The Empire of the Zon

by R. M. Burgess

  “Okay, Alex,” she said. “Finish off the others.”

  All the huntresses and Maidens snapped down their dark eyeshields. There was a preemptive hiss as the heavy ’grator engaged. Then there was a huge crackle and a blinding flash as the energy beam shot forth. It was over in an instant. One moment there was a huddled troop of Utreans, and in the next there was nothing left but charred spots on the ground.

  CHEVAL KANTUS HILSON was camped with fifteen thousand men on the ring of low hills overlooking the Aurora Citadel. He was unaware of the Zon defeat at Ostracis or that Election Day was almost over in Atlantic City. But as he surveyed the campfires, he thought with satisfaction of the two trunks of dynamite, now distributed to handpicked teams of his best men. Together with his staff, he had drawn up elaborate plans for these teams to steal up to the citadel walls in the pre-dawn darkness and use the dynamite to breach them. And he had some of Duke Hilson’s men with him who knew how to operate ’grators and pistols. They would go in with the first wave of attackers, looking for power sources to charge the weapons captured at the Dreslin Residency in the War of Brigon Succession. And they had strict instructions to capture more weapons by any means necessary.

  He rubbed his hands together to warm them. The ground was snow-covered, and there was a lot of sea ice in Aurora Bay. He could completely surround the citadel. One by one, his captains lit signal fires, indicating that they were ready. Kantus gave the chinstrap of his helmet a nervous tug and then asked his aide to give the signal for the advance teams to begin moving.

  FIFTEEN

  THEY WERE SEATED on low chairs around Aghari’s hearth. The medicine woman was small but buxom and very vigorous for her years. Her face was now red with the heat from the fire as she stirred a large stewpot. She added a number of succulent herbs, and soon a very pleasant smell permeated the small cottage.

  “Times are hard, and we are very poor,” she apologized. “I have no meat. You will have to make do with my root vegetable stew.”

  “It will do very well,” said Caitlin, who had warmed to the cheerful woman immediately. “It smells heavenly.”

  “Oh, come now, you need not humor an old woman,” said Aghari, but she was pleased nonetheless. She turned from the pot and touched Caitlin’s cheek. “You are such a beautiful creature! I never thought that there would be a woman who deserved my dear Greghar, but I think you are proving me wrong.”

  Greghar cleared his throat.

  “Aghari, Lady Caitlin is a Zon huntress,” he said quickly. “She has no use for barbarian men.”

  Caitlin smiled lazily.

  “Oh, Greghar, I know what Aghari means, and I am very flattered,” she said mischievously. “And I agree with her. You are indeed quite a catch.”

  Greghar flushed, unsure of himself and not knowing what to say.

  “I have no use for this womanly chatter,” he said gruffly. “And I did not expect such girl talk from you, huntress.”

  “Why?” asked Caitlin archly. “Am I not a woman? Or do you think of huntresses as genderless?”

  “Of course you are a woman,” he said, floundering. “But, but…”

  “Oh, don’t tease him,” said Nitya, intervening firmly. “Greghar is a man of action, not words. Isn’t that so, Greghar?”

  “I have words enough,” he responded, irritably. “But I am a plainspoken man. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say.”

  “He was always thus,” said Aghari fondly. “I knew each and every one of the royal children intimately. Of all of them, my Greghar is the most like their royal father, Jondolar the Just. I only hope that I live long enough to see him crowned King of Utrea.”

  “This is foolish talk, woman,” said Greghar roughly. “I am destined to live an ill-starred life, not a royal one.”

  “What do you know of destiny?” asked Aghari tetchily. “I knew both your parents. You are destined for great things.”

  Greghar’s expression grew dangerous.

  “We will speak no more of this,” he said firmly. “We have more immediate things to discuss. I must speak with Hathar, the headman, about getting supplies.”

  Aghari shook her head.

  “Always in a hurry,” she scolded. “First you must eat, then we will walk over to the tavern. Hathar always stops by there for a drink after his dinner.”

