“I seem to recall meeting your oldest son and heir,” said Diana, her mellifluous voice belying her hard-nosed intent. “He is sixteen or seventeen now, is he not? Give him to us as a hostage. If anything untoward happens to us, my copilot will fly him back to the Residency with orders to have him roasted alive.”
“Lady Death, you cannot ask a father to give up—” began Baron Tenus, suddenly pleading.
“Take it or leave it, Baron,” said Diana. “Give him up, or we arrest you. It is that simple.”
She pointed her laser pistol at him for emphasis.
“You win, Lady Death,” said Baron Tenus. “As usual.”
He signaled one of his troopers, who bowed and disappeared. Minutes ticked away, eating away at Baron Tenus’s nerves. Diana appeared nonchalant, saying, “I will try this fossil mushroom stew now, if you will be my taster, Baron.”
He bowed politely and served himself a plate from the tureen. He ate his portion completely, scraping the plate clean. Only then did Diana serve herself a small portion, saying to Ling Mae after she took her first bite, “Centuria, do try this stew; it is truly wonderful.”
Diana and Ling Mae had just set down their plates when the trooper reappeared, followed by a gangly teenager. His shock of dark hair contrasted with his father’s balding blond pate. Diana tapped her wrist bracer and drew out a holographic image. The youth stared at the image, mesmerized, for it was him as he had appeared a couple of years previously at his father’s banquet in honor of Diana at Grigholm.
“It’s him all right,” said Diana to Ling Mae. “Place his arms and legs in force field restrictors and put him in the airboat.”
After Ling Mae’s huntresses had followed her orders, Diana opened a comm channel to Brendel.
“Officia, take off and rest on sky anchors on the south side of the Lofgren,” she directed. “If you do not hear from us within an hour, fly to the Residency and tell Resident Rita that I have ordered the boy roasted alive in the traditional manner.”
Brendel hit the levers, closing and locking all the hatches, and opened up the engines. She took off smoothly and was soon a dot in the distance.
“Well, Baron,” said Diana. “Lead us to our battle.”
Before he could turn, there was a commotion at the entrance to the High Hall. Two men and a trooper were trying to control a fourth man. In spite of their efforts, he struggled free and burst out onto the High Terrace.
“Well, look who we have here,” said Diana, amused, for it was Horus Matalus.
Horus brushed himself off and looked behind him balefully before speaking.
“My father, Baron Marnus Matalus, sent me here on an embassy to King Shobar of Utrea,” he said in what was obviously a rehearsed speech. “I arrived here with my embassy to find that the king has abandoned his capital and fled for the Great Ice Range. My duty is clear. Our thoughts of a pact with Utrea were ill-thought; we must reaffirm our alliance with the Zon Sisterhood.”
A bald, slightly stooped man in long robes now made his way out. He was somewhat disheveled and was obviously one of the men who had been trying to restrain Horus.
“That was not the embassy, Lady Death,” he began, bowing. “Our liege, Baron Marnus Matalus, commanded us—”
“Deacon Phanius, you are my advisor,” interrupted Horus loudly. “But it is my embassy, and I decide what is best for the House of Matalus. For it is my house, not yours.”
I wonder if he knows that his father’s liege, Duke Hilson, has launched an all-out war against the Sisterhood, thought Diana, striving mightily to keep a straight face.
“Cheval Horus Matalus,” she said, finally. “I am delighted to accept your reaffirmed pledge of alliance. Let us face battle as allies. Please ask your men to lead the first wave against these vermin of Shobar’s Skull Watch.”
“But Lady Death, surely…your huntresses…” stammered Horus in confusion.
“We will be right there behind you,” Diana said soothingly. “You and I are old campaigners. We know that there is nothing better to forge an alliance than the fire of battle.”
She pounded the shoulder pad of his light armor with her fist to emphasize their bond. Horus reached up to pound her shoulder in kind, but when his fist touched her, it was more of a light tap. Diana propelled him into the High Hall, calling out, “Lead us to the Overhang Galleries, Baron Tenus.”
