by Lee Carlon
The beat of an agitated heart vibrated through the floor. Some unseen but huge creature snorted somewhere in the mist.
What’s happening? Vincent wanted to shout, but instead, he crouched to run. Warwick’s troops were out there shooting at them. He reached for his own laser-cutter, but something caught his arm. He grunted and turned ready to lash out, but Fahlim was there. “Try the sword.”
“Why?”
“Because sweet Doran is as effective as any dead-zone.”
“She’s a jammer?”
“No. Not very good at extrapolation are you?”
It was an absurd suggestion, but reason had fled in place of the absurd. Vincent dropped the laser-cutter and charged, skimming through the unnatural mist toward one side of the room, drawing his sword as he went.
Between jumps, Vincent saw Ethan was already fighting the enemy, causing chaos with two swords, one short the other long. He’d engaged half a dozen troops. The troops fought back, but Ethan was masterful and responded to their attacks with a deadly, calm efficiency that Vincent hadn’t expected from this angry man.
If Ethan had been hit by the blast from a laser-cutter, it wasn’t slowing him down.
Vincent skimmed into a group of troops. Disorientated by his unnatural surroundings, he went straight at his first target instead of flanking him. The troop’s laser-cutter came up as Vincent appeared and screamed, putting all of his strength into what he expected to be his final act.
The sword smashed through the troop’s visor into his face. The troop fell back silently, and Vincent skimmed. He drove his sword through the visor of another man as he reappeared.
Skim. Thrust. Skim.
Twice Vincent’s opponents had their weapons in positions that should have ended him, but both times their weapons failed to discharge.
Doran.
With the six men who had opposed him seconds before either dead or dying on the floor around him, Vincent paused. He heard his companions fighting around the room, but he couldn’t see them. Somebody screamed, a high protracted sound. Vincent didn’t want to know what had caused it.
The heartbeat he’d heard earlier was louder now and coming toward him. Through the silver mist, a form appeared, charging like a bull across a path that intersected Vincent’s. The beast, blood red with milky white eyes and a wedge-shaped head that terminated in a wide mouth held open by unnatural black tusks, hurtled past Vincent in the second he saw it and collided with a group of Warwick’s troops.
It gorged one troop with a horn that sat between its sightless eyes and crushed three more with its massive body against the throne room wall. It trampled a screaming fifth man under foot. When the troops were all dead or incapacitated, the beast paused long enough to wipe the blood-smeared wall clean with one long lick of its wide tongue, and then it thundered away into the mist as if it had never been there.
Vincent gasped in relief as the heartbeat of the creature’s passage faded.
Ethan was no longer in sight, and Vincent couldn’t see any other troops along this side of the room, so he skimmed back through the mist to Lord Obdurin’s position. The shadows were thick around Doran now, and Vincent suppressed another shiver.
Half of Siaveen’s silver-haired bondsan were gathered around Lord Obdurin and Walden. The other half were nowhere to be seen.
Lord Obdurin complained, “Siaveen, let me through. I must speak with Marlan.” From his aggrieved tone, Vincent could tell this wasn’t the first time Obdurin had made the request.
“I made a promise to Gordon. I’ll not risk a stray shot making a liar out of me,” Siaveen said.
“By the Abyss, all the electrical weapons have been neutralized.”
“It would be easier to shield you if you were shorter,” Siaveen said.
“Would you rather I cower in fear for my life?”
“That would make my job easier,” Siaveen said in a deadpan tone.
“By the Abyss, you’re as bad as Gordon.”
Vincent heard struggles off along the other side of the room. He skimmed, fearful of crossing paths with one of Doran’s monsters and ready to change course if he did.
A dozen troops had converged on Corsari, and the bodies of another dozen were scattered around her.
The troops had reversed their grips on their weapons and used the expensive laser-cutters as clubs.
Vincent grinned maliciously. They’d thought they were an execution squad. Their targets contained in a single room. No need for full combat dress. Laser-cutters would do the job nicely.
