The Cyber Chronicles - Book I: Queen of Arlin

by T C Southwell

Chapter Four

  The trilling of a lyric bird woke Tassin, and she groaned as she sat up, her muscles protesting the previous day’s abuse and a night spent on hard ground. Never before had she slept anywhere other than her soft bed, and she cursed Torrian, Bardok and Grisson with renewed venom. She rubbed her stiff neck, becoming aware of her dew-damp clothes and unpleasant pungency. Knuckling her eyes, she yawned and stretched. Sabre sat beside the fire, his head turned towards their back trail.

  “Enemies follow,” he informed her.

  Tassin glanced down the trail. “How do you know?”

  “Scanners detect twenty-five mounted men armed with ancient weapons.”

  “Scanners?” She waited several moments for a reply, then gave up and went to splash her face in the icy stream. After braiding her tangled hair, she found some wild mint to get rid of the foul taste in her mouth, tucking several clumps into a hidden pocket. When she returned to the camp, Sabre still sat, gazing blindly down the trail.

  “Saddle the horses,” she ordered, irritated by his lack of initiative.

  Sabre obeyed, and she was amazed that his injuries did not appear to hinder him, for reddish-purple bruises mottled his ribs and the side of his head.

  Tassin led the way upstream at a trot. Sabre followed, turning his head occasionally to the side. The ancient forest’s gnarled trees had many low boughs that impeded their progress, and briar patches often blocked the way, since she followed no path. Fallen trees formed barriers of dead wood and sharp branches, and clumps of young trees hid the rotting remains of the fallen elder that had given them life.

  Tassin cursed her thin, impractical dress. The skirt exposed her shins to thorns and twigs while the low-cut bodice allowed an icy draught to invade her bosom. She needed to find a village soon and buy a more practical outfit, and a sword. She had no money, however, and she could not claim to be the Queen of Arlin. No one would believe her. Sabre’s husky voice startled her from her contemplation.

  “Enemy is drawing close.”

  Tassin looked back at him, wondering how he could know such things when there was nothing to see or hear. His head was turned to the side again, as if he harkened to some inner music. She urged her horse into a canter and concentrated on avoiding low branches and obstacles. After only a few minutes, hoof beats came from behind, gaining rapidly. The soldiers rode faster horses, and came on at a gallop, whooping when they caught sight of their prey.

  Tassin kicked the mare into a gallop, ducking and weaving to avoid branches and tree trunks that skimmed her bare legs as the skirts of her court dress billowed behind her. Branches yanked her hair, and tears stung her eyes as she strived to duck the clawing boughs that seemed to reach for her with fiendish glee. Sabre raised his arm and aimed his wrist weapon at the soldiers. The launcher’s soft cough heralded the boom of the explosion that ripped through trees and men alike, but, although a score fell, the rest came on undeterred.

  Three cavalrymen drew alongside her, crowding their horses close to try to grab her. Sabre fired three searing blue bolts that struck the riders and caused the horses to shy. Tassin’s mount also leapt sideways, scraping her leg against a tree. The overgrown forest gave way to open woodland dotted with tall slender coalwood trees whose smooth grey bark was furred with the orange symbiotic fungus that protected them from wood-eating vermin.

  Falcon still followed, despite his lameness, and beyond him, riders flitted, wraith-like, between the trees, the thick carpet of soft, newly fallen autumn leaves muffling their horses’ hoof beats. They had spread out to avoid the devastation of Sabre’s magic, and he had lowered his arm. Tassin yelped as an arrow buzzed past her head, crouching over her pommel. A cavalryman charged towards her from the side, angling his steed to ram her warhorse in the shoulder.

  “Attack!” she shouted at the mare, and the big bay flattened her ears and lunged at the soldier’s mount, biting its neck. The cavalry horse veered away, and the soldier’s grasping hand missed her arm as he was carried off. Riders converged from all sides, and crossbow bolts hissed past, aimed at Sabre, but coming perilously close to her. The soldiers closed in on him, their swords raised, and the cyber’s fire struck again and again.

  Others, too intent on capturing her, were scraped from their saddles by branches or rubbed off against tree trunks. Tassin’s mare used her teeth and hooves to repel any horses that ventured too close. Those that came within striking distance were burnt down from behind by flashes of light so brilliant that spots danced in Tassin’s eyes after each flare.

  The remaining riders vanished back into the woods, leaving them to gallop unmolested until Tassin slowed her mount to a walk. The horses panted, steam rolling up their heaving flanks.

