by John Daulton
“Captain, I don’t have to tell you of all people how that is going to go.”
The captain shook his head, frustrated. The director was right about that. The Hostiles had proven themselves extremely efficient at brushing off missile attacks, at least missile attacks where the weapons did not have the “anti-magic” enhancements put upon them by Prosperion magicians—put there for the ostensible attack of the Hostile home world, which Captain Asad was now completely convinced had been a charade and all part of the War Queen’s strategy.
The director turned away from his monitor for a moment, speaking to someone off screen. When he came back, he looked even grimmer than the moment before. “Mars Station Armstrong just reported the appearance of another one of your monster orbs, Captain. We’re going to contact Victoria Base to confirm, but if it’s true, this new one is over six hundred miles in diameter. Makes the one you found seem small.”
“We’ve got to stop them. You have to send some ships to take the big ones out. This is only going to get worse if we don’t act now.”
“No, we need to take out the command ship. That is the most important part.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I believe those big ones are the command ships.”
“Wrong, Captain. We’ve already had visual contact with the command ship. The Prosperion vessel you sent us the files on, the one they call Citadel. We engaged them several hours ago, but they ran off. One of the Prosperions snuck aboard the NTA II and tried to convince her captain that we should let our guard down, but she got away before we could question her.”
“Eugene probably let her go. That woman is an appeaser and unfit for command.”
“I am well aware of your ongoing feud with Eugene, Captain, but she was not the problem. It was some kind of device the Prosperion held, a jewel or bit of glass that she struck against the bulkhead and vanished.” The director looked a bit irritated at having to defend one of his officers at a time when there were larger concerns. “The point is, Asad, that Prosperion ship is the only one of these orbs that has intelligent life aboard, so we are operating on the assumption that Citadel is the most valuable target. Every ship has orders to fire upon it when it reappears. And given how evasive it was on our first attempt, we’re not going to spread our defenses any more than they are now. If you have any suggestions on that front, I’m happy to hear them, otherwise, I need to get back to work figuring out what we can do about these new, giant Hostiles, particularly the one at Mars, and I need a plan that doesn’t mean sacrificing the Earth to do it. But it does need to be done, I agree with you. If Victoria goes down … I don’t have to tell you how that will go.” Captain Asad had a faraway look in his eyes, and when he did not reply, the director was inclined to prompt him to speak. “Captain, if that is all ….”
“Director, we do have a way to stop them. We can make them call it all off.” He turned and gave Roberto a look that seemed to suggest he’d had an epiphany, the kind in which one suddenly realizes the answer has just been sitting there in the open all along. “We’ve had it the whole time, the key to this whole damn thing. They even gave it to us.”
“Go on,” urged the director.
“The harbor stones. We have the harbor stones the Prosperions made for us. All the ships that were at Goldilocks have stones just like the one the woman who showed up on the NTA II used to escape. If we break those stones, our ships are right back in the Prosperion system again. We can fly in and take that bitch by her royal throat and squeeze until she calls off this attack.”
“You all made it very clear that using their magic for long-range travel shuts down ships’ systems. Is there some reason you think that doing this won’t make you all sitting ducks?”
“We will be. At least, the starships will be, but not the troop carriers. And not the handful of inter-planetary ships you are going to stuff inside our bays. Not to mention the missiles you resupply.”
“I’m not following you, Captain. Your reports show total shutdown of all systems on your ships every time those people leap you across space.”
“Only the ship. Not the shuttles. They call it being ‘in the box.’ In their arrogance, they made a point of bragging about it. That’s how we restarted the ships. Our handhelds and generators all work. Everything inside the ‘box’ is fine. It’s the ‘box’ that … takes whatever the teleportation does. So let’s jam every goddamn Marine and battle suit available onto all forty-nine ships, cram in a few bombers, and the moment we appear above Tinpoa, we open the bay doors and send them to Prosperion. Screw the starships. That goddamn Queen will never know what hit her. She’ll call off the attack or watch us melt her cities just like she’s trying to do to ours, only we’ll do it a hell of a lot faster.”