Surprise.
Vincent skimmed again. Corsari was a whirlwind thrusting and feinting, slicing and spoiling. The men and women opposing her fell quickly. After a complicated dance that killed four of her opponents and pushed three more off balance, she laughed, the joy in it out of place. Still laughing she darted forward and opened one troop’s throat with a delicate flick of her wrist. The man dropped to his knees, and Corsari danced past him as he tangled his companions’ legs.
Her speed and skill chilled Vincent, but it was her laughter that frightened him.
She let another man live when she could have easily killed him.
She’s toying with them, Vincent thought, disgusted.
When she laughed again, Vincent realized he’d stopped to watch in horror.
Only six of the twelve troops still lived.
Corsari feinted left with one of her knives. The circle around her reacted, moving with her. Corsari changed direction, spinning right, she left one of her knives in the chest of the man who had thought to pursue her when her back was turned.
The circle had moved toward Vincent, and he skimmed, reappearing with his sword a hair’s breath from a man’s back. He thrust his sword through armor that was designed to protect against laser-cutters, but was useless against blades, and let go. He skimmed again, drawing the knife from his belt. When he reappeared, he cut a man’s throat. Corsari toyed with the last man. He lunged at her with the butt of his laser-cutter, but she avoided the blow and cut his hand.
“Dance! Dance!” Despite the words, her tone sounded encouraging not taunting.
Vincent felt sick. The troop knew he was dead, they all knew he was dead, but Corsari would draw it out. Vincent reversed his grip on the bloody knife he held and threw it.
The troop dropped to his knees with the blade in his throat. He gurgled for a moment then fell back.
Vincent dropped to his own knees and breathed hard. The throne room was silent around them. Corsari walked to Vincent and knelt with him, so they were face to face. She said, “You lack finesse.”
Vincent grimaced at the callousness of her comment and the small smile on her lips. He said, “You lack compassion.”
Her eyes closed briefly, and when they opened a hardened mask descended over her features, and Vincent understood just how unfairly he’d judged her.
“I bury compassion in service to the dance,” Corsari said.
She didn’t say any more, but Vincent understood. It was there in her eyes for an instant before she rose to her feet. She didn’t lack compassion, she believed people should be given the chance to die well. She wasn’t toying with them at all.
Vincent stood up and tried to go after her. “Corsari, I—”
“You dance well enough,” she said. “But you need to consider your partners. This dance we dance is never a solo piece.”
He swore under his breath, then looked around the room to hide his discomfort.
The shadows had receded. Doran was on her knees now, quietly weeping. The blood red beast Vincent had seen massacre troops approached the girl and Lord Obdurin’s circle. Ethan stiffened when he saw the creature, and he moved toward Lord Obdurin.
Doran wiped her eyes and got to her feet. The beast snorted twice, but she went to it and placed a hand on its snout and said soft words that Vincent couldn’t hear. The beast pressed itself into her hand and then it faded from sight as the mist cleared and the solid reality of the throne room reasse
rted itself around them.
Not far away, Pete grumbled, “Fucking sorcery.”
Ethan sheathed his weapons. He rolled his left shoulder and brushed at a laser burn that had scorched his shirt where the first laser blast had struck him.
Vincent watched him and wondered, Where’s his pain?
When Ethan looked at him, Vincent turned away.
All of Warwick’s troops were dead. They’d outnumbered Obdurin’s party four to one, but they were dead, and apart from the laser burn that wasn’t bothering Ethan, Obdurin’s party appeared to have escaped without a scratch.
Fahlim and Lord Marlan talked quietly in the center of the room.
Lord Obdurin strode across the hall to Lord Marlan’s facsimile. “You spoke of a legacy. Do you really think you can hold peace with Warwick and Rarick?”
Fahlim stepped back from the confrontation. Vincent swallowed a groan when the immortal spotted him.
