The Empire of the Zon

by R. M. Burgess

  “Get your men to follow me!” cried Nestar to the captain by his side. “The resistance is centered around the Keep. Once it falls, we can easily break the line along the stream.”

  Sueteri followed Nestar as he led the way. He shouldered his ’grator and aimed at the weak spot in the Keep walls that had already been struck by ’grator fire. He squeezed the trigger and fired, happy with his increasing familiarity with the weapon. When the dust cleared, the wall had been breached, and as Nestar urged them on, his men poured into the Keep.

  PACING THE RAVINE Wall, Laksa and Ling Mae watched the Keep fall. The battle raged along the line at the Dividing Stream, and when it broke under the Utreans’ ’grator and pistol fire and the sheer pressure of numbers, Ling Mae knew it was over. The barbarians charged into Lower Town, whooping and hollering, and immediately began to grab the fruits of their victory. Screams rose from all around Lower Town.

  Ling Mae’s mind churned. With the citadel lost, her responsibility was to get as many of her huntresses as possible out alive. But how could they escape? Then she slapped her forehead in frustration—in the heat of battle, she had completely forgotten about Brendel, circling high above in the one remaining airboat.

  “Praefecta Laksa,” she said, ashamed of the high pitch of her voice. “I am afraid that the citadel is lost. We must evacuate as many as we can, after making sure that we have destroyed the most critical items to prevent them from falling into enemy hands. My huntresses have destroyed the two airboats on the ground. Have you received confirmation of the destruction of the batteries?”

  “The battery and weapons stores have been blown,” replied Laksa, much the calmer of the two. “I am sure that the defenders of the Keep would have destroyed their batteries before it fell. There are only the two batteries up here on the wall.”

  “Okay,” said Ling Mae, opening a general comm channel. “All huntresses of the airship Thetis, report to the Ravine Wall immediately for evacuation.”

  The next fifteen minutes seemed like an age to Ling Mae, as huntresses trickled up to the top of the Ravine Wall in ones and twos. They queued up and recharged their weapons at the two batteries on the wall, draining them. Finally, as barbarian torches began approaching, she knew she could wait no longer.

  “Praefecta Laksa,” she said formally. “We have no more time. We must evacuate now. I have an airboat overhead. If we descend to the path and hurry down past the Ice Bridge cataract, we can arrange a pickup out of range of the citadel and the barbarians’ ’grators.”

  Laksa looked at her sadly.

  “Centuria Ling Mae,” she said, taking the younger woman by the arm. “I wish that we could have met under happier circumstances. I am commandant of the Ostracis Citadel. This defeat is my responsibility, not yours. You and your huntresses have fought hard against impossible odds and brought credit to the Thetis. I have already posted a report to Atlantic City to that effect on the comm.”

  She touched Ling Mae’s face, running her dry hands over the smooth, taut skin before continuing.

  “You are young and beautiful; your whole life is before you. My life is over; I must stay and face the consequences. Leave me a couple of fully charged ’grators, and I will cover your departure.”

  “But—” Ling Mae began.

  Laksa put a finger on Ling Mae’s lips.

  “Go!” she commanded.

  Ling Mae reluctantly turned to her impatient huntresses.

  “Down the path!” she cried. “Hurry. Keep your weapons ready in case of enemy pursuit. I will bring up the rear.”

  There were only about twenty of them out of the more than two hundred that had debarked from the Thetis. They hurried down to the breach in the Ravine Wall and onto the path. They quickly reached the narrow ledge, which formed a major bottleneck. One at a time, they inched across the gap, backs to the rock.

  Ling Mae and the remaining huntresses had their ’grators set and ready, watching the wall tensely for the barbarians to appear. There were still a dozen of them left with her when they heard the reports of ’grators from the top of the wall, harsh and continuous. Laksa was holding off the barbarians, true to her promise.

  “I hope she is killing those savages by the dozen,” said Ling Mae vehemently.

