“Lord, I am honoured,” Akreen said as he got to his feet. Any intention he’d had of resigning his post now seemed ludicrous, not to say suicidal. “Honoured and humbled. My vow remains that of the Zavri–eternal loyalty.”
“Pleasing words, First Blade, but keep in mind that there is a provision set upon your new station, as you might expect. Any sign of treachery on your part will result in punitive action being carried out against the Zavri holdworld, Drevaul. As you can see, the anti-Zavri weaponry is satisfyingly effective. Ah, finally!”
In the command chair, Tevashir’s head wavered slightly. His mouth opened but only dark glittering gravel spilled out. The staring eyes grew still and dull, then cloudy, then dark and gleaming. Xra-Huld, Gun-Lord of the Shuskar, smiled approvingly then glanced up at Akreen. Who kept his face composed and apparently untroubled.
“Do we have an understanding, First Blade?”
“Yes, Lord, and I repeat my vow–eternal loyalty to the Shuskar, loyalty eternal!”
Xra-Huld smiled coldly then straightened from his leaning position.
“Very well, First Blade. You shall now speedily acquaint yourself with the duties of your new status. You will also place all units of the Zavri on a war-footing, including the half-battalion you recently commanded. When you return to the Warcage, set your destination as Armag. On arrival, assume stationary orbit above the capital city and await further instructions.”
“Armag… is that the Gruxen holdworld, Lord?”
“The same. Consult your archives and be prepared–the final chapter of the Chainers’ tale is about to be written.”
With that, the Gun-Lord cradled the grotesque bioweapon arm against his midriff and left, closely followed by the Toolbearer with the Zavri-killer. The Avang sceptre-carls were the last to depart, with a leisurely swagger in their gait. Akreen could feel the relief of his precursors when the bridge was finally cleared of intruders. The need to act decisively was undeniable–he assembled the bridge officers and gave out a batch of directives which put into effect the orders of Xra-Huld. The removal of Tevashir’s brittle, shell-like corpse was assigned to the lowest ranking crew member, who was told to ensure that it was ejected via the refuse lock. That should satisfy any Shuskar spies among the crew–it was only sensible to assume that there was at least one–that the former First Blade’s remains were being treated with the bare minimum of respect.
On the bridge’s main screen, a large vessel of severe brutalist design was firing its manoeuvring thrusters, moving away from the Urtesh. It was one of the Shuskar’s belligerator ships, now clearly the seat of command for Gun-Lord Xra-Huld. Akreen instructed the helm officer to wait for ten u-minutes after the belligerator’s departure to hyperspace before following on. Then he decided to retire to the commander’s abeyance chamber and quiz the archives on the subject of Armag. As he descended the narrow companionway at the rear of the bridge, his precursors broke their silence.
[Such vile deceit! It will find you out–To] [What monstrous creatures are our overlords. Yet Tevashir deserved his fate–Dr] [All things that live can be killed–Ra] [Be ready for a pretty festival of ruin where every brute has its own death-dance!–Zi] [Restraint is key, bide your time–Ca] [Those half-beasts, degenerates and brigands must never be allowed to set foot on Drevaul–never!–Ip]
As the door of the abeyance chamber–so recently Tevashir’s–slid open, Akreen tried to think of something to add to the babble of declarations. But as the door closed behind him, the babble faded away to just one voice which only laughed quietly for a moment before…
Again, he was in the misty gloom, in the lee of that vast featureless wall, with a single smoky figure standing nearby. The stranger turned and approached, his face a real face, silvery and craggy, and vaguely familiar from the lineage archives.
“Hello Akreen,” he said. “I am Gredaz. I thought it was time we had a little chat.”
CHAPTER TEN
Pyke woke to the sound of shouts and thudding Bargalil hooves. And Ancil saying his name over and over while shaking his shoulder with unmistakeable urgency.
“… yeah, right… okay!–what’s happening?”
“I think our hosts are under attack from other Bargs,” said Ancil. “Can’t see much from the window, just some big shapes dashing around beyond that fire pit. What’s really worrying is the comms–tried calling the others and got nothing but static.”
