The Cyber Chronicles - Book I: Queen of Arlin

by T C Southwell

Chapter Five

  The next day, they set off towards the Barrier Mountains once more, Tassin refreshed after a night on a soft bed and a hot meal. The brisk air, sunshine and scenic countryside made the journey pleasant, as long as she did not dwell on dark thoughts. The narrow trail cut through tracts of cultivated orchards and occasional clumps of wild woodland, but for the most part it was open pasture. Rare parrot shrubs were in full bloom, their beak-like flowers chattering and clicking as the sun heated the hard petals. Snow trees shed drifting seed flakes that whitened the land for kilometres around. Mage bushes made soft pops and little flashes as the seed pods exploded in the warmth, releasing clouds of winged seeds. Flocks of jewel birds flew up at their approach, filling the air with their glittering, iridescent-plumed forms and melodic cries.

  Sabre appeared oblivious to it all, and when she commented on the scenery in an attempt to start a conversation, he simply agreed with her, volunteering nothing. He was a dull companion, she decided. Rude and dull, but useful. His high forehead indicated intelligence, unlike the close-set eyes and sloping brows of dull-witted peasants with their coarse features and slack-lipped mouths. The magic he wielded required skill, yet he seemed wholly intent on some inner problem.

  After that, they rode in silence, which Tassin found tiresome, since it allowed her to dwell on her future. She had resolved to find an ally in King Xavier, and any other, less pleasant prospect did not bear contemplation. King Xavier would protect her. With this firmly established as her future, she shrugged off any other possibilities. Her father had taught her the politics of ruling a kingdom, but he had not foreseen his sudden demise, so she was unprepared for this eventuality. She did not doubt that the king of a poor kingdom like Olgara would be glad of an alliance with the largest and most powerful kingdom in the land, albeit that Arlin’s military might was now somewhat diminished. Her father had planned that she should wed a noble of her choosing, and once that was achieved, she would no longer be prey to the three horrid kings.

  The fact that Prince Victor had not offered suit and Xavier had not come to her aid did bother her, but the three more powerful kings had probably intimidated them. When she arrived at the palace and offered Xavier an alliance, he could hardly refuse, since all Olgaran trade passed through Arlin. She would be in a powerful bargaining position, and, once she had a suitable husband, hostilities would cease. There was no other way out of the situation. Xavier was her only hope.

  Just before midday, the trail turned away from the mountains and entered a wide gully that sliced through a low rock ridge. Once, a river must have run through it, but now only a stream meandered along the stony bed. The horses picked their way through the rocky terrain, at times entering the stream. Tassin led the way, allowing her mare to lower her head and choose her path.

  The distinctive hiss of arrows and several meaty thuds made her whip around. Sabre sagged forward, five shafts protruding from his back. As she opened her mouth to shout, dozens of soldiers erupted from the rocks. Many hands seized her mare’s reins, and Tassin yelled the order to fight. The warhorse reared and chopped at her attackers with iron-shod hooves, the slippery rocks hampering her. Swords flashed, and the mare squealed, fighting back with hooves and teeth.

  Many men fell, but others plunged their swords into the warhorse’s flanks. The doomed mare sank to her knees, blood pumping from the wounds, and the soldiers dragged Tassin off the dying horse. She fought like a briar-cat, shouting for Sabre, but a mob of struggling men surrounded him. Screams followed a bright blue flash, and smoke carried the sickening stench of burnt flesh to her. Her captors hauled her away, then picked her up and carried her.

  Once they were out of sight around a bend in the gorge, the men put her down and bound her wrists and ankles with soft rope. The five soldiers were solicitous and polite, used her title and enquired about the bindings’ comfort, ignoring her shouted insults and threats. Tassin had picked up quite a few choice insults from spying on the soldiers of her father’s garrison as a child, and she aired all of them, interspersed with shouting for Sabre and cursing him, too.

  Torrian’s soldiers glanced back up the gorge often, where the metallic clangs, crackling bangs and shouts of heated battle continued, clearly amazed that it still raged. As soon as Tassin was trussed, they picked her up again, apologising for placing their hands upon her person, and bore her away. Tassin screamed for Sabre, threatening to have him hung, drawn and quartered, flayed and torn apart by wild horses if he failed to come to her aid. She also enumerated the many forms of torture the soldiers her would suffer if she became their queen.

