by Robert Brady
The sergeant took a step back, a grin wide on his face. “You’d be surprised how many try to keep the silver,” he said.
Hectaro grinned. It was a test—of course. Everything here was a test. The bedamnable tests were a test of how well you stood up to testing.
“And what happens to them?” Hectaro asked.
A green-haired Uman woman in a loin clout and nothing else stepped up and picked the silver up from the aisle, poured it into her hand and counted it, then poured it back into the bag. She had the body of a woman of the race of Men, full breasted and meaty, where Uman women tended to be slender.
The roots of her hair were dark, almost black, but she’d died it. Dark hair and dying were rare among the Uman.
“We beat ‘em,” the sergeant said, “the first time. We break their bones the second. The third, they get to swim home.”
“None’s made it,” the Uman woman said. She turned and thrust her hand out to Hectaro, her breasts bobbing. “I’m D’leer, your new sergeant. You’re a cub in my squad until I say otherwise. We guard Princess Lee in J’her’s Millennia. That’s fifth squad, third century, first Millennium—think you can remember that?”
“Five, three, one,” Hectaro said, her forearm warm in his. She nodded, released him, turned and then spun on her heel to punch him in the face.
It likely would have worked on anyone else, but Hectaro had sparred with the Emperor, and he’d been taught that move. He ducked, the fist passed over his head, and he punched his new sergeant three times in her kidney, then flipped her. She landed on her ass, heels of her palms on the ground, legs apart, looking up at him.
“What was that for, looking at your tits?” Hectaro asked her.
She smiled up at him. The other Wolf Soldiers didn’t swarm him—in the Pack, you fought your own fights. He’d learned that from day one.
“Too bad,” he said, grinning down at her. “They’re nice.”
He reached down, she took his forearm. He expected her to punch him on the way up, but she didn’t. She snorted, turned on her heel, and walked down to her rack in the barracks.
“Look at ‘em all you want,” she said. “You can’t punch better than that; you’d better learn how to grow some of your own.”
Hectaro chuckled. A few of the other warriors, his Pack-mates, then came around to slap his shoulders and welcome him.
Now, on his back in his rack, sore from a day of training, he thought back to that day. Since then, he’d come to really respect Sergeant D’leer, who’d been at the Battle of the Deceptions, the Battle of the Two Horses, and the Second Invasion of Thera, a personal guard to the Imperial family.
Yes, he could beat her butt at will.
No, he’d never break her. Not only that but he doubted very much he’d be a match for her leadership skills. Had it been her when the Bounty Hunters had attacked the Empress, instead of him, maybe Vulpe could have stayed a kid for a while longer.
War knew he wasn’t one now.
“You’ve always got that look on your ugly face,” he heard, from the head of his rack. He’d been so exhausted he hadn’t even noticed her coming. He immediately recognized the voice, though—he heard it all day.
“If it’s so ugly, what are you doing here looking at it, D’leer?”
She circled around so he could see her, dressed once again in her loincloth and nothing else. Most women in the Pack weren’t self-conscious of their bodies, but most didn’t display it like D’leer.
“It’s mine to look at,” she told him, half-a grin on her face. Her short, green hair framed her face. It was damp—she’d just come from the shower. “You’re in my squad—I own every whisker on it.”
Hectaro grinned and put his hands behind his head, stretching on his rack, arching his back. He wore only a loincloth like D’leer’s.
She pulled that off of him without warning.
As the son of a Duke, he’d experienced sex before, usually with Uman servants. The two races couldn’t breed—the Uman servants made good lovers, even if their women usually held their chastity as dear as the daughters of Men.
He’d NEVER had a woman be so forward with him. She actually regarded him, as if he were some stud horse, reached down and took him in her hand, played with him.
A young man, it was all he could do to keep his self-control.
“Ever had this before?” she asked him.
“Not like this,” he admitted.
“Servants you’ve violated,” she pressed. “My sister Uman.”
He closed his eyes, fighting the feeling of her grip, both hard as steel and soft as silk, on him.
“Uh, huh,” he grunted.