  She scanned the back trail. “Where did they go?”

  “They have turned back, probably to return to the main force.”

  “A pox on Torrian! He will not give up!”

  Sabre ejected a spent power pack from his wrist laser and inserted a fresh one. Tassin snorted at his arrogant unconcern. Her bruised leg throbbed and her scalp burnt where branches had scraped it and yanked her hair. Scratches oozed blood down Sabre’s arms and chest, adding to his battered appearance. Tassin kept the pace to a walk to allow the horses to rest. She glanced back often, each time irritated by Sabre’s impassive expression.

  In the afternoon, they crossed the stream and came upon a road, which they followed into a village nestled in the bosom of forested hills. Fields of dry, golden stubble surrounded it. As they drew nearer, the sounds of revelry and music reached them, and Tassin realised that it was a harvest festival, when people celebrated the end of the reaping. She guided her weary horse into the clutch of thatched stone houses and shops that faced dusty roads around a central green, where tents had been pitched and a fair was in full swing.

  Brightly painted gypsy caravans mingled with drab traders’ drays, and impromptu stalls sold all manner of wares, from cheap trinkets to hot food. Tassin inhaled the savoury odours, wishing she had some money. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled as she stopped to gaze at the food on offer. In the village, there would be an inn with soft beds, a bath and stables for the horses. Now she wished she wore some jewellery she could sell. If Falcon had not been lame, she would have sold one of the mares, but she needed them.

  Tassin considered the possible sources of income available to her, and her gaze fell upon Sabre. Urging her mare forward, she entered the green, wending her way along the crowded paths between stalls and wagons. Beggars accosted them, hands outstretched, and whores eyed Sabre with interest, pouting at his lack of it. Traders bawled their wares and urchins ran giggling through the throng, purloining goods wherever they could. Almost at the centre of the green, she found what she sought. A clamouring crowd surrounded two grunting, heaving men locked in a lethargic wrestling match.

  Tassin dismounted and hitched her horse to a wagon wheel, wrinkling her nose as the stench of unwashed bodies, cheap perfume and dung assailed it. Sabre tethered his horse beside hers before following her to the throng around the combatants. The crowd presented a solid wall of backs, barring her way. She tapped the nearest man on the shoulder, and he stepped aside, doffing his cap.

  Smiling, she tried the next one, with the same result. By the time she worked her way to the front of the crowd, she was delighted with the people’s courtesy. It seemed they knew a lady, if not a queen, when they saw one. Only then did she turn to find Sabre behind her, his eyes fixed on nothing. At once, she realised that each man had glanced behind her before stepping aside, and Sabre was the real reason, not her ladylike, if somewhat bedraggled, appearance. Chagrined, she scowled at him and turned back to watch the fighters.

  Wrestling was not something she found particularly entertaining, although she had often watched her father’s soldiers train and had found that interesting enough. Her training, undertaken with a great deal of diplomacy by her father’s master-at-arms, had always ended as soon as she grew fatigued, and she had rarely broken a
sweat. She had learnt the niceties of swordplay, its techniques and finer points, but even her lightweight sword had soon made her wrist ache.

  Mostly, she had to admit to herself, although certainly to no one else, she had watched the soldiers to admire their well-defined physiques, for they often stripped to the waist on hot days. Sabre, however, far outranked the best she had ever seen. The sight of the two brutish, hirsute men, splattered with mud and dripping pungent perspiration, turned her stomach. She pulled a face, wishing they would hurry up and finish the bout so she could put her plan into action. One slipped, spraying muck on her skirt, and she stepped back, bumping into something exceedingly solid. She turned to find herself nose to chin with Sabre and recoiled, her cheeks warming.

  Tassin waited for the match to end, scowling at several men who leered at her. Finally, one man half-drowned his opponent in the sludge. The defeated man was hauled away, and the hairy giant who had won grinned toothlessly at the cheering crowd. A runty man stepped into the ring and waved a jingling bag.

  “Who’ll challenge the mighty victor? Err... What’s yer name?” The giant rumbled, and the rat-faced man yelled, “Gorm! Our champion! A bag of gold to anyone who can defeat the mighty Gorm!”

  Tassin stepped forward. “I challenge.”

  The ratty man turned to her, his thin lips stretching in a snaggle-toothed grin as his bold eyes raked her. “You?”

  She snorted. “Not me, you moron.” She stepped aside and pointed at Sabre. “Him.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he studied the cyber. “No weapons!”

  Tassin turned to Sabre. “Remove the harness.”

