“I told you both to put away your books.” Eldrinson glanced at the sofa, then did a double take. “Soz, where the blazes did you get a gun? Give it to me.”
“I’m hungry,” Aniece said.
Denric turned off his novel. “Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
“For flaming sake,” their mother said. “Can’t you all sit still for five minutes? Soz, I don’t care what you took apart. Give it to your father. Now.”
“And no more solo visits to the port,” Eldrinson told her, holding out his hand.
Soz glowered and didn’t move, so Althor discreetly kicked her foot. If she didn’t quit trying to provoke them, they wouldn’t let her watch the broadcast. She turned her glare on him, but then she extended her arm across his torso, handing their father the dismantled gun. He took it with an odd look, as if he didn’t know what to do with the offworld weapon.
Althor spoke quietly to him. “I can take it back to the port later.”
Eldrinson nodded with a hint of relief in his gaze.
Before anyone could say anything else, a man’s resonant voice filled the room. “Welcome to the Selei Opera Hall.” His words came over the sound system their parents had set up for this gathering. With a hum, a translucent screen lowered in front of the hearth. A holographic image formed in the space before it showing them a great hall with a man standing on a circular stage. Even knowing the “hall” was a projection created for the sake of viewers, Althor found it impressive.
The man continued. “We are pleased to bring you tonight’s performance via the top verification protocols in the Imperialate.”
Vyrl opened his eyes and lifted his head. “The what?”
“Verification,” Roca said.
Chaniece spoke in her melodic voice. “What would they need to verify?”
“That what we’re going to hear is real,” Soz said. “People can look up the protocols on the mesh if they don’t believe it.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t it be real?” Del asked.
Roca scowled at him. “Watch your language, young man.”
Del stiffened, but when Chaniece shook her head slightly at him, he let it go.
“You can do anything through the mesh,” Althor said. “They want the audience to know they’re hearing a genuine singer, not someone with an enhanced voice.” He wished his mother didn’t look so tired. It was killing him knowing how she worried about him and his father.
The view zoomed in on the stage as a second man walked out and joined the announcer. Gods above, it was Eldrin. He bore little resemblance to the youth who, two years ago, had bid his family goodbye at the port. Althor had never envied his brother as much as he did on that day when Eldrin left their world to see the stars. A stranger stood on the stage tonight, an elegant man in modern slacks and a white dress shirt. Although Eldrin still wore his hair longer than most Imperial men, he had trimmed it to his ears and brushed it back from his face. He was no longer a Dalvador farm boy. He had become an Imperialate prince.
“Holy shit,” Soz said. She got away with it because Aniece said, “He looks so handsome,” at the same time.
“Someone had better verify that’s Eldrin,” Vyrl said. “I don’t believe it.”
“Hoshpa!” Kelric waved his hands at the holo and laughed. “Two hoshpas!”
Their father smiled. “That isn’t me, Kelli. It’s your brother.”
The announcer introduced him as Eldrin Valdoria, neglecting to mention the titles he had inherited from their mother or that he was heir to the Dalvador Bard, which no one would have understood anyway. He looked relaxed, but Althor recognized his brother’s tells. Eldrin was scared. He had never sung in public before. He wouldn’t tonight, either, not literally; he was on the sound stage of a holo studio. But his voice would go out to thousands, and depending on how many people downloaded the recording, millions might eventually hear him sing.
“He’s been practicing,” Roca said, more as if to reassure herself than the rest of them. “He’ll be fine.” She looked more nervous than Eldrin.
The announcer left the stage and Eldrin stood alone, against an ivory backdrop bordered by marble columns. Classical music curled through the air, and he began to sing.
Althor settled back in his chair, letting the music flow over him. Eldrin had chosen a Dalvador aria. His voice swelled as he crested the high notes, and then he slid into his lower register, where he rumbled. His tonality and vibrato sounded even better than his magnificent renditions of the song at home. He soared to the peak of the aria and held the highest note longer than Althor had thought a person could sing on one breath. Never taking a break, he swept down the scale in a wash of melodic sound.
The beauty of the music heightened Althor’s conflicted thoughts. Like Eldrin before him, tomorrow he would ride into battle. Yes, he could fight. He was good at it. But to what purpose? So his father and Avaril could go at each other again and again, decade after decade? It would never stop. Althor couldn’t imagine his younger siblings going into war. Del just wanted to sing his loud songs and sleep with girls. Chaniece loved their life on the farm. Vyrl was a dancer, another artist. None of his other siblings were cut out for combat except Soz, and she sure as hell wouldn’t ride into combat on Lyshriol. More likely, she’d end up commanding the Imperialate military.
As much as Althor had argued with Eldrin in their youth, he understood the choices his brother and father had made three years ago. He also knew why Soz had brought the gun tonight. She wanted him to take it with him tomorrow.