The Marlan-bot had survived the chaos of the battle unscathed, but he looked harried. There was no sweat on his face, but he wiped his forehead and jowls with both hands as if he perspired heavily. Marlan looked left and right, but it was clear he wasn’t looking at anything in the throne room. The bot was mimicking his actions wherever he was. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Rarick promised we would make the proposal and you would be free to choose.”
“Lord Rarick isn’t known for his honesty. Hence the reason for my question,” Obdurin said.
Marlan flapped his hands for quiet. “There is a chance for peace.” The words were spoken sympathetically.
Marlan stiffened and looked to his left. “Who is it? Ah, Valan, Warwick. The fighting has stopped. Lord Obdurin wants to talk. He wants to hear the proposal.” There was a pause, and then Marlan continued, “Of course they did, you attacked them. We agreed— This is not what we agreed. I will have no further part in it.” Marlan was silent for a moment. “Lord Obdurin has survived your cowardly attack. He is my guest, and I will afford him the rights and protection of a guest in the house of Turintar.”
There was silence for a moment. Everybody in the throne room watched the one-sided conversation.
“Tell me, Warwick, what will your brother think if instead of forging an alliance in Central Newterra you return to him with the news you managed to make an enemy of his one ally?”
“How in the Abyss do they plan to form an alliance? At gunpoint?” Walden asked.
“It’s been done before,” Obdurin said.
“Warwick thinks Marlan has turned his bot off,” Pete said. “He has no idea we’re being treated to this little show.”
Marlan snapped, “Valan, advise this brute.” After another pause, “You and I are not allies yet. If Lord Obdurin agrees and you take his place, then we will be allies, but I will not treat you like an equal until that happens.”
There was another pause.
“We will go down there to talk with Lord Obdurin in person. I never should have agreed to these silly simulations in the first place. We all have some skin in this game, let’s not try to pretend otherwise.”
Nobody in the throne room breathed as they waited for more, but after a minute of silence, Pete said, “He’s turned it off. It’s not moving any more.”
“Why do they think you’ll give Warwick Rhysin’s heart?” Doran asked.
Obdurin looked at her and said, “For peace, child.”
“This stinks of the Wolf,” Ethan said. “Rarick would never think to just ask for Rhysin’s heart.”
“That’s what the Ambassador did a few hours ago,” Vincent said.
Ethan sought out Sorros and said, “Immortal? That thing said you know before I shot it.”
“Valan came up with the idea, but he sent me with the Ambassador to foil the plan,” Sorros said.
Fahlim chuckled, “Obdurin, you really should make up with Valan. He cooks up the most delicious schemes.”
“And as long as you’re not the one who gets burned it’s all good, right?” Ethan tensed up and took a couple of steps toward Fahlim.
Fahlim smiled before answering. Vincent thought there was a taunt in that smile. “I am sorry, Ethan. I spoke without thinking.”
Ethan stopped. Surprise on his face. Finally, he turned and walked away.
Doran approached Obdurin and asked, “You’re not going to do it, are you?” When Obdurin appeared not to hear her, she said, “You mustn’t.”
The Chosen walked a short distance away from the group, tugging at his beard with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
Walden followed him. “She’s right. Our plans have as much chance of success as theirs, more so in fact. You mustn’t even consider this.”
“I must consider everything,” Obdurin said. “And I don’t have long. They’ll be here soon.”
Ethan advanced on Lord Obdurin and said, “They’ll most likely enter through that door there. If I position myself behind the door, I can kill Warwick before he knows I am even there. Position Pete, Sorros, and Vincent at the other entrances in case they use one of those instead.”
“You will do no such thing, Ethan.” Obdurin was already pacing again and worrying at his beard.
“Lord?” Ethan asked.
“Silence,” Obdurin barked. “I need time to think. Just let me think.”