Baron Tenus had expected Diana to ask his men to lead the attack, so he was more than happy to show the way. Horus had about twenty Matalus men-at-arms, all of whom eyed the huntresses behind them dubiously. They had all heard lurid tales of what Diana and the Engine Maidens had done at the inn at Upper Thal and fully expected to be vaporized any minute.
They climbed a few sets of stairs and came to the Overhang Galleries in short order. The Galleries were so named because they jutted out from the highest level of the castle. They contained trapdoors that opened into thin air. Utrean kings of old were said to have dropped captured enemies through them, to take the very long plunge to the freezing waters of the Lofgren. The Galleries were in a northern corner of the castle and sealed off by a huge iron door. The bolts on the door were shot home, and a dozen of Baron Tenus’s men stood guard. The baron nodded to his corporal, and his men stood aside.
“How many in there?” asked Diana flatly.
“About twenty, Lady Death,” said the corporal nervously. “They have chained the inside of the iron door.”
“Okay, Horus,” she continued, without missing a beat. “We will blow the door open with our ’grators, then your men can lead the charge into the Galleries. We’ll be right behind you.”
But as Horus’s men nervously drew their swords and formed up, she pulled him aside and whispered in his ear, “Just stay behind me, Horus. When it is all over, you can charge in, slash one of the bodies with your sword, and make a speech to your surviving men.”
Ling Mae lined up her ’grator and squeezed the trigger. The crackle of the energy beam was unnaturally loud in the confined space. There was a flash and an explosion as the iron door was half vaporized and the remainder blown inward. Horus slid behind Diana as she had bid, unnoticed in the smoke and bedlam. His men charged in, and the first ones were mowed down by laser pistol fire.
Diana opened a comm channel to her huntresses and spoke clearly and calmly.
“Form up and open fire; take no chances…it doesn’t matter if we kill a few Matalus men.”
She led the way, with Horus cowering behind her. In the Galleries, the smoke and dust was dispersing. As Diana had planned, the charge of Horus’s men had located the possessors of the laser pistols, so the huntresses were able to quickly vaporize them. Then Diana returned her ’grator to its harness and drew Light. She advanced on a Skull Watchman, who charged her like a cornered rat. She swept aside his sword thrust with a powerful parry, throwing him off balance, and ran him through with the same movement. She put her boot on his body to extricate her sword and looked up to see Ling Mae vaporize the last of the Skull Watchmen.
Diana grabbed Horus’s shoulder pad and pulled him forward.
“Put your sword in this man,” she hissed in his ear.
Horus obeyed mutely as Diana sheathed her sword and stood back.
“Well done, Horus!” she cried. “I am proud to fight by your side!”
Horus’s surviving men looked around and saw him pull his sword out of the fallen Skull Watchman and raise it aloft.
“For Matalus and Firsk!” he shouted.
His men gave him a ragged cheer.
“Have your men open the trapdoors and dispose of the bodies,” said Diana to Horus in a low aside. “They will wash up downriver and serve as a warning to those who support Shabor.”
As Horus nodded, Diana clattered back to Baron Tenus, with Ling Mae and her huntresses behind her. Ling Mae had judiciously collected the laser pistols from the bodies of the fallen Skull Watchmen.
Diana took one and examined it as Baron Tenus led the way back to the High Hall. It
was an older model, doubtless one of those stolen from Ostracis, but quite serviceable. She stuck it in her weapons belt and opened a comm channel to Brendel, ordering her to return to the High Terrace.
Back in the High Hall, Baron Tenus ordered his stewards to move the repast back inside, in front of the roaring fire. Once it was repositioned and the head steward had every white tablecloth set to his liking, the stewards stood back and awaited instructions.
“Well, Baron, let us seal our alliance on some fossil mushrooms and blue-berg wine,” Diana said lightly, wiping soot marks off her face with a white linen towel provided by a steward.
When the wine was poured, she raised her goblet.
“By the power vested in me, I hereby raise you to Arch Baron, and reduce your tribute payments by ten percent,” proclaimed Diana in a ringing tone. “All hail Arch Baron Karstein Tenus!”
