one to win my hand, and I am glad to be proven right.”

  “So this was all to test my mettle? How romantic. I approve, my dear Tassin. I had not known that you were the type of woman to sacrifice four thousand men to test your suitor.” He chuckled.

  Tassin quelled a shudder. “My palfrey trembles with fear, and I think he may bolt if your men do not hold him.”

  Torrian eyed the warhorse. “He is a goodly size for a palfrey, and armoured too.”

  “And yet a palfrey is all he is, for you know full well no mere woman could ride a warhorse, although his appearance is intended to mislead those too slow of wit to realise this.”

  The King hesitated, then signalled to his men, who approached, lowered their swords and reached for Falcon’s reins. As soon as they were near enough, Tassin loosed the reins, grasped the pommel and shouted, “Falcon, attack!”

  The stallion reared with a squeal, his forefeet lashing out to strike two soldiers, smashing them to the ground. As he dropped to all fours he lunged, sank long yellow teeth into a third man, lifted him and flung him into the trees like a rag doll, trailing an agonised scream. Tassin clung to the saddle as he spun and kicked, two solid thuds testifying to his accuracy.

  “It’s a warhorse!” a man yelled, and the circle of soldiers closed, their blades flashing towards the stallion. Falcon reared again, propelled himself forwards with a powerful thrust of his hind legs and smashed two more men down with steel-shod hooves. A sword clanged against his armour-clad shoulder in a shower of sparks, and he staggered. Tassin drew her sword with a hiss of steel, slashing at the dodging men. Falcon kicked again, but more men streamed from the woods, too many for a scouting party.

  Gathering up her reins, she urged Falcon forward, overriding the command to fight. The stallion plunged ahead, thrust men aside and squealed as a sword inflicted a gash in his flank. He kicked in retaliation, then they were beyond the soldiers, galloping through the wood. Tassin crouched as trees whipped past. Branches lashed her, scratched her skin and ripped her clothes. Hoof beats thundered behind her, and she glanced back at the party of horsemen. Torrian’s roars goaded them after her. She clung to Falcon’s mane, praying a branch would not scrape her from his back.

  Falcon crashed through the forest, his hooves sliding on the treacherous leaves, almost sending him skidding into a tree. They burst into the open with Torrian’s cavalrymen close behind, their faster mounts gaining on the warhorse. As they drew alongside, one reached for her reins. Falcon lunged at him, knocking his horse down. Man and beast rolled in a tangled heap, and Falcon turned his head to snap at the horse on the other side, making it shy.

  Tassin struck at the rider who drew alongside to replace the one who had fallen, her sword bouncing off h
is armour. The man hacked at Falcon’s neck, cutting a gash. The stallion squealed again, lashing out sideways with his hind feet. The blow snapped the other horse’s front leg with a crack, and it ploughed head-first into the ground. The warhorse was tiring fast. His wounds sapped his strength and his blood splattered her face. Ahead, men ran from the castle, alerted by lookouts to the Queen’s peril. Two of her knights thundered across the drawbridge, armour flashing.

  One of her enemies darted closer and raked Falcon’s flank with his sword, trying to cut her girth. The weapon narrowly missed her leg, slipping under it. The stallion kicked, sending the cavalry horse staggering away, but Tassin’s saddle slid back. Grasping handfuls of Falcon’s mane, she pulled her feet from the stirrups and let the saddle fall. Another rider closed, his sword aimed at Falcon’s hamstrings.

  “Kick!” Tassin bellowed, and the warhorse obeyed, smashing the sword from the soldier’s hand. Tassin urged him on as her knights reached her, engaging Torrian’s soldiers in a clash of steel. She thundered over the drawbridge, and her enemies fled from her knights, their prey out of reach.

  Falcon’s hooves skidded on the courtyard’s stones as he propped to a standstill, steam rolling up his heaving flanks. Tassin slid off, her legs trembling as she clung to his sweaty, blood-streaked neck. She leant against him, patted him and murmured soft words of gratitude into his twitching ears. The clatter of hooves and boots echoed around the yard as her knights and warriors returned, the portcullis rumbling down behind them. A groom led Falcon away, and she noted that the stallion was lame, casting a worried look at her head groom.

  “Tend to his wounds at once.”

  He bowed. “Of course, Majesty.”