  The men looked pale and sick, their eyes taking on a hunted look she knew meant Torrian had made the same threats if they failed. Evidently Torrian’s threats had more effect, for they carried her out of the far end of the gully to a stand of scantily foliaged drifter trees, where their horses were picketed. Just beyond the trees, the land fell away in a sweeping valley, and the stream plummeted into a rocky pool from which it did not re-emerge. The soldiers placed her on a blanket spread on the shelving rock and debated whether they should wait for their comrades or take her to Torrian right away. They appeared confident that the soldiers who had attacked the cyber could deal with him, and opted to wait for them. Tassin wondered if they were right, for the number of men who had attacked Sabre had seemed like a lot, perhaps as many as two dozen.

  Tense minutes passed, and the soldiers offered Tassin wine, water, sweetmeats, confections and pastries, all of which she declined ungraciously. Their smart blue and green uniforms told her that they were Torrian’s best, part of a squadron of crack troops that served as his personal guard. It appeared that after all her efforts to escape, she was to wed Torrian after all. The thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth. The soldiers gave up trying to please her and gathered to mutter together. Tassin concentrated on trying to work her hands free, tugging and twisting her wrists.

  A bolt of light lanced past her and sliced into the soldiers’ midst, cutting down three. The last two fled, only to be burnt down before they reached the shelter of the rocks. Tassin flinched at the brutal slaughter so close at hand and averted her eyes from the gruesome sight. Soft footsteps made her look up. Sabre limped towards her, his brow band blazing red. Blood poured down one thigh from a deep sword cut, and a gash crossed his forearm. Numerous cuts covered his chest and arms, and a stab wound oozed blood down his flank. He staggered, dragging his wounded leg.

  Reaching her side, he fell to his knees, then sank back on his haunches. His breath came in rasping gasps, and his deathly pallor indicated massive blood loss. Moving slowly, he opened the pouch on his harness and extracted one of the strange ampoules. He pulled off the end, revealing a needle, which he pushed into his thigh above the sword cut. Extracting another ampoule, he repeated the process above the stab wound in his side. Tassin stared at him in awestruck horror. Any other man would be unconscious, bleeding to death, and Sabre appeared to be living on willpower alone. She wriggled closer and held out her bound hands.

  “Untie me, Sabre.”

  The cyber tugged at the knot. Broken arrow shafts protruded from his back, and red marks covered his chest, mingling with the older blue bruises in a horrible medley. As soon as her hands were free, she untied her ankles and knelt beside him. His head drooped, his eyes half shut, as if he was falling asleep.

  She shook him. “Sabre, you must get on a horse. You have to get to a doctor!”

  “This unit is no longer functional,” he stated. “Accrued damage exceeds operational parameters.”

  Tassin cursed. It sounded bad, even if it did not make much sense. “You must! I cannot get you onto a horse. Just mount, and I will take you to a doctor.”

  Sabre’s head bowed further. “This unit is no longer operational. Bio-status is at thirty-five percent. Unit shutdown is imminent.”

  Tassin noticed that his wounds had stopped bleeding. Surely if he lost no more blood he would get no worse? She jumped up and ran to the picketed h
orses, selected two and led them back.

  “Sabre, get on the horse! I order you!”

  The cyber’s head lifted, and he gazed through her, the brow band sparkling red. “Blood loss incurred to the host will result in the shutdown of this unit for a period of seven days required for recovery. Shutdown will take place within the next four hours. Damage sustained is too great for further operation of this cyber unit -”

  “Damn it, Sabre! Get on the bloody horse!” Tassin tried to haul him to his feet. Tears stung her eyes, and she wondered why.

  The lights on his brow band flickered erratically, and three of the seven diagonal lights flashed red. Sabre rose to his knees, trembling. Tassin released him and pushed the horse closer so he could grasp a stirrup. Using this, he pulled himself upright, clinging to the animal. She gripped his arm, noting that his skin was cool and clammy, and helped him to put his foot into the stirrup. With her help, he climbed into the saddle, holding onto the pommel.

  Tassin placed his other foot in the stirrup and mounted the second horse, taking his steed’s reins. She rode back into the gully, aware that if he fell off, she would not be able to get him back into the saddle. The sight of Tyron’s dead warhorse grieved her deeply, and she was amazed by the number of dead soldiers sprawled beside the stream, some horribly burnt, others with crushed skulls or twisted necks. In those few minutes, she marvelled, Sabre had killed twenty-two men and walked away. Had he been healthy at the outset, it would still have been an incredible feat, but he had already been injured.

  Tassin glanced back at his bowed head. He must not die. He was more useful than a troop of soldiers. Leaving the gully, she angled away from their previous path. More soldiers would be hunting them, and she needed a safe place to hide while Sabre recovered. The men who had ambushed them must have ridden all night to get ahead of them, then lain in wait in the most likely place they would pass through. Torrian’s officers had clearly divined her plan to travel to Olgara.