  The ’grator fire continued. Ling Mae could tell by the sound of the blasts that Laksa was using lower power and a medium-beam setting to vaporize a wide field of attackers while conserving her charge. The huntresses continued to inch across the ledge, one at a time. They were airship huntresses, so they were all used to working at great heights. But even their fast pace was not enough for Ling Mae, and she urged them on with word and gesture.

  Finally, they were all across, and it was her turn. She moved across quickly and efficiently. When she was across, she looked back at the wall. She could not see Laksa, but she whispered, “May Ma protect you and keep you, Praefecta Laksa. I promise you, all the Sisterhood will hear of your courage and sacrifice.”

  On the wall, Laksa half raised herself and took a quick look at the path. Seeing that Ling Mae and the huntresses were gone, she muttered a silent prayer of thanks and resumed her firing position. The barbarians had fanned out, trying to reach the wall on her flanks and attack her from both directions. She set the ’grators on tripods facing both ways along the walls.

  Her murderous fire had had an effect. Over a dozen charred bodies lay on the field before her. The barbarians were hunkered down for the moment, and there was a lull in the action. She took advantage of it to run over to the heavy ’grator, now empty of charge. She put her arms around the blackened, still-warm barrel and attempted to pitch the weapon over the edge of the battlements to smash on the rocks far below. It was very heavy, and she grunted with the effort. She recalled with wretchedness how easily the young huntress had handled the weapon. Made weak by time and fate but strong in will, she thought, a half-remembered line of poetry from a long-forgotten history class coming unbidden to her mind. Rocking it on its base, she managed to get a pendulum motion going till finally the weapon teetered over the brink and fell into space.

  Laksa turned and saw to her horror that the flanking barbarians had already gained the wall and were storming toward her position from both sides. She ran back and picked up one of the ’grators she had set on a tripod, muscles screaming. She looked in both directions, seeing immediately that the lead barbarian on her right carried a ’grator. As she tried to level hers at him, he sighted her and squeezed the trigger. She thought it was the end, but there was just a hollow click—his weapon was out of power! Clearly unaware of what had happened, he kept squeezing the trigger.

  Laksa had set a medium beam, so she squeezed her trigger without sighting. The five barbarians in the front rank were vaporized.

  “I do not fear you cowardly vermin!” she cried, as she drew a bead on the next rank of attackers. “I am an old woman, but I am still Zon!”

  Then she felt a huge thump on her back, and all the strength seemed to go out of her limbs. She could not retain her grip on the ’grator, which slipped out of her hands. She ran a hand over the front of her uniform and felt the tip of the crossbow bolt that had skewered her. She fell on her hands and knees and felt another bolt whizz over her head, almost parting her hair. Panicked, she got her hands on the ’grator she had dropped and threw it as hard as she could. She lay on her side and watched it land on a crenel and wobble before it slid over and out of sight, falling into the abyss. Her other ’grator was almost out of power, the two batteries were drained—she had ceded almost nothing of value to the enemy.

  She tasted the blood her in her mouth and knew she was dying.

  “Forgive me, Ma, I did my best,” she whispered. She began to recite the Goddess Psalm and felt peace.

  She hazily saw the men-at-arms gather around her. A huntress to the last, she was aware of the onrushing sword that severed her head from her body.

  ANOTHER HOUR AND all resistance had been broken. Nestar gave his men free rein to rape an
d pillage, viewing the burning citadel from the ramparts of the ruined Keep. The night rang with the screams of the defeated Zon.

  Sueteri came up to Nestar’s side.

  “You must stop this rapine and take advantage of your victory,” she said. “You need to secure the battery store and recharge your weapons—”

  He turned and, without a change of expression, backhanded her viciously across the face. She staggered back, tasting blood in her mouth along with a dislodged tooth.

  “Don’t presume to tell me how to run my battles,” he said calmly.

  She persisted. “But Nestar, you must find batteries. I found some ruined batteries in the Keep, while you and your men were raping the survivors. Without batteries—”

  He stepped up to her and struck her again, this time along the other side of her face.

