The Shasht War

by Christopher Rowley

Simona relaxed. She hated having to dissemble. She hated the gap that had opened between her and her father. But she knew that Filek, without Chiknulba at his side, was subjected to all the social pressures of his world. He wanted the intellectual intimacy that they had always enjoyed, but he himself was turning toward the more traditional views of Shasht society. Simona did not think that way. Her time among the mots of the Land had dissolved any remnants of belief in the official religion of He Who Eats. Thru Gillo had helped her see that there was another way.

  Father did not believe in the Great God, either. Both of them knew that. Father was turning in this direction because it accorded with the views of his master, the admiral. Nor was the admiral a believer; but he was conservative in his social mores, and it was better for Filek if he became more conservative, too.

  This was the same admiral who had ordered her to be tortured when she came back with the message of the Assenzi. Somehow, Filek had put this away out of his thoughts. He had hardly ever spoken to her about it, though he had heard her screams as the red tops beat on her hands and feet. Probably, she understood, he had to pretend it had never happened or he could not continue as fleet surgeon, working for the admiral. Part of her understood why he had done this, and part of her could never forgive him.

  Out of the confusion of these thoughts and emotions, she recalled Thru Gillo's face. The wedge of the dark nose, the bushy eyebrows framing the eyes with their inhuman depth of color. Another being in the shape of a man. A man with grey fur covering him from head to toe. A man with an inhuman face.

  They had learned each other's languages. The whole thing had taken a couple of weeks, an amazing, intoxicating process. She had learned so much from Thru. The experience had been both incredibly strange and still wonderfully familiar. She had forged a bond with Thru that was like none she had ever known.

  She remembered the strange little city of the mots. The steeply tilted roofs and narrow windows, the winding little streets. Every building was unique. Compared to Shasht it was tiny, of course, but it remained exquisite.

  And that was the world that her own people were determined to destroy.

  Her father was happily talking about his new hospital. He had big plans.

  "There will be three wings. I need an entire wing for the experimental work."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Cra-ack!" the sound of the wide bat on the white ball echoed back to the hundreds of spectators on the terraced seats behind the batting post in Sulmo's royal park.

  The small white ball flew up, higher and higher, while underneath it the fielders scrambled to get back and make a catch. The crowd watching with bated breath, saw the ball reach its apogee and then fall, drifting a little in the clear air until it fell safely across the scoring line.

  Another run for the Army team! Polite applause rippled from the stands, while some soldiers gathered in the tighter scrum right behind the batting post let out shouts of triumph. They were matched by the cries from the scrum of chooks gathered along the endline.

  Army was on 66 runs and Thru Gillo had yet to bat!

  The Academy team's throwers shrugged and looked to each other. The lead thrower took up another small white ball and then jogged toward the throwing line before hurling the ball with every ounce of energy he could muster toward the red-painted post.

  The batter, wielding the wide-bladed bat, watched the ball, judged its flight, and swung hard. But instead of the hearty "crack" of the well struck ball there was only the "snick" of a deflection and the little ball whistled up and into the netting behind, only to be collected by the young mots who gathered up loose balls and returned them to the throwers.

  The crowd chatter continued while the next thrower took a few practice moves before beginning his jog to the line.

  Now came the delivery and the ball hurtled in. The batter swung, but missed completely, and the ball struck the red-painted post with a solid "thwack."

  Now cheers rang out from the Academy supporters, who were sitting in a solid block on the left side of the seating. The soldiers gave a few groans and moans, but at 66 runs and with the famous Thru Gillo yet to bat, the Army team was still in control of the game.

  Another mot was striding out to the batting post, ready to take up his position. Polite applause greeted his arrival.

  Several rows above the tight mass of soldiers sat a small group of old friends, reunited that day for the first time in a year or more.

  Nuza sat beside Toshak, now the overall commander of the armies of the Land, and gentle Hob, the brilby who had caught Nuza during her acrobatic performances, sat beside them.

  Toshak and Hob were in Sulmo to assist with the training of the Sulmese army in the wake of the battles of Chenna and Sow's Head. The Sulmo army had won those battles, but it had come at great cost. Training continued and Toshak had brought with him some more northern veterans who were to assist in improving the Sulmo army's abilities to maneuver in the field.

  Nuza looked at the scoreboard. The current batter was a brilby named Heplu. She squeezed Toshak's arm by the elbow.

  "Thru will be batting next. I hope you can stay a little while."

  "Well, I can certainly stay to see him start his innings. Whether I can be here 'til the end I don't know; his innings are sometimes very long."

  They smiled together. Thru was famous in the circles that followed the ball game as "Seventy-Seven-Run Gillo" for a record he'd set in a village match years back.

  Hob chuckled. "Thru Gillo is likely to stand at the batting tree all afternoon, win the game on his ownsome."

  Nuza leaned her head on Hob's massive shoulder, so familiar to her from their years of working crowds together.

  "It is so nice to be together again. I wish Gem and Serling were here, too."

  "Nice thought, Nuza. Where are they anyway?" said the big brilby.

  "Gem is in Lushtan, working with the bandage weavers. Serling left to go to his home village in Lunt. I haven't heard from him in a while."