  The stew was ready, and Aghari ladled it out into heavy wooden bowls. She produced some rustic bread from a bin and cut thick slices, which she handed around. She also brought out some small beer. They sat around her rough kitchen table and ate and drank heartily.

  Later, they donned their cloaks and walked down to the tavern, a rough-hewn wooden structure that dominated the small village square. Even though it had begun to snow lightly, the windows of the tavern were open, and loud voices and raucous laughter drifted out through them.

  Aghari looked worried and said, “It is not a market night or a feast. I don’t know what all this revelry is about.”

  She still pushed her way through the heavy drapes into the bar parlor. The other three followed her in, the hoods of their cloaks pulled forward to keep their faces in shadow. There were over a score of men-at-arms at the bar, talking in loud voices and laughing. They all wore the Masthead crest of the King of Utrea on their tunics. Greghar instantly recognized their distinctive helmets and the death’s heads on their collars—the insignia of the Skull Watch. Aghari ignored them and led the way to a quiet side table, where a heavy-set, middle-aged man sat alone.

  “I bring you my son and his friends, Hathar,” she whispered to him as she sat down at his table and waved to the others to pull up chairs.

  Hathar smiled briefly at Greghar’ s hooded features.

  “When did these men-at-arms get here?” Greghar said in a low tone. “They were not here when we arrived earlier this evening.”

  “Only a short time ago,” Hathar said, in a similar sotto voce. “So I cannot pretend to be happy to see you. They are riding to Nordberg. They say that Cheval Nestar Crogus has taken Ostracis. Thousands of Zon have been tortured and killed, and all the survivors have been enslaved. They ride to inform the king of this great victory. This is just unbelievable, Greghar! The Zon have never been defeated before!”

  Caitlin’s fists clenched under the table.

  “We are invincible!” she hissed. “The Ostracis Citadel contains our old, sick, and weak. Let the Skull Watch face—”

  Nitya saw her disquiet and put her hand on her thigh, whispering, “You must be calm, Lady Caitlin.”

  Much to Greghar’s discomfiture, Hathar was prompted to bend down and examine Caitlin carefully under her drooping hood. The color drained from his ruddy face, and his eyes grew round with fear.

  “What possessed you to bring a Zon huntress here in these troubled times, Greghar?” His tone was low, but panicked. “If these Watchmen learn her identity, they will sack Grenhall! Not a stick of your boyhood home will be left standing.”

  Caitlin looked at the Watchmen from under her hood. A barrelchested man with a two-handed greatsword in a back scabbard stood at the middle of the group, lounging on a stool at the bar. All the others deferred to him, marking him as the leader. He had a weathered face and cold eyes, hardened by war. Even as he listened to the conversation he was part of, his eyes roved the bar parlor, searching and assessing. This was a man who constantly expected ambushes and traps.

  I would love to kill that one, she thought. Just as she thought this, their eyes inadvertently locked, piquing his interest. He said something to his two nearest companions, and the three of them stood and walked over.

  The leader looked down on Hathar, his hands under his tunic, out of sight.

  “So, Hathar,” he said in a neutral tone. “Pray introduce me to your companions.”

  Hathar was petrified, and his mouth worked, stumbling over unintelligible words.

  “This is Captain Guttanar of the Skull Watch,” he finally choked out, looking from the Watchmen to Greghar. He waved vaguely toward the
table. “Our medicine woman, Aghari. And her son, Asgar.”

  Greghar stood and threw back his hood. He was almost a head taller than Guttanar and now looked down on him.

  “Yes, I am Asgar,” he said firmly. “Back from service in the Marches.”

  “A warrior by the look of you,” said Guttanar, looking him up and down. His eyes took in every detail, lingering on the longsword and dagger in Greghar’s belt. “Do you serve King Shobar?”

  “I have not had that good fortune,” said Greghar steadily. “I have had to seek employment in Briga.”

  “A good sword will always find a place in the king’s service,” asserted Guttanar. “And who are your companions?”

  Nitya followed Greghar’s lead and stood.

  “This is my woman’s sister,” Greghar continued, putting his hand on Nitya’s shoulder. He indicated Caitlin, still sitting with her head bent and her face unseen. “My woman suffers from the black pox. I am taking her to the monastery north of Rocness. I hope the monks can save her life.”