He was thunderstruck—this was far more than he had hoped for! He took a moment to compose himself and then he raised his goblet to respond to her toast and to the honor she had bestowed on him.
“To Lady Death—incomparably beautiful and supremely dangerous, a mighty ally and a terrible foe,” he cried.
Diana smiled at him and inclined her head in acknowledgment. Baron Tenus’s men cheered, his son hugged him, and her huntresses raised their laser pistols. She was aware that only the Queen Empress had the power to bestow high titles, but she also knew that Deirdre controlled the throne. She was certain that the First Principal would back her up.
IN ALEX’S ABSENCE, Deirdre had called a conference of the squad seignoras of the Guardian century and carefully briefed them on her plans. They were to take the first brunt of the barbarian assault and inflict as many casualties on the enemy as possible. She herself would be with the squad at the apex of the defensive arc. At the first lull, her squad would drop back to the inner walls of Eastshore, and she would communicate this on the comm. They were to follow her squad immediately, so that the next barbarian rush would stumble, like a man rushing at an open door.
Deirdre peered over a pile of rock debris into the night. Her night-vision created a ghostly scene. The barbarians’ point battalion appeared at the breach in the walls. The upraised torches of the leading scouts were clearly visible.
“’Grators at the ready,” intoned Deirdre on the comm. “Wait for them to mass. I want at least a hundred dead with the first blast.”
More torches appeared as officers moved about, forming their assault lines. Their drums began thumping a slow, harsh rhythm. A deep muttering arose from the host, which grew louder. Then suddenly there was the clash of cymbals and the muttering gave way to a deafening chorus of the Hilsons’ battle cry. The Guardians braced themselves as the point battalion charged, their long pikes extending out in front of them.
“On my mark,” called Deirdre on the comm. “Three, two, one, fire!”
Almost the entire battalion was through the breach now, and the leading pike points were only ten meters from the Guardians’ line. Even the combined crackle of almost a hundred ’grators was drowned out by the barbarians’ battle cries. In an instant, the battlefield was silenced. Over a hundred of the leading barbarians were vaporized in whole or part, and only charred remains marked what was left of them.
But the Hilson men had faced this before, and with a renewed battle cry, a second wave stormed forward over the bodies of their comrades. The disciplined Guardians waited for Deirdre’s mark and fired again in unison. Deirdre herself saw the officer directing the charge and got him in her laser pistol sights. She hit him, and her shot burned a deep cavity in his midsection, killing him instantly. The second wave faltered and the few survivors, many badly burned, fell back. Hilson officers tried to form up for a third wave, but their men had lost heart. They fell back, melting away into the night.
“The First Squad will fall back for the inner walls now,” called Deirdre into the comm. “That was very close—the next time we will not have enough power in our ’grators to hold them off.”
The Guardians filed back in disciplined formation, squad by squad. Deirdre waited till the last squad was past her before turning to follow. Then, to her horror, the remnants of the Hilson point battalion appeared in the breach for a third wave.
“Seignora, your squad to me!” she cried to the last squad.
As one, they turned, fanned out, and went down on one knee, sighting their ’grators. The barbarians were charging, and there was no time to form up. They fired a ragged volley, taking down about half the attackers. A second volley took down more, but about a dozen barbarians managed to vault over the abandoned defensive perimeter, and now their ’grators were out of power. They drew their laser pistols.
“Fall back,” said Deirdre on the comm. “Fire at will.”
They fell back under the thin covering fire of their sisters from the other squads ahead of them. Deirdre came last, using the dregs of her pistol’s charge for a final shot before turning to move quickly after her huntresses. The few surviving barbarians were careful now, taking cover and advancing from shadow to shadow.
Passing an open warehouse door, Deirdre’s eyes were drawn to an open crate, whose side had cracked open. She would have missed it except that the white moon had emerged from behind some clouds, throwing a sudden stream of light through the warehouse door. I’ll just take a quick look and then follow the others, she thought. She entered the warehouse, her boot heels echoing in the cavernous chamber.