  "How is Gem these days?" wondered Toshak.

  "Oh, he's like he always is. One week he's in love, the next week he's out of love. Then he's heartbroken."

  "Ah, that again. His heart is a fragile piece, but he risks it constantly."

  "That he does."

  "And your family, Nuza. Are they happy in Lushtan?"

  "Well, everyone's still crowded together, fur to fur as they say. My mother hates that. She's used to having her own house, but they've made the best of it and during the winter everyone worked very hard and got along well."

  A loud crack! announced another good shot by Heplu. They watched the little white ball veer off into the sky and then curve down onto the distant green outfield.

  "Heplu's getting his eye in all right," murmured Hob approvingly.

  "Army's on 69 runs now..."

  They watched another ball hurtle in, Heplu swung, but dug under the ball too much and skied it high.

  The crowd gave a collective "ooh" as they watched the ball soar. Fielders bunched beneath it waiting. Down it came seeming to float at first then turning into a white streak. It was caught, and the Academy crowd gave another cheer.

  Heplu had given up the first of his four "outs."

  "What was that, Hob," said Toshak with a smirk, "something about his eye?"

  "Well, I thought he had his eye in, but I guess I was wrong."

  Heplu struck the next ball sharply and sent it skittering off toward the boundary, with fielders in pursuit.

  "So tell me, dear Nuza, how is he?" said Toshak quietly.

  "Nuza and Toshak exchanged a glance. How strangely entwined their lives had become, she thought. She and Toshak had been lovers once, and had parted just before Thru appeared in their lives. Then she and Thru had fallen very deeply in love, and great Toshak had somehow managed not to be so jealous that it poisoned things between them.

  "He has headaches now, and there's a look in his eyes that I do not understand. He says that war is terrible, and I believe
him."

  Toshak was nodding. "It is."

  "So he has another scar on his poor head, but he still smiles the same way he used to."

  "I asked about him, because when I saw him after the battle, here in Sulmo, he was still not recovered from the wound."

  "If you look at that scar you'll know that it's a miracle that he's alive. His helmet was cut clean through."

  Toshak pursed his lips. "It's a pity we don't have enough resources to equip ourselves with metal helmets."

  Another "crack" redirected their attention to the white ball now soaring toward the boundary with a fielder running hard beneath it. It might come down before the boundary line, and if the fielder was fast enough, he might make the catch.

  He ran with all his might. The supporters of the Academy team were on their feet cheering him on.

  They saw his arm outstretched just a few yards short of the boundary line. The ball was falling short. He threw himself forward and caught the ball. The crowd roared.

  Heplu, now halfway out, grimaced while he took some practice swings.

  The next ball went flying high right past the boundary. Seventy runs had been scored for the Army team.

  "I think we better hope that Thru is still the same hitter that he used to be," grumbled big Hob.

  A thwack announced another strike on the red pole, and a groan went up from the soldiers. Heplu had missed another accurate ball and was down to his final chance.

  The next ball he drove to the boundary, but the one after that he knocked up in a soft curve that was easily caught. Heplu had added only five runs to the Army total, and he was obviously disappointed in his performance as he walked away from the pole. Still, the applause grew louder because now Thru Gillo came out with his bat under his arm.

  As he took up his stance the crowd chanted his name, "Seventy-seven-Run Gillo!"

  The throwers readied themselves. They had waited all afternoon for this moment. This was the real test of their power and skill. Some of them studied the figure of the mot at the batting crease making smooth practice swings. Then the first thrower jogged to the line and hurled in a fierce delivery. Thru eyed it and let it pass, as it was too high for a good shot and was heading wide of the red post.

  A soft "ooh" came from the crowd, partly in disappointment.

  The second ball was much too high as well. The third was in the dirt. Some of the soldiers behind him were calling out rude sallies to the throwers for the Academy, accusing them of being afraid to throw anything that Thru might hit.

  Now the best of the Academic throwers ran to the line, and his ball hurtled in, on target and waist high, veering viciously in toward the batter.

  Thru uncoiled with his smooth, deadly stroke, and a great "crack!" echoed around the game field as the ball was struck high and far, shooting out on a tremendous trajectory that took it over the boundary while it was still climbing.

  Seventy-two runs for the Army team, and Thru Gillo was at bat.

  The crowd watched in total absorption as Thru set about building his innings. He declined to swing at anything except balls that were certain to hit the red post, but even then he deflected away anything that wasn't in his best hitting range. Balls that dropped to the waist or below he pounced on and smashed them hard and far.

  He reached 14 runs before a swerving throw got past him and thwacked off the red pole. He got to 30 before he gave up his first catch, a ball hit hard but not quite cleanly that corkscrewed up and off to one side and was caught after a thirty-yard run by a racing fielder.

  Still, the Army team was over the 100, a crucial psychological test.

  Thru continued his work from the batting crease and reached 39 before he was beaten again and a beautifully thrown ball dipped under his swing and snicked the red pole.

  He took his time after that, deflecting balls away that were less than ideal and jumped on only those in his best hitting zone.