  On hearing Greghar say “black pox,” both Guttanar’s men hurriedly took several steps back. Guttanar merely allowed himself a slow smile.

  “I see,” he said calmly. “You must love her very much to travel with her and risk the black pox.”

  Greghar said nothing but merely maintained eye contact. Finally Guttanar looked away.

  “Come, men,” the captain said to his companions. “Let us leave these folk to their sickness.” His men followed him back to the bar, clearly much relieved.

  Hathar could do nothing for them, watched as he was by Guttanar’s men-at-arms. Greghar signaled Aghari, and the four of them unobtrusively left the tavern. Returning to Aghari’s cottage, she laid out bedrolls for them.

  “With the Skull Watch in the village, we must take turns on the watch, huntress,” said Greghar. “Can you take the first watch? Just wake me at one to take the second. We must be on our way before first light. Aghari will make sure the gates are open for us.”

  Aghari nodded. The three of them lay down and were quickly asleep. Even Nitya, who thought that her nervousness would keep her awake, found her eyelids very heavy and drifted into slumber almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Caitlin sat at the kitchen table watching the fire in the hearth die down. She had replaced her pistol holster at its customary place on her belt. She rested her elbow on it and loosened Karya in its scabbard. After a while, she began to feel the urge of her bladder. She ignored it as long as she could, but eventually the impulse grew strong. Around midnight, she rose and searched half-heartedly in the darkness, but she could find no chamber pot in the cottage. She was loath to wake Aghari with this rather personal request and hesitated. Then she recalled that the medicine woman had mentioned there was an outhouse across the small back garden. She really missed her luxurious suite in the d’Orr palace now, with its super-hygienic toilet facilities that would automatically analyze every bodily secretion. She sighed—she really hated these barbarian outhouses. To her delicate Zon nose, their stench was disgusting in the extreme, and their interiors were claustrophobic.

  But there was no help for it. She would never be able to sleep until she relieved herself. She unbuckled her belt and left her cloak behind to ensure that she could answer nature’s call with the utmost rapidity. She tapped her wrist bracer to set her temperature shield and was in and out of the privy in record time. She walked slowly back toward the cottage, pausing to look up at the crescent yellow moon, peeping in and out behind dark clouds. She blew out and watched her steamy breath.

  Guttanar stood behind the hedge with six of his best men. They got a clear view of Caitlin’s face when she turned and looked up at the sky. Her creamy skin looked unnaturally white in the silvery moonlight, and her fiery mane was turned amber.

  “See, it is as I told you,” Guttanar whispered. “She is unblemished—there is no black pox. There is nothing to fear.”

  They waited behind the hedge, only a few steps from Caitlin’s path back to the cottage. Caitlin approached, intent on the cottage’s back door. Guttanar held a soft and furry pelt in his hands. As soon as she passed their hideout, Guttanar whispered, “Now.” He stepped out and threw the pelt over her head, while simultaneously two of his men leaped upon her, seizing her arms and pinioning her body while their leader stifled her cries with the furry pelt. Two others similarly restrained her legs, and the remaining two took up positions on both sides of the action with loaded crossbows. Quickly and silently they bound her wrists and ankles and gagged her. One of the men found the long dagger sheathed in her thigh boot and wordlessly passed it to Guttanar. During the brief time that their work required, there was no sound that might have been heard by the occupants of the cottage.

  Three of his men bore Caitlin, still struggling and thrashing, back to the tavern, where the troop was quartered. The men had bedrolls on the floor of the bar parlor, while their captain had taken over the only suite of rooms that the tavern possessed. They entered the captain’s quarters from the external door and lit a lantern. Caitlin was set down on her feet, but two of the men still held her immobile. Bound and helpless, she still met Guttanar’s gaze fearlessly, her eyes hot with anger.

  He stared at her intently in the lamplight.

  “I should rape you and make you bear my children,” he rasped. “I am sorely tempted to do so. You Zon killed my father and my brother.”