He opened her eyes and saw her smiling. She’d let her own loincloth fall. Unlike Men, Uman remained completely smooth below the neck.
“I was a servant in Trenbon,” she informed him, as she stepped over his rack to straddle him. Other members of his Century, Wolf Soldiers from all over Fovea, slept feet away with nothing but air and night between them.
No secrets in the Pack.
“I was visited by a Confluni lord, who thought he would take me, experience me like some meal,” she continued. He felt her directing him inside of her, felt her wet heat. “Beforehand, he thought he would have his fun. He brought…things.”
Without warning she slammed down against him.
“I gagged him on one of those things,” she said. “He died. I was thrown into a cell in Outpost VII with other Uman who made me wish I had just put up with the Confluni, and then the Daff Kanaar recruiter, Lupus, came.”
She started to move. Hectaro couldn’t understand what she was doing. All day, she’d beaten him like a dog, now she gave him this? Not just her body but her secrets—no one in the Pack asked the question, “Why are you here?”
“Lupus saw something in me, and I entered the Pack,” she said. “Since then, I’ve killed Men and Uman, noble and common.
“But I’ve never had this.”
She squeezed him with her muscles, and he exploded so hard he actually saw stars. She continued with him until she bit her lip, then arched her back and then bit his collarbone.
In the Uman culture, that told other women to keep away.
She straightened, blood on her lips, smiling at him, then slapped him.
Standing up, she stepped off of him, leaving him spent. “Get some sleep, cub,” she told him. “I won’t be riding you like this tomorrow.”
* * *
When Glynn emerged from the canopy of the Salt Wood onto the white sand beach of the Forgotten Sea, it was to find the sun just rising to her East on the first day of Destruction’s month, and her brother Ancenon watching her from a stand of Confluni archers.
She recognized the standards immediately—these were Ymir Effecate Hagadashi Boohoori’s own warriors. How Ancenon had come among them was anyone’s guess, however, they’d never be turned on their liege lady.
“I greet you, brother,” she said from the saddle, taking the form of the mounted visitor, her head lowered and her wrists turned out, her arms spread wide and her back slightly bowed.
Ancenon touched his forehead with his right hand and then made a long, deep sweep of his right arm to the ground, leading from the wrist, of the welcoming brother. Behind her, Avek Noir would be taking a form similar to hers, even though the Heir could in fact demand the others defer to him in such a situation.
They were in dire straits, after all, and this would communicate their need for rapid assistance to Ancenon more quickly than words.
“I am told you have fought mightily in your new homeland,” Ancenon chided her. “The Battle of the Vice was an historic conflict to be a part of.”
“And we are sorely worn for it,” she said. Behind her, the Ymir emerged from the Wood on her litter, Karl to one side of her and Raven past him. On her left, Zarshar trundled out of the Salt Wood with their dog next to him, her tail beating his legs, and Vedeen on her roan beside him.
“Sorely worn and greatly encumbered,” Ancenon
said. The Confluni around him were already bowing to the Ymir. “I think you shall find surcease in the vessels behind me, those of your new friend, if I guess correctly.”
“I hope so,” she said. “I am surprised you tarry—”
“War’s whiskers,” Karl swore. “Do you know there’s over eight thousand Daff Kanaar behind us? Let’s load ‘em up while we still can, and then get those we left out on the plains.”
“There’s Daff Kanaar before you as well, Sirrah,” Ancenon informed him, straightening, the purple hook-symbol standing out on his breast, “and when last I knew you, you were not so bold.”
“That was a long time ago,” Karl informed him, and then spat on the ground. “And if you’re saying you mean to keep us off those ships—”
Zarshar grinned, baring red teeth and flexing.
Ancenon smiled a politic smile and stepped aside, making another sweeping gesture with his arm. “I assure you, none’s the case,” he said. “Your ships are your own, I ask only that you leave me mine.”
Karl wiped his lips with the back of his hand and looked to Zarshar.
One vile beast, communicating with another, Glynn couldn’t help thinking.
“We need to get those warriors off the field,” he said.