  He reached 45, then 47 and then was caught out at last after getting a little too much under a ball and giving up a towering catch near the boundary. The Army had 118 runs now and still two more batters to take their stand.

  Thru left the field with loud, prolonged applause ringing around the game field. Nuza was there to greet him with a huge hug. He exchanged hugs with Hob and Toshak, too.

  "Well, well, just like old times," said Nuza. "All together again. Well, almost."

  Thru nodded, just happy with having played well. The worries about lingering effects from his head injury were fading.

  "How's the head?" said Toshak.

  "Clear. No headaches now."

  "Seventy-seven-Run Gillo came back today," said Hob happily.

  The game continued. Toshak bade them farewell; he had appointments that could not be missed, but Hob elected to stay as did Nuza.

  The Army team were finally all out at 131, an intimidating score. Now the Academics would bat while the Army mots would field and throw.

  Thru was not a thrower, but he was quite good at catching long balls, so he was stationed way out on the boundary line.

  The Academics had several good batters, and these mots soon made an impression on both throwers and fielders for the Army team.

  Thru found himself pursuing well-hit balls that bounced over the boundary or flew high on their way to a score. He made one catch, when the Academics were at 76 runs. They continued to hit well, and when they reached 120 with one mot left to bat, there was growing concern in the mass of Army supporters grouped tightly around the batting pole. What had seemed like certain victory was now in doubt. All their noise and smart remarks could not break the concentration of the last Academy hitter, though, and he struck again and again, scoring 6 runs before giving up a catch. Going on to 9 before letting a ball through to strike the red post. He went past the Army score and then six more before he was finally done in, and the game came to an end.

  The Academic crowd was cheering wildly. The local chooks were jumping up and down with loud whopping cries. Most had thought their team was doomed once Thru Gillo had hammered out his impressive score of 47.

  The two teams shook hands on the open space by the red post before leaving the field.

  Afterward Thru met Nuza at the door to the Sulmo clubhouse. He was cheerful despite the defeat. His skill with the bat had not been lost. Nuza hung on his arm as they walked up the broad avenue to the inner-city gate. The Sulmo ball field was in the outer city, that part which had been walled in during a brief boom era in the city's history. The inner city remained the more densely populated, heavily built-up part, as it always had been.

  The avenue was lined with graceful elm trees and stone benches on which folk could sit and rest their limbs while they watched others going to and fro. The avenue ran on past the ball field to a large vegetable and grains market, so there was quite a bit of foot traffic here throughout the day.

  Here and there, elder mots were playing the board game called Chat, which was a popular pastime in Sulmo. On either side of the avenue for much of its length lay parkland with green lawns on which a few people strolled. Beyond it were formal beds filled with southern flowers. It was a peaceful scene, most pleasing to the eye.

  "You can almost imagine that things are just the same. That the men never came," said Nuza.

  "Almost," he agreed.

  Ahead of them rose the towers and spires of Old Sulmo, the Fane of the Great Spirit, the Small Fane, the Royal Palace, and the Corn Market, each very different, but each beautiful in its own way.

  "If it hadn't happened, if they hadn't come, we would have been on the roads this summer."

  "Yes, I know. But our lives will never be what they were. We have to make the best of what we have left."

  "Someday," she said, leaning on his shoulder, "I hope we can have something of our old life."

  Their hands interlocked, Thru prayed with all his heart that Nuza's hopes would not disappear. The future was clouded. Endless war, or else defeat and annihilation were the most likely prospects. The
life they had once enjoyed seemed as far away as the moon.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Harking back to an ancient tradition, the King of Sulmo, Gueillo X, had ordered a grand banquet in honor of the Meld of Daneep and the army of Sulmo. The city was abuzz with talk about this event from the moment the Royal Proclamation was read out on street corners. The next ten days were filled with public excitement. Almost as if everyone in the city had been invited personally.

  Thru received his invitation under the Royal Seal. For a moment he caught himself as he opened it. A year before he had been no more than a traveling player. A wanderer, a roustabout, a weaver who couldn't get into the weavers' guild. Now he was invited as an honored guest to a royal banquet.

  The war had produced so many strange occurrences that he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised by this one, either. Yet still, it felt strange to have been elevated like this so quickly at such a young age. He was barely a grown mot, and yet he was commanding a brigade on the battlefield. Sometimes it was all a little amazing to him, when he had the time to contemplate it.

  When he found that Nuza was not invited, he wondered aloud about not going at all. Nuza would not hear of it.

  "Of course you must go. It is you they want to honor. The people attending will be the wardens of each of Sulmo's counties. They will represent the people of their counties, and that means they must see you and all the other mots who won the battle. Of course, they can't meet the ordinary soldiers, but they can meet the officers. Then they will go home to the counties and spread their impressions of you and the others. So you will represent the army itself."

  Thru understood. It was the way society worked. Everyone in the Land would eventually be touched by some report from this grand dinner. He was still left with a little dread concerning the heavy responsibility of representing the army in this manner. What if he made some social gaffe?

  "What if I use the wrong fork for the shellfish?" he said plaintively.

  "Bah, silly. You use the forks in order from the outside in. It's perfectly logical."

  "It is?"