  “You will address me as ‘Cheval’ or ‘Lord,’ huntress,” he said without anger. “Your days of telling us what to do are over.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Nestar’s three surviving captains, who climbed onto the ramparts, accompanied by Dushka and followed by several men-at-arms who herded about a dozen Zon before them, roughly prodding them with their spears. All of the men bowed on knee before Nestar, the men-at-arms forcing the Zon to do likewise. Nestar smiled benevolently.

  “You have done Utrea proud, gentlemen,” he said genially. “This is a historic day. It is the first defeat of the Zon, the first of many. King Shobar and I are pleased with you.”

  One of his captains strode forward, holding Laksa’s head by the hair.

  “Lord, this is your opponent, the lady of the citadel,” he said, bowing.

  Nestar’s smile grew wider.

  “A sweet sight indeed,” he said cheerfully. “Mount it on a spike on the ramparts that all may see it.”

  Dushka pushed her way to the front and bowed perfunctorily to Nestar.

  “Nestar,” she said angrily. “You must order your captains to find my compatriots. King Shobar himself guaranteed our safety, yet I cannot get your men to help me find them. And they have raped several of my allies here in Ostracis, brushing me aside bodily when I tried to intervene!”

  “I see,” said Nestar, looking very serious. “This is very worrying.” Dushka looked triumphantly at the captains, and even Sueteri looked hopeful.

  “Can you tell me what has happened to these ladies?” asked Nestar of his captains. He let them worry, enjoying their looks of apprehension for a full minute before giving them a broad wink. His most senior surviving captain stepped forward.

  “We had three fat women and one thin old crone with us, Lord,” he said, keeping his eyes down. “They led us through the tunnel and to the easiest access points into the citadel. In spite of our warnings, they seem to have gotten mixed up in the fighting and were killed by accident. We are very sorry, Lord. We regret this extremely.”

  Nestar kept a serious face for a moment longer. Then he burst into laughter, shaking and slapping his thighs till tears ran down his face. All the men on the ramparts joined him. Dushka looked about her in confusion. Sueteri put her hands on her face, felt the rising welts, and shrank back against the stone.

  “Nestar!” Dushka cried. “King Shobar promised us that we would rule Ostracis as his vassals. You defy the king at your peril!”

  Nestar wiped the tears of laughter from his face and grew serious again.

  “Strange,” said Nestar, smiling. “He promised me that if I took Ostracis, he would create me Baron of Steefen with the citadel as my seat. Unfortunately only one of us can be right. Hundreds of swords back my claim. What backs yours?”

  Dushka looked about her wildly.

  “You cannot do this!” she cried madly. “I am King Shobar’s vassal! I will serve him faithfully!”

  “Neither the king nor I can ever trust a traitor,” said Nestar with disdain. He walked up to her, grabbed a hank of hair, and slapped her face several times till her head lolled like a rag doll. He looked around at his captains and men-at-arms.

  “Who wants this traitor?” he asked, loudly. Dushka began to wail, her cries shrill and piercing. His captains stood their ground, their faces expressionless. “If no one wants her, I guess I must kill her.” He drew a dagger.

  Just before the dagger was plunged home, a broad-shouldered man-at-arms with unkempt, dirty brown hair called out.

  “Cheval, I will take her. She has meat on her bones and a fighting spirit. She will make good sport for me and my mates tonight.”

  “Take her with my compliments,” said Nestar, giving Dushka a powerful shove. She staggered away and was on the point of falling when the man-at-arms caught her. He stuck his hand under her blouse, squeezing her ample breasts, raising another laugh on the battlements. Then he slapped her again to show her he was a hard man.

  One of Nestar’s captains took a step forward and spoke up.

  “Lord, the men are spooked by the Zon here,” he said gravely. “They are all old or fat or both. We all know that the Zon do not age; we have never seen Zon like these before. The men think they are ghosts.”

  “They are human enough,” Nestar responded in a carrying voice. “Our swords kill them, do they not? But who are these Zon you have brought to me?”

  “Lord, they are the best-looking Zon we could find,” said his captain. “We have brought you the best of the spoils for your victory night.”