  The sun sank behind a bank of golden cloud by the time she spied a hamlet ahead. Sabre slumped over the pommel, and at times swayed perilously, so she dared go no faster than a walk. His blood stained his mount’s grey flanks, and it rolled its eyes at the scent. On the hamlet’s outskirts, she encountered a labourer on his way home from the fields, and the man eyed her, scowling at the sagging cyber. He was not at all amused when she rode into his path, blocking it.

  Tassin forced a friendly smile. “Excuse me. I need to find a doctor. My friend is injured.”

  The peasant spat on the side of the road, shifting his cud. “Nearest thing ye’ll find ’round ’ere be Mother Amy. Go on past the village, up the path to the right, an’ you’ll find ’er ’ut.”

  Tassin drew a silver coin from her pocket. “If soldiers come looking for us, we went on to the mountains, right?”

  The man grinned as he took the coin, revealing teeth stained brown from chewing moltin, a mild herbal drug. “Sure thing, Missy.”

  Following the man’s directions, she found a meandering trail leading up into a thickly wooded area overgrown with brambles and wildflowers. The coniferous trees presented a solid wall of dark verdure on either side of the path, and the thick bush between them prevented anyone from leaving it. The steep, rocky trail wound torturously, and Tassin glanced back often to ensure Sabre had not slipped from his saddle on the rough parts. His pallor had increased, and he appeared to be asleep, the brow band sparkling red. She shivered as a cool wind blew a dank, musty smell from the dense forest, wondering why anyone would want to live in such an uninviting place. The hairs on the back of her neck rose with every rustle in the darkness beside the trail, and Sabre’s presence, even though he was so badly wounded, was a great comfort.

  At the end of the narrow track, a wooden hut stood in a clearing, smoke curling from the chimney. A woodpile was stacked against one wall, and the faint clucking of chickens came from behind it. Tassin dismounted and banged on the door, and as she raised her fist to bang again, it was yanked open and a wizened crone peered out, looking cross. A homespun black dress hung from her bony shoulders, and she leant on a gnarled stick, her lank white hair straggling around a weather-beaten face. Quick black eyes flicked over Tassin and lingered on the cyber.

  “Wounded, is he?” the crone enquired.

  “Yes, could you -?”

  “Bring ’im in ’ere.”

  Tassin gaped as the crone shuffled back into the gloom. Swallowing her anger, she ordered Sabre to dismount. His knees buckled as his feet hit the ground, and he sat back on his haunches, his eyes closed. The crone reappeared in the doorway, clicked her tongue, and shouted over her shoulder.

  “Bern!”

  A huge, baby-faced man eased his bulk around the tiny woman, an idiot grin on his placid countenance. He shuffled over and picked up the wounded cyber as if he weighed nothing. Tassin followed him into the hut, where he placed Sabre on a bed at the back, near a fireplace where a warm blaze licked at logs. He was careful to place Sabre on his side, so the arrow shafts protruding from his back were not driven further in, then retreated to sit in the corner and stare into the fire.

  The wizened little woman faced Tassin, arms akimbo. “You got coin?”

  Tassin took a gold coin from the pouch and held it up. Mother Amy nodded and went over to examine Sabre. Tassin, peering over her shoulder, stifled a cry of dismay. Sabre’s brow band was completely black.

  “Is… is he alive?”

  The crone gave her a toothless smile. “Aye, he’s alive, just barely. Go tend to yer horses and leave me to do me job. There’s a paddock around the back where you can put ’em.”

  Tassin opened her mouth to tell the old woman that she did not tend horses, then shut it again. Shooting a glare at Bern, who did not notice, she stomped out.

  When she returned, Mother Amy had stripped Sabre to his silken undershorts. The old woman examined the brow band with keen interest, and looked up at Tassin’s entry.

  “Know you what be this?” She touched the brow band.

  Tassin shook her head. “No, I have no idea.”

  “Tis magic. Bad magic,” Mother Amy muttered, fingering it. “There’s as little in ‘is head as there be in Bern’s.”

  She hobbled over to the fire and took off a pot of water, tested its temperature and nodded. Returning to Sabre’s side, she knelt creakily, dipped a clean rag in it and washed off the blood.

  “You mean he is an idiot, like Bern?” Tassin asked.

  “Aye, poor Bern, ’e never stood a chance. “’Is mother died birthing ’im. She were but a child ’erself, only twelve years old or thereabouts. Some loutish drover must ’ave got her in the bushes. Anyways, she’s dead, but the babe’s still alive, so I get a big knife and cut her open. ’E were blue when I pulled ’im out, but ’e lived. Only he’s touched in the ’ead because of it, ye see.” The crone’s wrinkled hands slid over Sabre’s chest.