That made Pyke sit up. “Jamming?”
The only light in the hut came from a small iron brazier, the dull orange glow of embers. Ancil’s vague form nodded in the gloom.
“Seems likely, which means someone out there has much better tech than these Bargalil farmers.”
“Someone like the new owners of this planet, you mean,” Pyke said, swinging his legs out of the big padded cradle that was the Bargalil equivalent of a bed. Tugging on his field jacket he went over to the small, slit-like window and peered out at the forest clearing just as Kref came into view, leading Punzho and Mojag around the fire pit. Even as Pyke whispered sharply to Ancil, a battlestripe-daubed Bargalil warrior burst through a bushy wall of vegetation, brandishing a spear in either hand. In the next instant it saw the three offworlders, let out a blaring roar and charged. This was a very different Bargalil to the ones they had encountered last night, peaceful villagers who were friendly and welcoming to footsore travellers, despite the upheaval that was afflicting their world.
Like Punzho and Mojag, Kref was armed but as the Bargalil warrior bore down on them the Henkayan knocked the extended spear-arm aside and launched a devastating punch at the creature’s head. It had the desired effect–the Bargalil’s legs gave way and it crashed to the ground, limbs akimbo. Ancil was already at the open door as the others dashed across the remaining distance, closing and barring it after they were safely inside.
“Captain, what is going on?” gasped Mojag.
“Huh, even I know that one,” Kref said. “Somebody’s trying to kill us!”
“Where are the others?” said Pyke. “Dervla and Win’s hut wasn’t far from yours–did you see them?”
“We tried calling them and you on the comm,” Mojag said, “but all we heard was hissing.”
“The window of our hut faced away from theirs,” said Punzho. “But the walls are only made of rushes and mud so I made a hole to get a view. I saw several Bargalil bodies lying on the ground and someone firing from the hut window.”
“Weapon discharges,” said Pyke, looking at Ancil. “Could that be detected?”
“Could be,” Ancil said. “Chief, we’ve got to go get them…”
“Picking up anything on your factab?”
“It’s not been on,” Ancil said, digging into his backpack. “Trying to conserve the battery… right, passive detection is showing a comm frequency jammer about twenty klicks to the northwest. And several telemetry sources, airborne, moving south in overlapping search patterns.”
“Heading our way?” said Pyke.
“Be here in about seven minutes.”
The two men shared a grim look for a moment, and Pyke gave a sharp nod before turning to the others. “You three be ready to leave when we return,” he said. “If we’re not back in five, no, six minutes, make a run for the forest and keep moving south for half an hour.”
“I wish we’d never asked the Bargalil for shelter,” Mojag muttered.
“And if wishes made a difference I’d be carrying a phased plasma rifle right now!” He crossed to the door and glanced at Ancil. “Ready?”
“I better be.”
Pyke yanked open the door and dashed out with Ancil hot on his heels. But they were just skirting the fire pit when he heard a shout from Ancil and felt a hand grab his upper arm.
“Wait, they’re already here!”
Ancil had slowed and was staring at data on his factab. Pyke dragged him into the lee of a low firewood shelter. “I thought they were minutes away,” he said.
Ancil shook his head. “Another craft, a
bigger one, swept in from the west, and it’s practically sitting on top of their hut.” He gave a wordless snarl and prodded the factab display. “They must have tracked the energy-weapon discharges–perhaps if we charge in, surprise them…”
Pyke felt the same impulse but his responsibilities forced caution and survival upon him. “Can’t do it, Ancil–if we end up dead, how can that help Win and Dervla?”
“So, we just leave them behind, Bran, is that what you’re saying?”
Pyke grabbed a handful of Ancil’s jacket shoulder and pulled him closer.
“I’m not about to go up against whatever’s over there in the darkness, but if you want to run on in and get yerself shot, fried or disintegrated or all three be my guest. I’m going back to collect the others and head for the forest. Then maybe we can figure out what to do next.”