“I’ll go,” Vedeen offered. “I’ll move faster, and the Trinity might provide me with a means to cover our retreat.”
“I’d rather send a few hundred archers,” Karl said, but added, “however, never was a Confluni could shoot worth a damn. Go ahead—we’ll wait ‘long as we can.”
Vedeen kicked her roan and yanked her reins to the left, the great beast charging back into the Salt Wood. Glynn couldn’t help being surprised she’d volunteered so quickly. It wasn’t like her.
But then, these were strange times.
* * *
Vedeen’s roan stallion pounded out the daheeri back through the Salt Wood to the jess doonar, where Jahunga and a few troops would make a last stand.
The beast was wearing from her ill use of it, but she knew instinctively it could give this run and back. She’d known him from a colt, and he’d never faltered when the Druids had needed him.
She needed to witness this now. She’d had her theories, of course, but now she wanted to see things with her own eyes. She parted the trees before her as she encouraged the horse to greater efforts. Indeed, the Trinity of Earth, Water and Weather would help her in this mission.
She came upon the Confluni much sooner than she’d expected, already driven from their position on the plains. Now they were running terrified through the woods, toward the beach, leading the Daff Kanaar right back to where they’d find the rest of the army.
Vedeen shook her head. They’d be too late, she knew. In fact, she couldn’t be completely sure that she would be back in time. Not if she didn’t find the one she sought.
Even as she thought these thoughts, she almost overran good Jahunga in a fight for his life with none other than Scarlet Nantar of the Daff Kanaar—the greatest warrior alive.
Black beard, black armor, red hook-symbol on his breast, Nantar moved like a dancer, his sword almost an extension of his arm. Jahunga with a wooden spear might stab or leap back, but the best the Toorian could hope for was to keep the other at a distance until he himself could break and run.
Jahunga was no coward—far from it—but he was a single Man, naked under a long white robe, against a blooded warrior in full steel. The fact he held the other at bay even for this long spoke of his extraordinary courage.
Finally Nantar feinted to one side, leapt to the other, and his great broadsword, a weapon so heavy Vedeen doubted she could even lift it, cleaved down upon the Toorian’s shoulder.
The Y-shaped bone in the Toorian’s ear flashed, and the sword bounced from Jahunga’s shoulder as if from steel. Vedeen smiled, recognizing the aura of the kafeara bird. It would be a crafty warrior who warded himself with one of these.
Nantar struck again, and again the sword bounced from the other’s naked skin. The robe was cloven, but the Man beneath gritted his strong, white teeth and pressed the other with his spear.
Nantar barely hesitated. Raising his sword as if to strike again, he spun the blade point-downward and slammed it into the hem of Jahunga’s robe. Jahunga leapt to one side instinctively and was restrained and put off-balance by his own clothing.
Nantar shook off his gauntlets and stepped in with fists raised against Jahunga. The latter, unable to pull free of his robe, cast his wooden spear instead. It splintered on the other’s breastplate, barely fazing him.
Jahunga was no weakling—the muscles stood out strong on his ebony body. Nantar, a little taller, still retained the protection of his steel, and he moved unencumbered, swinging his fists mightily. Jahunga held the other, grappled with him, tried to find a soft spot to strike or, as a last resort, to pull free of the white robe.
He’d almost done it, he’d freed an arm and was about to slide out the other, when Nantar finally closed a mighty paw of a hand on the other’s throat. The fingers of a man who might be one of the strongest alive dug into the other’s windpipe and pulled him off balance. Jahunga clutched at Nantar’s face and eyes, pulled at his armor, finally tried to dig into the other’s grip, as Nantar took the Toorian two-handed, strangling him.
Jahunga’s death rattle was a terrible thing to hear. Beneath her, the stallion pawed the dirt. She had to extend her will to quiet it.
She could have saved Jahunga, she knew, but that wasn’t what had brought her here.
Nantar cast the dead Toorian to the ground and looked to the East, a predator unsated, sniffing for its prey. He looked right through Vedeen, never seeing her as more than the trees around her and the bushes at her horse’s feet. In a few moments, he moved on.