  The cyber unclipped it and handed it to her when she held out her hand. She was wary of his reaction, since the harness contained all his weapons, but he only turned his head to gaze through her in his annoying fashion. The runty man came over and inspected Sabre, his eyes lingering on the brow band and the bruises on Sabre’s ribs and head. He seemed unimpressed, his lip curling. Finding no other weapons about the cyber’s person, he returned to the centre of the muddy arena and addressed the crowd in a grandiose manner.

  “We have a challenger! A new fight! Place your bets! I’ll give two to one on Gorm, our champion!”

  Tassin wished she had some gold to wager on Sabre. Money changed hands, most people betting on Gorm, for, although Sabre looked dangerous, he was far smaller than the hairy giant. Gorm strutted about, making the most of his hard-won glory. He was grossly overweight, his belly sagging over his belt, but his sheer size was daunting, and she hoped Sabre would not be injured further. When all the bets were laid, she turned to Sabre and pointed at Gorm.

  “Sabre, defeat that man.”

  The cyber turned his head towards her and closed his eyes in a slow blink, the brow band flashing. She thought he would refuse, but then he faced Gorm. The hairy man grinned and beckoned. Sabre walked around him, apparently relaxed. Gorm’s grin faded and a black, Neanderthal scowl replaced it. Sabre’s head was turned towards him, but his eyes looked disconcertingly through the giant, making him appear blind. Tassin found that she was gripping Sabre’s harness so hard that it dug into her palms and forced herself to relax. The tension within the ring mounted as Gorm shuffled to face the circling cyber.

  Sabre took two light steps towards his foe, spun and leapt. His foot hit the side of Gorm’s head and sent him reeling into the crowd. The men thrust Gorm back into the ring, where he shook his head like a bee-stung bear, growling. Sabre stepped closer and buried his fists in Gorm’s stomach, staggering him. With a roar, the muddy giant charged Sabre, who sidestepped, turning to smash an elbow into Gorm’s kidneys as he galloped past and ploughed into the crowd. Cries of outrage erupted, and Tassin realised how vulnerable she was, standing in the front row.

  Gorm extricated himself from the spectators and rushed at Sabre again, arms swinging. Sabre ducked under the meaty fists and landed a full-leg kick in Gorm’s enormous gut. The hairy man staggered back, heading straight for Tassin, who squeaked and tried to burrow into the crowd. Sabre leapt forward, caught the reversing giant’s wrist and yanked, but slipped and fell backwards, releasing Gorm to throw out his arms and catch himself. Gorm teetered, then flung himself at Sabre, clearly hoping to pin him. Sabre leapt aside with amazing agility, and Gorm crashed face-first into the mire. Swivelling, Sabre landed the final blow to the back of Gorm’s head, stunning him. The giant quivered and went limp, and men came forward to drag him away.

  Tassin breathed a sigh of relief, glad that it was over and she had escaped being flattened by the muddy behemoth. She glanced around for the ratty man, who reappeared in the ring. He eyed her askance when she confronted him, her hand out for the bag of gold.

  “My winnings?”

  He grinned. “The overall winner gets the gold, Missy, only when there are no more challengers.”

  Tassin groaned, shooting a guilty glance at Sabre, who stood indifferently in the ring. The bald man stepped around her and waved the bag once more.

  “Who challenges our new champion? The mighty... What’s yer name?” Sabre ignored him, and Tassin supplied his name.

  “Sabre!” the man bellowed. “Who’ll challenge Sabre, our new champion?”

  Sabre dispatched the two beefy farm hands who challenged. Each time a man stepped forward, she had to point him out and order Sabre to fight him. Each time, she was awarded his slow blink. The muddy footing hampered the cyber, whose swift manoeuvres often caused him to slip, forcing him to resort to further acrobatics in order to recover and avoid his opponent at the same time. The third challenger, a huge, muscular drover, landed a couple of telling blows on Sabre’s head when he lost his footing. By the time he defeated the drover, Tassin was worried about him. Sweat ran down him, mixing with the mud and the blood that oozed from his nose and the old cuts on his torso. He had not yet recovered from his fight with Torrian and his men, and his injuries clearly sapped his strength and slowed him.

  After the drover, there was a long delay while the ratty man begged the muttering crowd for a new challenger. No one appeared eager, and Tassin hoped Sabre’s ordeal was over. Her hopes were dashed when a rangy man stepped forward, unbuckling his sword. His well-trimmed beard and expensive black leather jacket, matching trousers and red silk shirt marked him as a wealthy man. His confident air and quality sword meant he was a fighter, perhaps a soldier or bandit.