He let go of Ancil, turned and ran lightly back the way he’d come. The hut’s door was already open, revealing Mojag’s puzzled features. Pausing only to give a summary of the new danger, he got all three of them outside and dashing towards the shadowy forest. Ancil was there too, clutching his factab to his chest as he stumbled after them.
Away from the clearing, night closed in. Their harness lamps sent wavering beams into the dank gloom, angled down at the forest floor. The ground was damp and uneven, the undergrowth tangly and often home to peculiar insects that made tiny warbling sounds; when disturbed their emissions resembled quiet, eerie choirs.
The ground also sloped upwards as they moved south. After about twenty minutes they reached a clearing with a cluster of mossy rocks and boulders where Pyke decided to call a halt. As they settled down to rest, Pyke got them to dim their lamps to conserve power cells and the anxiety on every face grew indistinct. Harness rations were produced, sampled, swapped, chewed, and water pouches were sparingly sipped from.
“Ancil,” Pyke said eventually. “Those survey units still in the area?”
“They switched their sweep away to the west,” said Ancil, features pale grey in the muted radiance of the factab. “That other big craft has dropped off the scanner as well…” Not meeting Pyke’s gaze, he bowed his head. “If I went to active scanning I could get more detail but then those hunters might detect the factab’s signal–and it would drain the cells too.”
Pyke nodded sombrely as he got to his feet. “Right, then–see if I can’t find out some facts,” he said. “Me and Kref will head back to the Barg village for a scout around—”
“I’m going too,” Ancil said as he stood up.
“You most certainly are not–you get to stay with the others and keep an eye on that screen. Any sign of bandits nearby you up-sticks and go deeper into the forest.”
Ancil glared at him but sat down heavily. “Find Win for me, chief. Find something–I have to know…”
And from the inky shadows outside the halo of their clustered harness lamps, a voice spoke.
“I believe that I can tell you all you need to know.”
Hands reached for holstered weapons as eyes turned in the direction of the voice, just as a couple of soft-glowing points winked on a short distance away. One was fixed to the shoulder of a tall figure approaching through the trees, the other to the same-side wrist. Even before the face resolved itself out of the gloom Pyke knew that it was the thief and murderer, Khorr. And an awful certainty took hold when he saw a confident smile on that hated visage.
Several weapons were levelled at Khorr by the time he came to a halt at the edge of the clearing, empty hands held out.
“I’ll come to the point, Captain–I have the two females.”
Pyke’s grin was cold. “And I should believe you… because…?”
Khorr nodded. “Proof, then.” He touched something in his ear and muttered a few indistinct words.
There was only the breeze-stirred silence of the forest for several seconds, then a faint hum grew in the air and when Pyke looked up he saw a craft, some kind of open-top antigrav lighter, descending to the clearing. It slowed and stopped just above head height. Aboard it, several dim forms shifted about–then a light came on, revealing Dervla and Win, hands bound, both looking dishevelled and harassed with three of Khorr’s goons holding on to them.
“How are ye doing up there, Dervla?” Pyke said.
“Fine, Captain, fine. Wind’s a little bracing but our dance partners are a bit short on technique. Can’t wait to teach ’em a few new moves.”
“You just hold tight, darlin’.” He looked back at Khorr. “Well?”
“Captain, it comes down to this–there is a vital task to be undertaken and you and your crew are perfect for the job.”
Pyke allowed himself a bleak smile. “Now, there’s a thing, ’cos we’ve already carried out a contract for you. Didn’t work out too well for us, you might recall.”
“Circumstances change, Captain. For example, you are all now fugitives, trapped here among the shackled worlds of the Warcage–and you’ve lost your ship… oh, I know that you rescued G’Brozen Mav and I would guess that his Toolbearer was the one who seized control of your vessel.”
“Well, we know about you,” Pyke countered. “Mav told us who you take orders from—”
“Mav told you?” Khorr let out a rasping laugh. “The man who stole your ship suddenly becomes a reliable source!… Look, I could try to explain that unlike him I want to actually defeat the Shuskar, which means no half measures. I could try and persuade you to understand why we had to remove the indecisive Mav from the situation by marooning him on that ruined planet. But really, all that matters, all that you need to keep in mind, is that I have your crew females and that their lives depend on your cooperation.”