Director Nakamura hummed, a vibration in his throat accompanied by narrowed, thoughtful eyes. Captain Asad and Roberto could hear it over the com, watching as he mulled over the idea. They knew his answer before he spoke again, for his head began to nod. “I’ll run it by the board and see what they think, but I’ll be honest, that’s the best idea I’ve heard since this whole shit storm opened up. Get Eugene and the rest of them to pull back to where the Aspect, Sarajevo and Socrates are now, get them all out at the fringe of the fight. Let’s not lose any of those harbor stones.” He didn’t even wait for Captain Asad’s “yes, sir” to cut the transmission off.
Captain Asad had no concerns with protocol or courtesy just then. His mind was already awhirl, plotting the moves that would bring Prosperion to its knees even as the shuttle came to a halt inside the Aspect and settled to the deck. This fight was personal, and the so-called War Queen had made a huge, huge mistake: she’d betrayed her neighbor while leaving the spare house key under her own doormat. That was going to cost her.
Roberto frowned at the look in the captain’s eyes as he punched the controls that opened the shuttle hatch. The man’s expression was almost maniacal.
“Get me security,” the captain said, tapping the com badge on his lapel. He unbuckled himself and went to the hatch, waiting impatiently as the ramp lowered to the hangar deck below.
“Security,” came the reply almost immediately.
“Round up all the Prosperion crewmen on the ship,” he said. “We won’t be needing them any longer.”
Roberto’s eyes shot wide at that. Beyond the one magician, Annison, there were a number of Prosperion blanks aboard, men and women from Altin’s world who, unlike Altin and Annison, had no magical abilities. They’d all volunteered to serve in the place of the crew that had been lost over the course of fighting the Hostiles these last two years. They’d been trained, they’d signed on the dotted line, sworn the oath, even went to war with the rest of the fleet ships at Goldilocks. This measure was uncalled for.
“Captain,” Roberto said. “You can’t do that to them. They have served with us for quite a while, some for almost a year. They went into battle with us.”
“You were just out there with me, Commander. I think you can see how trusting Prosperions pays off.”
“But Captain—”
The captain cut him off. “If you haven’t the stomach for command, Commander, I suggest you find another line of work when this war is won. You won’t rise higher than you already have if you can’t make the hard decisions. And that stunt you tried to pull with Pewter down there isn’t going to help you either when it comes to it.”
“But Captain—” he tried again.
“This discussion is over, Commander. Get some rest. I will need you fresh and ready to fly when we assault Prosperion. This ends now.”
Chapter 16
Gromf stared into the woman’s eyes, Kazuk-Hal-Mandik’s singer, the spawn of the old warlock’s loins. He could see the look of the ancient shaman in her face, the downward arc of her forehead where the bones of her brow curved like a crossbow pulled partway back. He did not like that Kazuk-Hal-Mandik had entrusted her with the knowledge of God’s legions; he did not like entrusting the fate of the All Clans to h
er. She was female. This was not done.
He also knew that thought was an old thought, a learned belief rooted in the time of a thousand years of defeat. The human females fought in war. Their armies won. It was Discipline to forget his disgust at having her here, in this chamber of war. Kazuk-Hal-Mandik said the human symbols, the sound symbols written in their book, the things this singer had memorized, were made by the hand of a human woman. It was her power that they sought to understand. He supposed in that it was right that it should be interpreted by a woman as well. But still, seeing her before him, listening to her sing the song, made him shudder.