  The ratty man hopped about collecting bets as the crowd’s enthusiasm revived.

  Tassin pointed at the new challenger. “Sabre, defeat him.”

  Sabre turned his head and blinked slowly, an almost seductive expression that she surmised indicated intense exhaustion. Almost half the lights on his brow band were red, and even one of the seven diagonal lights flashed red. She had the impression that those lights were more important than the others, since they were a little brighter. Also, whenever the brow band became splattered with mud, Sabre wiped it, and she wondered at the reason for this. She considered withdrawing him and spending the night in the woods, but this had to be the last fight. He had already defeated four opponents. It was stupid to waste all that effort now.

  The bearded man was a good fighter, as Tassin feared, and Sabre’s exhaustion showed. Several times, he slipped whilst jumping back to avoid his opponent’s attack, receiving some hefty blows. Still, the bearded man could not defeat him, and the fight dragged on. Tassin wondered why Sabre did not use the brutal power with which he had defeated Torrian’s men. His blows seemed far less effective, and he broke no bones, which was odd, considering that she knew he could crush a man’s skull with a punch even through a steel helm. It was almost as if he held back and suffered the consequences. The crowd grew restless as the sun set behind the trees, and mischief-makers were afoot in the gathering dusk.

  Tassin yelped as a short, wiry figure grabbed the harness and tried to yank it from her grasp. She hung on, and was dragged face-first into a farmer’s smelly armpit. Still, she refused to relinquish her hold on Sabre’s precious h
arness with its magical weapons, entering into an uneven tug of war with the thief. Digging in her heels, she attempted to wrench the harness back, buffeted by angry spectators. Without thinking that Sabre was otherwise engaged, she yelled for him to help.

  Sabre turned and launched himself into the melee. A blow sent the short thief sprawling, but Tassin fell backwards into the mire as he released the harness. Landing in a plethora of petticoats, she opened her eyes to find Sabre’s brow band mere hair-breadths away. He had somehow ended up crouched over her, one knee raised, the other in the mud, his arms bracketing her head.

  Tassin yelled as the dark shape of Sabre’s opponent loomed over them and hit Sabre on the back of his neck. His head dipped, the brow band brushing her cheek, then he pushed himself up and smashed his elbow into the bearded man’s face. The man staggered back, clutching a broken nose that oozed blood. In a smooth motion, Sabre rose and hit him again, knocking him senseless into the muck. Tassin picked herself up, Sabre’s harness still firmly in her grasp.

  The bearded man was dragged out of the ring, and the ratty man reappeared to solicit the crowd, but the spectators dispersed, shaking their heads. When all but Sabre’s supine last opponent had left, the bald man faced Tassin. With a mirthless grin, he handed her the leather bag and turned to leave.

  “Hold him,” she said, and Sabre’s hand flashed out to grip the man’s collar.

  Tassin opened the bag and peered inside. As she suspected, the coins were mostly coppers, with one or two silver ones, worth little. She glared at the man, who struggled feebly, making choking sounds. “Where is the gold we won?”

  “That’s it! I didn’t make much. No one would bet against him!” he squeaked.

  “You made enough. Put some gold in here.”

  He dug into the copious pockets of his filthy coat and produced several gold coins, dropping them into the bag. “That’s all I’ve got! This is robbery!”

  Tassin stepped closer and dug in his pockets, coming away with a handful of gold and still leaving his coat heavy with more. Satisfied, she nodded at Sabre. “Release him.”

  The man scurried away, muttering. Tassin turned to Sabre, who was little more than a shadow in the gathering gloom. A band had struck up in the centre of the green, and people danced with gay abandon around a roaring bonfire. The rest of the green was dark and empty now, the merrymakers having gravitated to the revelry and firelight.

  “Come on.”

  Tassin unhitched the horses, handing the reins to Sabre, and set off towards the houses that bordered the green. She soon found an inn under a peeling sign that named it the Black Queen. After stabling the horses with the ostler, she went to a merchant and purchased a pair of men’s trousers, a shirt, boots and a warm coat, then trudged to the inn and rented a room. The rates were high and the inn almost full due to the festival, so she could only get one room. Sabre followed her up the creaking stairs to a scruffy room with a narrow bed. She had paid extra for a bath, which the innkeeper had assured her would be brought to the room.