  “What do you mean, the brow band is magic?”

  Mother Amy nodded. “Aye, it’s magic all right. A right queer sort, but bad magic.”

  “What does it do? Why is it bad?”

  “As to that, I don’t rightly know, but it’s bad because it’s fixed to ’im, see? He can’t take it off, an’ that’s bad.”

  The old woman tugged at an arrow shaft, and, finding it firm, grunted and picked up a slender knife. None of the shafts protruded at right angles to Sabre’s skin. It was as if they had been deflected somehow, but then, Tassin recalled, the archers had been on either side of him. The crone cut and tugged until the barbed head came free, then flung it into the fire in a gesture of anger.

  Tassin huddled beside the fire while Mother Amy removed the rest of the arrows, tired and hungry. She joined Bern in his vacant-eyed fire-staring, finding the mindlessness comforting. Mother Amy hummed in a tuneless, annoying whine, and several times Tassin opened her mouth to tell the crone to shut up, but stifled the impulse. Her stomach rumbled, and she wondered if the old woman was finished yet. Surely Bern sh
ould be starting to make the supper by now? Bern, however, was absent-minded in a literal manner. She jumped as Mother Amy spoke.

  “Well, now, lass, unless yer fixin’ to live on air, you’d best fetch us some water in that there pot and put it on the fire.”

  “Me?” Tassin squeaked. “What about Bern?”

  The idiot looked up and smiled. Mother Amy shook her head and clicked her tongue. She sewed the skin of Sabre’s thigh wound together as if it was torn cloth.

  “Bern will peel the potatoes, that’s ’is job. You fetch the water an’ put in the onions and such. I’m busy.”

  Bern rose to fetch a bowl and several potatoes, which he peeled with intense concentration, tongue protruding. Tassin stomped out with the pot. By the time she put it on the fire and added onions, Mother Amy was finished. Sabre lay on his back, smeared and daubed with greyish paste. Tassin knelt beside him as Mother Amy went to make dinner. The brow band’s crystals remained black, and his skin was pale between the bruises and paste. He looked dead, his breathing so slow she could hardly make out the rise and fall of his chest. She frowned, worried.

  After a furtive peek at Mother Amy, Tassin shook him and whispered, “Sabre! Sabre, wake up.”

  “Leave the lad alone, young lady,” Mother Amy said. “‘E’s not dead, nor will ‘e die unless you shake ‘im to death. When the body’s healed, then we’ll worry about the thing on ‘is head.”

  “I just wanted to see if he was all right.”

  “’E’s as right as ’e can be, considerin’.” The old woman chopped vegetables into the bubbling pot. “’E’s lost enough blood to fill a bucket, he ’as, an’ that’s why he ain’t sittin’ here helpin’ me with the cooking. Tomorrow, Bern’ll go into the village an’ get me a bucket of ox blood, an’ we’ll get that into him. Blood for blood, I always says.”

  Tassin grimaced. “What you said about there being nothing in his mind is what worries me.”

  “Aye.” The crone nodded. “It be worryin’ me too. ’Course, I’ve seen people like that afore now. Old Geffo, now, he were one. Fell off the cow byre, he did, banged ’is ’ead real good, ’ad a lump the size of a korron egg on it. Weren’t nothin’ in his ’ead neither when I saw ’im. ’E lay there like a log for nigh on two weeks.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well ’e died o’course. Body can’t live without a mind.”

  “Is Sabre going to die?”

  Mother Amy’s black eyes sparkled. “Nay, lass. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with ’is ’ead, except for that there contraption on it. But there ought to be somethin’ going on in it, even so.”

  “How do you know there’s nothing in his head?”

  “Ah, well, I just know, see? I know there’s plenty in your pretty ’ead. Lots o’ thoughts an’ feelings, not all of ’em good, neither.” She chuckled.

  Tassin realised that Mother Amy was not merely a medicine woman, but a witch. Her eyes slid to Sabre, hoping he would wake soon. Mother Amy chuckled again. Tassin frowned, wondering if she should just pay the crone and go on alone. Her scowl deepened. Without a sword, she would be helpless if Torrian’s men found her, and she had no wish to be dragged ignominiously to his castle. Now she was reliant on Sabre, and that rankled. Somehow, she had to get a sword.

  After they consumed the stew with much lip-smacking from Bern, Tassin found that she was expected to sleep on the floor with the idiot man, who curled up in front of the fire. Mother Amy produced a straw mattress for herself, and Tassin had to bunk down on the horse blankets. She did so with much huffing and grunting, which only evinced a dry chuckle from Mother Amy.