They sat on the floor in the Chamber of Discipline, the center of the new mountain fortress, the first great work of Warlord. It was a vast space, two hundred paces to walk across on any side, absolutely true on its every plane, every angle equal to its opposite. It had been measured and cut that way to prove that the All Clans had mastery over stone, no longer left to dwell in the spaces of accident in the bowels of the world that the old gods had made. Straight lines could be wrought by the hands of Discipline. Warlord refused to let this chamber, this first symbol of Discipline, be furnished or covered with animal hides. It was in the stark yet grand severity of this chamber that he kept his council of war. Today the council consisted only of Warlord, Kazuk-Hal-Mandik and Gromf. Before them was this woman who sang.
Her voice rose into the darkness, rebounded off the stern walls and unseen ceiling, giving a strange cascading harmony to her voice as she ran through the stolen works of the human called Melane Montclaire, the works to which God had guided them.
The three of them listened to her sing, Warlord looking irritated by the great length of her noise, already three quarters of a day, while Gromf and Kazuk-Hal-Mandik listened intently. The woman’s voice was strong and sure, and never once did her song warble or hesitate. She sang the human words and the ancient sounds, which Kazuk-Hal-Mandik attributed to the elves, as if she’d spoken the despised languages all her life, as if they came naturally. It did nothing to decrease Gromf’s disgust at having her in this revered place, but he forced away the feelings every time they came.
Finally, as the unseen sun outside the mountain fortress set, the woman’s song came to an end.
“This is the last book of summoning,” the woman said. “This is all of it.”
Warlord rose then, prepared to leave, but he stopped when Kazuk-Hal-Mandik spoke, not to him, but to the woman. “Sing again of the hole through the center of the world.”
The woman did not protest, though she’d been singing for so long. She did not ask for water to wet her throat. She did not pause or roll her eyes up into her head to think. She simply began.
And Tidalwrath left the fissure
Through which the demons flow
Brought forth never since
But for those who chose to know.
Cry not for the endless hordes
Who fall beneath their might
These are the darkest legions
Come summoned to the fight.
Through a world as vast as ours
Tidalwrath built a passage true
So summon them not lightly
For unsummoning thou won’t do.
Kazuk-Hal-Mandik stopped her then, raising his hand and croaking for silence. He looked up from his place seated on the floor, up at Warlord standing tall above him. “This is the thing I told you of, Warlord. This is what happened to the dwarves. The humans say the lands of the dwarves still churn with the demons unleashed that day.”
“And so it will be with the humans,” said Warlord. He turned to go.
“The humans no longer go to Duador, Warlord. It is a lost land.”
“That is because humans are weak.” He started for the door.
“No, Warlord.” The old warlock’s voice was strong, insistent even, defiance that spun Warlord back around, his eyes narrow and violence shaping in the movement of the great muscles shifting beneath his skin. Kazuk-Hal-Mandik went on despite seeing it. “It is because there were too many of them to be slain, Warlord. The demons. You heard the song. ‘They come like bats at twilight from a cave.’” He quoted from an earlier passage then, one that described the demons in lines that read, “A spew of blackness will arrive, swept out from summoned rift,” though he could only partially recall what came next, something about “devouring thy enemies in a wave” and “thrift.” He struggled to find the right human words.
Kazuk-Hal-Mandik glanced to the woman who amended for him: “A wave that knows no thrift.”
“Yes, that was it.” The shaman grinned at that, and the dim light of the fire glinted off his remaining teeth, making them appear as if they were broken stalactites in an old, decaying cave. “Uncounted death. Uncountable. That is the lament of the humans and the elves, for they could not take what they had conquered. We must learn from their lack of Discipline.”
Warlord looked annoyed by that, his great face contorted with his scowl and his own teeth, still strong like mammoth ivory, showing in fearsome rows of opposed menace as if by that difference alone the disparity between the great warrior and the frail old warlock could be known. “We have the greatest army Prosperion has ever seen. No human king has mustered such numbers as counted in the warriors we have devouring our stores. We are the darkest legions. We are the spew of blackness that will bring respect to the All Clans, and we will deal with your … demons when the time comes that I am done with them. You just make sure they appear when I call for them.”