10
Uncomfortable Possibilities
The doors Ethan had indicated opened, and Lord Marlan entered. Marlan’s girth almost surpassed Fahlim’s, and Vincent remembered Fahlim claiming the Lord looked like he’d lost weight. Four slight, scarcely dressed women flanked Marlan. Despite the gravity of the situation, the women drew Vincent’s eyes. Their clothes were practically sheer, showing off the curves of their lithe but full bodies. At first glance, they looked like they had been chosen for their differences, like princesses in a diversity parade, but the differences were superficial. All four women were cast from the same mold, only the palette had been changed to provide cosmetic variety.
More bots? Vincent didn’t think so. He could tell the difference between real women and simulations. The thought that he hadn’t known with Marlan tickled the back of his mind, but he dismissed it. This is different.
Lord Marlan walked forward, and the women stayed in the doorway. If they’d been warriors Vincent might have wondered if they blocked the door to keep Obdurin’s company in or other people out.
Lord Marlan walked across the throne room toward Lord Obdurin without speaking.
Part of Vincent’s mind knew he should be watching the Lords, Rhysin’s and Turin’s Chosen, but he was busy chasing a daydream about the women who had arrived with Lord Marlan.
“I did warn you,” Fahlim said.
“Huh, what?” Vincent asked without taking his eyes from the women.
“Magnificent aren’t they? Be careful they don’t catch you peeking, though. They’ll hypnotize you with eyes that are suggestive and coy at the same time. Some men turn to jelly just thinking about the possibilities. It’s rather telling, don’t you think, that Turin’s dimin seduce rather than pummel?”
“What are you talking about?” Vincent asked.
Fahlim tutted. “Vincent, I worry about you, really I do. Do you ever think you should listen to me?”
“I have wondered about that,” Vincent admitted without looking away from the women in the doorway.
Fahlim’s tone turned aggrieved, “Really, why I bother is a mystery to me. I have warned you about Marlan’s dimin. It’s up to you whether or not you heed the warning.”
Vincent looked at the immortal now and asked, “What?”
“Those are Lord Marlan’s dimin,” Fahlim gave Vincent a second to absorb this. “As I said before, magnificent to behold, if not actually to—”
“I remember,” Vincent said, cutting off the immortal and taking some pleasure in spoiling the delivery of what was clearly one of Fahlim’s favorite lines. “How can they be dimin?”
“They are closer in form to their human
mothers, but they are every bit as much dimin as Lord Obdurin’s own Thwart and Sunder and Dint and Havoc and the rest of the beastly brood. They’ll seduce you with their eyes and whisper sweet poison into your ears. I’m told they can kill with a single kiss.”
Vincent’s blood ran cold, and he looked away from the creatures. He shook off the fog that had settled in his mind. He was as human as the next man, but he’d never considered himself a lech unable to control his thoughts or actions around beautiful women, and yet...
Fahlim continued, “It’s said that only their Lord can survive their embrace, but I doubt Marlan’s wife would allow it. Such a shame. All that potential.”
Vincent’s eyes drifted back to the dimin, and he resumed the daydream Fahlim had interrupted. Two of the dimin noticed his attention and looked at him without blinking. Their lips parted in small smiles as they appeared to blush under his scrutiny.
“Oh, my.” Fahlim swallowed hard next to Vincent then laughed nervously. “I think they like you.”
Vincent grunted as though he’d been struck in the chest and turned away from the women in the doorway as a third dimin added her attention to her sisters. Vincent walked away from Fahlim and the dimin and tried to focus on something else.
Lord Marlan had stopped in the center of the throne room, not far from the inanimate bot that had served as his proxy.
Lord Obdurin was still pacing with his back to Marlan, but alerted by the silence that had descended over the room, he stopped and faced his contemporary.
Siaveen’s cadre was spread out around the room at a discrete distance from Lord Obdurin but close enough to protect him.
Or turn on him, Vincent thought as he moved closer.
Marlan said, “You’re a guest in my house, and I have failed to protect you. I apologize.”
Obdurin was silent for a moment. Everybody in the room waited for him to speak. Obdurin looked toward the door where the dimin waited. “Siaveen and her cadre of bondsan acquitted themselves admirably in ensuring I came to no harm.”