Other warriors came and went. Vedeen had to time this very precisely. If she dallied too long—well, the horse couldn’t swim, and it wasn’t time yet to return to the Lone Wood. She had business elsewhere after this.
When she felt sure she was reasonably alone, and she’d waited for as long as she could, she went to the scene of this most recent battle. There, she looked down on the fallen remains of a true son of Toor, and a piece of a prophecy whose parts really didn’t understand it.
“We are well served, valiant sir,” she said, and blessed Jahunga, that he would find peace in Earth, when the god in His nature took him. She saw what she needed to see, then she turned and left him, remounting her roan.
These persons had yet to ask themselves the right questions—of that she had no doubt.
* * *
Earl Arath of Metz walked his horse, following where Nantar had lead their warriors in an all-out assault against the Confluni stragglers who’d stayed behind to hold them.
He’d had a good chuckle when he’d seen their jess doonar—little more than a mound of dirt and some sticks in front of it. If it were that easy, then everyone would do it, as Lupus might have said. It took more than dirt and sticks to create their ‘little city’.
Now he had them. The Confluni wouldn’t have left these behind unless they were up against it between the ocean and his army. Most likely Dilvesh, the Green One as he liked to call himself, had come north with a few thousand Wolf Soldiers and caught them up against the Forgotten Sea. Between the two of them they’d crush the Confluni and still have time to make the celebrations in Volkhydro.
Musing, Arath was caught off guard when his horse’s hoof clanged on something hidden in the grass. The stallion shied and Arath had to pull back on the reins to quiet it. His warriors gave them both a wide berth—foot soldiers maintained a healthy fear of horses.
When his horse settled, Arath dismounted to see what he’d stepped on, suspecting it was a discarded weapon. Sure enough, he found an ebon sword with a white-bone handle in the shape of a ‘Y,’ wrapped in a white cloth, where his horse had stepped on it.
The blade should have been bent and ruined, but it wasn’t. It gleamed, unmarred, in Arath’s hands. ‘Must be
Dwarfish,’ Arath couldn’t help thinking.
“What’s that?” Nantar asked him, emerging from the brush.
“Something my horse stepped on,” Arath said, shrugging. He rewrapped it and slid it into his bedroll behind his saddle. It was too long for his preference, but he wanted Dilvesh to look at it, anyway. Lupus had that Sword of War of his, and if this was something similar then he felt he should have it.
Lupus had too many advantages, anyway.
“They’re all running to the sea,” Nantar informed him. “I killed a Toorian around here somewhere—I was coming back to see if he had anything on him.”
“A Toorian?” Arath looked around him for the traditional white robe and didn’t see it.
“Yeah—never seen a Toorian with anything to do with Confluni, but if this lot could have a Swamp Devil with them, then they could have a Toorian, I suppose.”
Arath had seen the Swamp Devil. Actually, he’d secretly hoped to come across it in the battle. Nantar would want to match it, of course, but not if Arath got to it first.
He sighed. “Ready for a final press on these?” Arath asked his Daff Kanaar brother as he remounted.
“Just waiting for you, your Excellence,” Nantar informed him, a wide smile splitting his black beard. Arath shook his head. Nantar without his humor wouldn’t be Nantar.
He kicked his mount into motion and led his army off to finish this battle once and for all.
Chapter Eighteen
Guided By Weather,
Controlled by Power
Ten days at sea saw the Eldadorian fleet past Trenbon and closing on Volkhydran water space. On the 8th of Destruction the sun shone warm on the waves, burning them a bright blue. Fish leapt over the ships’ wakes, some of them, including the ‘Great Heart,’ dragging nets to supplement their feed underway.
Shela watched her son’s ship from The Bitch of Eldador, leaning on the rail of her husband’s flagship. Yonega Waya, her White Wolf, conferred with his son now, coordinating the attack on Volkha. Faster ships, what he called ‘cutters,’ the Stallion and the Mare by name, preceded the fleet and had verified the position of the Trenboni and Volkhydrans outside of Hydro.