  Tassin sat on the bed and surveyed the battered warrior. Apart from his bloody nose, Sabre’s most obvious injuries were a gash on the side of his head and the one on his flank, which bled afresh. After regarding him for several minutes, unsure of what to do, she rose and ordered him to sit on the bed. He did so, and she bent to inspect the new gash. Many of the brow band’s lights glowed bright red, and she wondered if this meant that he was in pain.

  A pitcher of water, basin and rough towel were provided for morning washes, and she dampened the towel and used it to clean the gash. While she worked, he blinked slowly several times, and she wondered what it meant, if anything. As she was putting the finishing touches to her ministrations, her bath arrived, and she faced a new dilemma. Should she order Sabre to stand out in the hall while she bathed? After pondering the problem, she realised that she did not have the heart to make him wait outside. He was injured and plainly exhausted, besides which, he did whatever she said without question or deviation. She ordered him to lie down and close his eyes, then draped the towel over his head.

  “Do not move.”

  Tassin stripped and stepped into the steaming tub, luxuriating in the hot water. She soaked until the water cooled, washed and got out, dressing in her new clothes. Sabre had not moved, and she pulled the towel away to gaze down at him. Mud and blood smeared him, and he stank of dung and sweat. A wave of pity washed over her, but she thrust it away. He was just a soldier. Nevertheless, she could not have him around smelling like he did.

  “Sabre.”

  His eyes flicked open, and she told him to stand by the wall, then poked her head into the hall and collared a passing maid, ordering another bath. Tassin sat on the bed and finger combed her hair, studying him again.

  “Sabre, what injuries do you have?”

  “Minor cuts and abrasions, some bruising, and two broken ribs,” he replied.

  “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The cyber controls pain.”

  Tassin frowned. He was talking nonsense again. As she finished combing her hair, two burly men staggered in with a steaming tub and removed the first one. She ordered Sabre to bathe, and watched him strip and step into the tub. He seemed oblivious to her scrutiny, washing himself before adding his trousers to the tub and scrubbing them too.

  While he was occupied, she examined the harness. Several silver tubes were tucked into the webbing, round metal objects hung on hooks, and a transparent pouch contained odd tubes and vials. Her gaze strayed to the contraption he had removed from his right wrist and placed beside the tub. The grooved metal band allowed the laser and grenade launcher to move around it into firing position, controlled by buttons on a curved pad beneath it. Curious, she rose and picked it up to examine it more closely.

  Sabre turned his head towards her. “That is a weapon. It should be handled with extreme care.”

  Tassin almost dropped it, startled by his soft statement. Hastily she put it down and retreated to the bed. It was the first time he had said anything that was not an answer to a question or a warning of danger. This was more like advice. He finished bathing and got out, and she averted her eyes while he dried himself.

  Sabre donned his damp undershorts and hung his trousers over the back of the rickety chair. His knuckles were raw and bleeding, so she borrowed his knife and cut strips from her petticoats to bind them, then told him to sit on the bed again. As she was about to bandage his hand, she noticed the scars. A thin white line ran along the top of each finger and across the knuckle, following the tendons up to his wrist, where they joined into one line that continued up his arm.

  She raised her eyes to his face. “What are these scars?”

  “They were caused by operations to strengthen the bones.”

  “How did they do that?”

  “By implanting metal reinforcing along them.”

  Tassin stared at the scars. “You mean they cut you open and put metal inside your hands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Cybercorp, which manufactures cyber units.”

  She sighed, exasperated by his terse replies. “Who are they?”

  “A corporation specialising in the design and manufacture cybers and other hi-tech equipment.”

  Tassin eyed him. “You call yourself equipment?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you are a man.”

  “No. A cyber.”

  She scowled. How dare he contradict her with such nonsense? She could see he was a man. Did he think she was as stupid as him? “That is your name.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then why do you keep calling yourself a sabre? It is your name, not what you are. You are a man.”

  “No. A cyber.”

  Tassin snorted and bandaged his hands. He was a bit touched in the head, that was certain, but he was useful and obedient. If he wanted to think he was a sabre, it
was his problem. Perhaps the conviction was what made him so invincible.

  Now that she knew what to look for, she noticed more thin scars on the sides of his neck, which continued as lines of white hair over his scalp before becoming pale scars again along his cheekbones. One ran down the centre of his forehead, ending halfway down his nose, and two traced the edge of his jaw to the centre of his chin, ending just under his lower lip. More scars ran up the centre of his chest and sides of his torso, disappeared under his shorts and continued down his legs. She wondered what sort of barbarians would cut open a healthy man to reinforce his bones. No wonder he was mad.