“Hush, Warlord. You must not speak such things aloud.”
Warlord roared then, striding forward and leaning down to blow the wrath that rose at such defiance directly into the ancient warlock’s face. The ferocity of it sent the dried wisps of Kazuk-Hal-Mandik’s hair billowing behind him like mangy tatters of fur on an old carcass lying in some lost and windy mountain pass. He was not afraid of God. “I will speak what I see,” he said when the initial thunder had passed. “And I will not cower or run from your conjured things.” He straightened then, took a breath. He looked down at both of them, Kazuk-Hal-Mandik and Gromf beside him, with his lip curling some. He glanced to the woman briefly before letting his yellow eyes settle back on the pair of shamans sitting there. “You got your human song, old one. And you’ve got your young victor of the yellow stone. Now you get three sunsets. Then we go to war.”
“But Warlord, that may not be enough,” protested Kazuk-Hal-Mandik.
“Silence,” Warlord shouted. “You have had your time. I have done everything you asked. You asked that we take the castle of the human shaman. You asked that we help you steal his yellow stones and the words to the demon song. You said that was all God needed to promise us victory. Now you have them. I have kept my word. Now you and God keep yours. You have three days. The time has come.” The wind of his passing set the small fire to dancing for a time, and Gromf contented himself with watching it while Kazuk-Hal-Mandik got up and followed Warlord out.
When they were gone, Gromf looked up at the woman, who was proper and lowered her eyes. He could not decide if Warlord’s three days was Discipline or not. His decision was strong. It was action. That was good. They had been patient, and they had had an army over a hundred thousand strong waiting on the machinations of one old warlock for well over a season now, waiting only for that. Everything else in place. That seemed like Discipline.
He wondered and wished he knew.
Eventually Kazuk-Hal-Mandik returned. He looked agitated. “I think this is not enough time.”
“I think it is the time we have,” said Gromf.
“Then we must learn the elf words soon, and how the human said to shape them.” Gromf nodded. Kazuk-Hal-Mandik looked to the woman. “Sing us the summoning parts again. Sing them slowly.”
Chapter 17
Ocelot’s hovel was as disheveled and nondescript on the inside as it had appeared from without. With the nascent forest fire extinguished, Altin and Doctor Leopold found themselves the guests o
f the woodland denizen, sitting before her fire and waiting for her to brew tea that neither of them had any intention of drinking. Doctor Leopold sat on an upturned log, its flattened ends the work of Ocelot’s long-lost woodsman lover. Altin had the pleasure of a chair, but it suffered visibly from dry rot, and for once in his life, Altin found that he had empathy for the corpulent doctor, knowing in those moments spent upon that seat what the doctor must worry about nearly everywhere he rested. The anticipation of the sharp and sudden drop that he was sure must come at any time was a distraction Altin had to struggle to set aside.
Wishing to break the silence—the only sound in the small space being the pops and crackles of the fire and Ocelot’s muttering as she watched the kettle suspended above it on an iron hook—Altin finally spoke. “You’re much younger than the rumors suggest,” he said, hoping to start the conversation off better than it had begun with his nearly burning down what counted as her neighborhood. He knew that her current appearance—she sat before them no longer as an ocelot but rather looking to be a girl of no more than fourteen years—was either transmuted or illusionary, but even knowing it, that was the only thing that came to mind to say. Some propitious instinct in him told him that it was best not to simply blurt out why they had come, which in a way would have been pointless, for he was absolutely certain she already knew. They were in her court, so to speak, so he would play the part of supplicant for now.
“Rumors have it you are smarter than the questions that you ask,” she said, grinning over her shoulder at him. Doctor Leopold even laughed at that, which got a frown from Altin directed his way.
“Well, if we’re speaking of rumors, it’s not often one sits before a Z-ranked diviner rumored to be the oldest person in the land.” It was the best he could do in his own defense, while trying to appear as if he had much more patience for this banter than he really did.