  Tassin marched into the castle and headed for the dungeons, but one of her knights confronted her before she reached the stairway.

  “Majesty, we have driven them off for now, but a large force is camped beyond the wood, and I fear that tomorrow they will lay siege.”

  Tassin eyed Sir Duxon, whose beard was streaked with grey and waist thickening with age. He had been a good knight once, but now he was one of the few survivors only because he was over cautious, and would probably be useless at the final battle. He had been sent back from the front two weeks ago with the message that her army was losing, and had arrived without a scratch on him.

  Duxon valued his life too much to be a good knight. Perhaps it was because of the brood of ten children his plump wife raised on his modest estate, but Tassin did not want him beside her at the last. He was more likely to hand her over to Torrian to save his skin than he was to die fighting to protect her. In his opinion, a woman’s purpose was to serve a man and bear his children, and, although he had served her father faithfully, she did not trust him.

  She made no attempt to hide her contempt. “Fear not, Duxon, I have a new weapon. We will win this war.”

  He looked startled. “Of what nature, My Queen?”

  “You will see.” She swept past him, glancing down at herself with a grimace. Blood splattered her clothes and her hair was a tangled mane, but she wanted to investigate her new weapon at once. In the corridor, two ladies-in-waiting rushed out from that shadowy, mysterious place where servants waited to spring upon their masters and mistresses, begging her to bathe and change her garb. Tassin waved them away, grabbing a handkerchief that one fluttered to mop the blood from her face. A few strides further on, a tall, grey-robed figure stepped into her path, forcing her to stop.

  “Yes, Pervor?”

  Her father’s chief advisor bowed. “You met the wizard, My Queen?”

  “I did.”

  “What of the weapon he promised?”

  “He told me that it now resides in the dungeon.”

  “Ah. Allow me to accompany you.”

  “If you must.” She scowled at him, resenting the way he intimidated her. Maybe it was his air of aged wisdom, or his gaunt, cadaverous face, but most likely it was his great height, towering over her at two metres tall. All men were taller than her, but Pervor managed to loom more.

  Turning into the doorway that led to the dungeons, she surprised a sleepy guard, who snapped awake, belatedly trying to salute as he seized a lantern and hurried after her. She descended the worn steps, Pervor close behind her, the guard trying to keep up, his lantern swinging. The old advisor opened the first door, and she peered into an empty cell. They continued along corridor in this fashion, and at the fifth door, the lantern’s light fell on a smooth grey casket. The guard exclaimed and tried to move past her, but she raised a hand and took the lantern from him.

  “Wait outside.”

  “Majesty, that thing could be dangerous!”

  Tassin scowled at him. “Wait in the corridor.”

  The guard obeyed with a worried glance at the casket, and she entered the cell, closing the door. Pervor lighted the torches on the walls from the lantern. A thin layer of straw covered the floor, and the walls bore the scratches of doomed men striving to leave their mark. The gleaming casket appeared to be made from moulded glass. It was at least two metres long, about a metre high and eighty centimetres wide, shaped like a coffin. A square button marred its flawless surface halfway along its length, next to which were three dark crystals, one red, one yellow, and one green.

  “Push the button,” she whispered, remembering Manutim’s instructions. She did so, then stepped back when the red crystal lighted. It stayed on for perhaps ten minutes. Just as she was growing impatient, the red light went off and the yellow one came on. This crystal stayed on for only about five minutes, then the green one lighted. With a faint whir and click, the lid rose slightly, a black line appearing around its edge. Mist flowed from the crack, cascading onto the floor. She took a deep breath, mastering her fear. Manutim would not betray her.

  Fitting her fingers into the crack, she raised the lid. Mist billowed up, and she waited for it to settle. Inside, on a bed of white satin, lay a near-naked man. Tassin scowled, wondering if this was Manutim’s idea of a joke. Pervor stared at the strange man, his eyes intent.

  “This is a not a weapon. It is just a man,” she said.

  The advisor glanced at her. “He must be a mighty warrior, My Queen. A magical one, perhaps?”