Pyke rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and glanced at the others–only Ancil met his gaze, giving a resigned shrug.
Damsels in distress, he thought. Ah, the joys of command.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
Khorr gave a wide smile.
“Wise decision. Now attend closely–the rule of the Shuskar—”
“Who?” said Pyke.
Khorr gave a soundless snarl. “The Shuskar, those who give the orders. Their rule lies heavily upon the worlds of the Warcage but only the holdworlds enjoy the permanent presence of a Shuskar Lord-Governor. One such is the planet Armag, a key industrial centre with its capital in Armag City. The native Gruxen are hierarchic, caste-conscious, and while their Dynarch Houses run Armag society on behalf of Lord Gyr-Matu, the Shuskar Governor, the underworkers tend to be less compliant.
“Your task is to infiltrate the manse-tower, ascend its garden-galleries and clerk chambers, get into the Pendatoria then find Lord Gyr-Matu and kill him, with gun or knife, it matters not.”
“Assassination, eh?” Pyke folded his arms. “Serious business to entrust to a gang of smugglers from outside this Warcage of yours.”
“Your escape from the doom we arranged for you and your crew proves your resourcefulness. But you need not worry about being cast adrift on an enigmatic world–we put our trust in the Gruxen rebels of the Armag subdistricts. They are working closely with the new Chainer leadership, and the addition of your crew will make the overthrow of the Lord-Governor all the more certain.”
Pyke was regarding Khorr closely, imagining whereabouts on that thick neck he would have to apply his hands, and how much force he would have to apply. “Must say I like a good strong dose of sedition now and then but I’m wondering about how our appearance might fit in, or not, and then there’s…”
“The language barrier, Captain?” Khorr reached inside his bulky armoured jacket and brought out a transparent square wallet containing a cluster of small pale objects. “These were retrieved from one of my ‘guests’, your deputy, the Human female–language teachers, fabricated of course by G’Brozen Mav’s Toolbearer–cunning devices impress the patterns of the Omnilect upon the brain. I’m disappointed that you didn’t make use of them earlier, but you will all take one before departing for Armag. As for your appear
ance–although Armag is a Gruxen world the movement of workers around the Warcage means that you will see a scattering of other races among the underworkers, and you will not be as eye-catching as you might think. You will be presented to the Gruxen rebels as new allies from the replacement worlds, while to anyone else you are merely draftee apprentices from the same.”
“That’s some amount of planning,” Pyke said. “All for us.”
Khorr shook his head. “You and your crew are taking the place of another team which has been… unavoidably delayed. But I have every confidence in you and your talents.”
“Compliments, now.”
“No, Captain. Ultimately it comes down to a matter of incentive.”
Khorr glanced up at the hovering lighter and gave a signal. One of the three captors raised a snub-nosed handgun and pressed it against Dervla’s neck before she could react. There was a faint, sharp sound, Dervla let out a muffled cry, then the process was repeated with Win, who glared and made no sound.
“Idler rounds,” said Khorr. “They are tiny but sophisticated pellets that travel through the body, homing in on the main valves of the heart. In two and a half days, by your reckoning, the idlers will reach their targets and your friends will die. Luckily, the operation is scheduled for completion in less than two days and as soon as confirmation of the death of the Lord-Governor reaches us the idlers will be removed and your crew members will be safely returned to you.”
Still staring up at the lighter, Pyke could feel a maddened rage warring with caution, but the certainty of consequences was unavoidable. Idler rounds… that travel through the body… He reined in the anger as mutters and curses reached his ears. Turning, he saw similar emotions darkening the faces of the others, and Ancil slowly reaching for his sidearm. Pyke gave a wordless shake of the head, and after a moment the murderous look in Ancil’s eyes faded a little and his hand fell limply to his side.
Pyke faced Khorr.
“So, just taking hostages wasn’t enough.”
“I want to be certain that your every thought and action is focused on carrying out the mission to the end, to the final blow.”
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