From several meters away, she read the stencil on the crate, and it chilled her heart—for it read “BATTERIES.” She tapped her wrist bracer to open a comm channel to her Guardians, but only got a hollow click—with all the action, she had used up the last of her battery power. She knew she had to get a ’grator here to destroy this crate immediately. She turned for the door of the warehouse and saw a shadow—it was one of the barbarians.
With no power left, she drew Nasht. She knew the crate he was crouching behind, for she heard him winding his crossbow. She ran forward, and he emerged, shouldering the weapon. He fired and Deirdre dropped down, sliding forward on the knee of her thigh boot. The bolt whistled over her. The trooper cursed and stepped back, drawing his sword.
Down on her knee, Deirdre was at a disadvantage, and he slashed downward at her throat. From her position, it was impossible to parry his stroke, so she slashed at his thigh, striking him just as he began his downward stroke. Nasht cut through the trooper’s leather and chain mail, and its razor-sharp blade bit deeply into the side of his thigh. He screamed and his stroke went awry, though it was still heavy enough to slash her left shoulder through the armored lyntronex of her uniform.
Deirdre felt the sharp pain of the sword slash, but she put it aside as she gained her feet and faced him. She had to get her Guardians to destroy those batteries, but first things first, she told herself. The barbarian’s wound was more grievous than hers, and he moved stiffly, though competently. Deirdre used a two-handed grip on Nasht and launched an attack with a flurry of strokes, driving him back. He parried, but his grimaces seemed to indicate that he was hurting. Deirdre saw the amount of blood trailing off his left boot and knew that every time he put pressure on his left leg, it pumped more blood out of his wound. So she attacked his right side, forcing him to backpedal on his left foot.
In a short lull between attacks, they faced each other, breathing hard, sweat-covered, but with the adrenalin still masking the pain of their injuries.
“Huntress, we are both wounded,” he rasped. “A fair fight, the honor is even. Let us go our separate ways—and live to fight another day.”
Now she knew she had him on the ropes. He was only one step from the warehouse wall. Deirdre attacked again and as he parried and stepped back, his shoulder hit the wall, throwing him momentarily off balance. This created the opening Deirdre needed and she ran him through. She withdrew the blade, and he crumpled to the ground, his sword slipping out of his enfeebled hands. He looked up at her with reproachful eyes.
“
Why…huntress?” he gasped. “My wife…a widow…my children, fatherless…and thrown in the gutter…please…. please… give…my wife…Lidill Ikren…Tirut…”
So saying, he drew a wrinkled wad of parchment from his belt. He wanted to proffer it to her, but his life ran out of him. The wad slipped out of his nerveless fingers, and he was still. His dead, open eyes stared at the warehouse rafters.
Deirdre picked up the wad and stuffed it in a pouch in her weapons belt. Sheathing Nasht, she felt the sharp pain in her left shoulder. Ignoring it, she willed herself to jog toward the inner wall. She got there to find Alex and the Aurora-based centuria she had sent to reinforce the inner wall waiting anxiously outside the gate. They ran up to her as soon as they saw her. She leaned on them gratefully and let them guide her through the gate.
“We cannot shut the gate yet,” Deirdre panted. “There is a crate of batteries in the second warehouse from the defensive perimeter we set up. It must be destroyed!”
Alex did not hesitate.
“Squad Ten, to me!” she called. “Recharged ’grators and pistols, please!”
There was a thunder of boots as the Guardian squad formed and followed her out of the gate. They were quickly lost to sight through the buildings.
“Have another squad cover them,” said Deirdre faintly.
“Guardian Squad Nine, cover!” bawled the Aurora-based centuria.
There was another flurry of activity, as the second Guardian squad formed and deployed outside the gate.
Deirdre leaned on the centuria gratefully and closed her eyes.
“First Principal, we must get you to Medical,” said the centuria worriedly. “You are seriously wounded.”
“Later, centuria,” said Deirdre, beginning to feel lightheaded. “I must wait till my Guardians blow the batteries and return. We cannot allow…”
She could not make her tongue obey her and finish the sentence. She could not make her eyes focus, and the wall and gate seemed to grow wavy. Her side felt wet, so she put her hand on her left ribs. It came away red and sticky. The entire left side of her uniform was covered with blood.
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