  Tassin studied the stranger. A frame of golden metal held a black crystal that curved around his brow, no more than three centimetres wide and fifteen centimetres long, its rounded ends not quite reaching his hairline. A tiny amber light flashed at regular intervals in one corner of it, then more points of light appeared in the brow band’s crystal, flashing red, then green, some continuing to flash while others maintained a steady glow. Within seconds, the man opened thickly-lashed, pale grey eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. He had a sculpted, hawk-like face with a narrow, high-bridged nose and level dark brows. His well-shaped mouth was set in a firm, almost grim line, and his ears lay flat against his skull, from which most of the dark blond hair had been shorn. His smooth golden skin gleamed like the satin on which he lay.

  Tassin leant over him. “Do you hear me?”

  The man’s lips parted, and he spoke in a husky voice. “Yes.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A cyber.”

  “A sabre?” Tassin quelled a bitter laugh. “Stand up.”

  The man moved slowly at first, sitting up, then rose to his feet a little stiffly and stepped from the casket. Tassin’s cheeks warmed at his lack of clothing. His skin-tight silken shorts reached to mid-thigh, but despite her embarrassment her eyes roamed over him. He possessed a lean, whipcord build with broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips above powerful thighs, every muscle prominent. Even relaxed, lean muscle ridged his belly and padded his shoulders and arms. Although he topped her by at least fifteen centimetres, Tassin was a diminutive one and a half metres, so the stranger was only about one point eight metres tall, a short man. The aged and bent Duxon would top him by several centimetres, and Pervor towered over him. He ignored her scrutiny as blithely as he did her presence, which she found alm
ost as irksome as his expressionlessness.

  “Where are your clothes?” she asked, annoyed by his lack of decorum and passive stance.

  The man bent and stripped away the satin within the casket’s lid, revealing a plethora of paraphernalia. When he was dressed in a pair of snug-fitting dark grey trousers, a matching vest and narrow black boots, he donned a sort of harness that held many strange items, mostly metallic. Finally, he snapped a bulky silver bracelet or wrist guard around his right wrist, then became immobile, staring into space. She peered at him, intrigued by the metal contrivance on his brow. The strange brow band appeared to be affixed to his head by three prongs that entered his skin. She gazed into his pale eyes, trying to fathom what sort of man he was. He stared over her head.

  “Why did Manutim give you to me?” she asked.

  “This is a cyber-bio combat unit, grade A, serial number XCA-6352-JY9019, trained in armed and unarmed combat, tactical warfare -”

  “Stop! I understand none of this gibberish. Does Manutim think one warrior can win the war? This is a joke!”

  Pervor cleared his throat. “The mage sent him to deal with the Death Zone, Majesty, he only -”

  Tassin snorted. “I am not worried about the Death Zone now. I have a more pressing problem outside the castle walls. Manutim said that this man would be able aid with that also.”

  “Then I am sure he shall, Majesty.”

  “How? What difference can one man make?”

  “He must have magic.”

  “Magic!” She threw up her hands. “I need a weapon, not magic! Illusions and flashes of light will not frighten Torrian.” Tassin glowered at the stranger. “Do you have magic, warrior?”

  “Usage of term unknown. Clarify.”

  “You see, Pervor? He has never even heard of magic! What am I to do now?”

  The old advisor shook his head. “Trust in the mage, My Queen.”

  “Ha! What of you?” She turned to the stranger again. “Have you nothing to say? Tomorrow Torrian’s army will attack this castle. What will you do?”

  “If ordered, fight,” he stated tonelessly.

  Tassin swung away to pace. “One more to die in the mud! Manutim has failed me. Tomorrow I will surely die.”

  The stranger’s silence annoyed Tassin, who stopped in front of him and poked him in the chest. “Sabre, you lack manners. When you address me, it is as ‘Majesty’, or ‘My Queen’. Do you understand?”

  “Understood.”

  “Now tell me who and what you are.”

  “This is a cyber-bio combat unit, grade A, -”

  “Enough!” she snapped. “Do not spout that drivel to me. I do not know what a… sabre-bio unit is. I have a war to be won, and Manutim assured me that you could win it, but I fail to see how! What good is one more warrior?”

  “This unit will fight as ordered.”

  Tassin snorted again. “So will all my soldiers! What is so special about you?”

  “This is a cyber-bio combat -”

  The Queen cut him off with a curt gesture. “Are you an idiot? Have I not just told you not to spout that rubbish to me? Manutim must have rocks in his head.” She turned away, thinking of the army camped around her castle, just waiting for dawn to attack. “You will stay here. Food and water will be provided. Understand?”

  “Understood.”