  Nestar surveyed the Zon that had been herded into his presence. He looked each one of them up and down, eyeing them as he would a horse he was considering buying. There were only two young ones that caught his eye, a pleasantly plump commoner with auburn curls and a caramel blonde huntress with large, frightened brown eyes. The commoner was quite pretty to his barbarian taste, but the huntress was the one that drew his attention.

  She was short and slight for a Zon huntress, and though she was sinewy, she still looked delicate flanked by the rough men-at-arms who had her restrained between them. She had been divested of her weapons belt and helmet, and her thigh boots were muddy and scuffed. Her lyntronex uniform had blood and dirt on it as well as a few rips. Nestar pointed at her.

  “Only one young huntress,” he said softly. “Where are all the others?”

  “Dead, lord,” said his captain. “There were very few young ones, and they fought like snow-tigers. With their magic weapons and swords, it was well-nigh impossible to capture them. When their weapons failed and they were trapped, they killed themselves and even each other rather than be captured. We were able to isolate this one, and it took three of my men to wrestle her dagger away from her before she could stab herself. She is stronger than she looks, my lord.”

  Nestar gestured, and the men-at-arms brought her forward. Up close, he saw that her wrists were manacled behind her back. He motioned to the men-at-arms, and they backed away. She looked at him, a mixture of defiance and fear in her eyes. He put his hand on her cheek and felt her smooth, golden skin. His fingers caressed a cut on her temple that still showed wet blood. He put a finger in his mouth and sucked, savoring her blood.

  “You are human, and your blood is young and warm,” he whispered. “And you are mine, you Zon beauty. If you are good to me, I can give you more power and happiness than you could ever have imagined. I can make you a baroness. I can give you strong sons who will grow up to be the pride of Utrea.”

  The assemblage watched the tableau, hanging on his words. The huntress was very young, barely twenty, and just out of the Academy. She looked at Nestar and then over his shoulder at the burning citadel. She looked back at him, and defiance won out over the fear in her eyes. She spat in his face.

  A shocked silence fell over the ramparts. Nestar’s hand went to his face, and he slowly wiped the spittle out of his beard. One of his captains sprang forward and with a large kerchief. Nestar accepted it and cleaned himself more thoroughly.

  “I will enjoy your pain and suffering, huntress,” Nestar said in a conversational tone. “You will give me many, many days and nig
hts of pleasure before you die.”

  Sueteri inched away from the rampart merlons. No one was paying any attention to her. She edged toward Nestar and the huntress. It was only five or six paces, and she sidled up, making no sudden moves. Nestar saw her out of the corner of his eye and raised his hand, preparing to strike her again, too contemptuous of her to give her his full attention. She was close now, and she ducked under his blow and grabbed the dagger out of his belt. Nestar stepped back swiftly and drew his sword to defend himself, but Sueteri turned away from him. She threw herself on the manacled huntress and stabbed her, sinking the full length of the long dagger just below her sternum. They fell together and lay entwined for a moment.

  Sueteri had given her a mortal blow, and the young huntress’s eyes were already dim. But she managed to whisper, “Thank you, Officia. Ma bless you.”

  Nestar’s calm façade broke, and he bounded forward with a roar. Sueteri knew what was coming, but she did not rise. She was still lying on the warm body when Nestar kicked her off it, away from the dagger still impaled in the young huntress. He began slashing her with his sword. The pain was excruciating, and she knew that death would not come quickly or easily. But the young huntress’s last words gave her comfort.

  AS SOON AS Ling Mae got her huntresses safely past the narrow ledge, she had them double-time down the path to the Ice Bridge cataract. She had no means of knowing if and how soon pursuit would develop. She opened a comm channel to Brendel. Speaking breathlessly as she maintained her pace, she ordered her to descend to pick them up beyond the cataract, out of the line of fire from the citadel.

  The enormity of the events that had just taken place was seared in her brain. This was the first recorded military defeat the Sisterhood had ever suffered on New Eartha. She was the senior officer in command of two centuries; no matter what Laksa said, she had been defeated and lost a citadel. Far-smaller Zon units had routinely defeated far-larger barbarian armies. But she was the first Zon commander to face barbarians armed with ’grators and pistols, she told herself. Surely that should count for something!