  If he hoped to instill fear in her, he failed, for she was unfazed. When he roughly kneaded her breasts through her leathers, her look turned to one of contempt. This only served to infuriate him further.

  “You think you are better than me, don’t you, huntress?” he said angrily. “Well, you are my plaything now, to do with as I please. The only reason that I don’t deal with you here and now is that you are my ticket to a chevalry.”

  He looked at his six men, who stood around in silence.

  “Isn’t she a beaut, men? Makes that young huntress Cheval Nestar Crogus lusted for in Ostracis look rather plain by comparison, doesn’t she? Well, I am going to present this huntress to the cheval. And the good cheval always pays his men—he will soon be the Baron of Steefen and will make me a cheval. Then I will have the pick of the next prizes we take.”

  “We are your men, sir,” said one of the men. “I pray that you mention our names to the cheval as well.”

  “You know I have always played fair by you men,” returned Guttanar. He turned back to Caitlin. “I must deliver you unharmed to the cheval.” A hard smile played on his lips. “But that does not mean that I need to make your time with us a bed of roses.”

  So saying, he used her razor-sharp dagger to slice open the fastenings of her leather vest. The men all ogled her bra hungrily, but Guttanar only had eyes for the snarling wolf ’s head painted on her abdomen. He ran his hand over the painting, feeling the hard muscles underneath the smooth swell of her belly.

  “The fierce Zon wolf,” said Guttanar conversationally. With elaborate nonchalance, he balled his fist and hit her midsection very hard. She saw it coming and tensed her stomach muscles, but the heavy blow still caused her to jackknife forward. The two men strained to hold her upright. The gag stifled her cry of pain. He began to beat her methodically, his arms working like pistons as he pounded her solar plexus and belly. Caitlin was soon lost in a miasma of pain, and the room and her surroundings disappeared in a red haze. She began a litany of the Goddess psalm in her head to take her mind off her predicament. After a while it began to work, and she felt her body begin to go numb as she entered a trance-like state.

  Finally, Guttanar stopped. He was covered with sweat and panting from his exertion.

  “Let her go,” he gasped, and his men released her.

  Caitlin collapsed to the floor and lay there, curling up into a fetal position. Guttanar moved her roughly with his boot.

  “She breathes; she will be fine,” he said, still puffing. “Bring in some straw for her to lie on. She will remain in my ch
amber. I want all six of you on guard in here at all times. Put another ten men on guard outside.”

  He sat on his bed, regarding her inert form.

  “I will take her back to Ostracis with the six of you and six more,” he said authoritatively. “The rest will continue on to Nordberg to deliver the cheval’s message to the king. We ride within the hour.”

  “Won’t the cheval be angry, sir?” asked one of his men. “You know how he hates having his orders contravened.”

  “Yes, what you say is true,” said Guttanar. “But when he sees what I have brought him, he will think of rewards, not punishments.”

  So saying, he nudged Caitlin again with his boot. He was rewarded with a muffled moan.

  “You will be fine in a couple of days, huntress,” Guttanar said. “Some soreness and bruising, but not much more. And let me give you some advice. My blows will feel like the caresses of love compared to what the cheval will do if you fail to please him.”

  DEIRDRE AWOKE AT the sound of the first chime on her wristbracer alarm. She was in her emergency quarters deep below ground level in military HQ. Her handmaiden opened the door to her chamber and was by her side instantly. She allowed herself to be rapidcleansed, anointed with lotions, and then dressed in combat uniform. Her priestess pinks were put away for now.

  Her handmaiden put out a discreet call on Deirdre’s private comm channel so that when the First Principal emerged from her quarters, an aide was there to escort her to the situation room. Her staff had prepared a complete summary of the situation for her. Ostracis was now relegated to side panels. All the live holograms, video screens, and feeds were from Aurora. Heavy fighting was ongoing. There was one major breach in the walls, and attackers had gained access to Outer Town. However, the walls of Inner Town were still intact. Unlike Ostracis, in Aurora there were regular Zon centuries with heavy armaments. The attackers were paying a heavy price, but they were fighting doggedly and using their stocks of dynamite to good effect.