Althor and the port engineer had finished his new bow today. It was a good weapon, made from a composite that bent with ease and never broke no matter how much strength he used. He could defeat many opponents with that bow. It was still a betrayal of the code of war, but less so than the gun. A compromise. Or he could do as Eldrin had done, forgoing any technological advantages. Althor knew he was a powerful fighter, that probably no one on Lyshriol could best him even if he couldn’t use a bow.
What to choose? He didn’t have an answer. He listened as Eldrin soared to his finale, his voice a testament to the beauty only humans created. Althor didn’t know how to reconcile such heights of human achievement to the unparalleled ability of humanity to commit mayhem against itself.
* * *
Dawn arrived, and the twin suns rose above the horizon, their gold light softening the world. Roca stood in the courtyard near the castle watching her husband and his men gather. The medic from the port arrived, bringing his supplies. Eldrinson had balked when she first asked him to take the doctor, but he finally gave in, she suspected because the art of healing was more universal than the esoteric physics that underlay modern military science.
Althor appeared around a corner of the house leading a black lyrine, a genetically engineered cross between a horse and a big-horned ram. It looked liked a stallion, with its speed and grace, but horns curved around its head. He brought the largest, most muscular animal in the stables, one of the few strong enough to carry his weight. They made an impressive pair, and people moved aside as he walked to his father.
What most drew Roca’s attention was the bow Althor had strapped in a harness on his back. He covered it with a cloth as did all archers on Lyshriol. Pollen drifting in the air damaged the glasswood, trying to grow on it, so archers protected their bows until they went into battle. Roca doubted Althor’s weapon needed that cover. He used it so no one would see that he carried a weapon designed from an offworld composite.
She closed her eyes and let out a breath, grateful for his decision. When she opened her eyes, Althor was talking to his father, the two of them half hidden among all the other soldiers and lyrine in the courtyard. Eldrinson glanced at the covered bow on Althor’s back, but it didn’t look as if he said anything about it. She suspected he was secretly grateful their son had found this compromise.
Roca made her way across the courtyard. The soldiers stepped aside for her and bowed from the waist, acknowledging their co
mmander’s queen. When she reached her husband and son, Eldrinson smiled at her. “You are a beautiful sight.”
She tried to return his smile. “You two look impressive.” They wore disk mail and leather armor over tunics and leggings, with knee boots protecting their legs.
Eldrinson pulled her to him. “Don’t worry so.” He kissed her, then drew back.
“Be careful, love.” She looked up at Althor. “And you.”
Her son spoke gently. “I’ll protect him.”
Eldrinson gave a snort. “Not so old yet that I can’t defend myself, young man.”
Althor smiled, but Roca couldn’t read him. Sometimes she felt so attuned to her children, she knew their moods as if they were her own. Today Althor seemed shuttered. He had withdrawn, giving her a glimpse of the impassive starfighter pilot he would someday become—if he survived this war.
After the men mounted their lyrine, Roca retreated to the castle and went up the spiral stairs of a tower. She stood at the top, outside, and watched her husband’s company ride out of the courtyard. More riders joined them, and the army flowed into the Dalvador Plains, stretching out in a long column, until their numbers swelled to nearly two hundred.
Roca tried not to think of the absurdity of an interstellar Assembly Councilor standing in a castle watching a sword-bearing army ride to battle. What stopped her from interfering weren’t the laws that forbade her to violate the cultural sovereignty of her husband’s people; it was her decades of respect for the man she loved, the father of her children, even if his choices broke her heart.
* * *
The first time Althor had seen the Plains of Tyroll, in his childhood, he had loved that great expanse of wind-swept reeds. Located between a range of mountains and a solitary ridge that rose out of the plains like a giant wall, the serenity of Tyroll had spoken to him. Today, no hint of that peace remained. Two armies trampled the reeds, filling the land with the clang of swords and the shouts of warriors.
Althor rode through the chaos, his great sword gripped in one hand. He managed the blade with ease despite its weight. A warrior in the black-and-gold armor of Avaril’s men came at him, raising a lighter sword. Althor deflected the blow and swung at his attacker. Their blades clanged, and Althor sent his opponent’s weapon flying from his grip. He struck out again, but the man was already evading him, jerking his mount away. Althor’s sword ripped across the lyrine’s upper body, and the animal screamed, rearing on its hind legs. It threw its rider, and the man crashed to the ground. Althor didn’t wait to see if he rose again; instead he turned and rode hard toward the tall ridge.
Avaril had brought three hundred and fifty men. They outnumbered Eldrinson’s army by more than three to two. Althor had looked at the orbital images last night, after his father slept, and they hadn’t shown this many fighters in the opposing army. Avaril must have hidden some of his men and brought them in this morning.
Someone shouted at Althor, something about his bow. Althor still hadn’t removed the cover. He ignored the call and focused on the ridge, but he couldn’t shut down his empathic response to the battle, the blood rage, fear, and violence. This was nothing like a virtual war; here you felt it all.
He kept going. Another of Avaril’s men rode at him, bearing down with his blade. Althor parried the blow with so much force, his strike broke the other man’s weapon in two. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion as he swung again. He thrust his blade into the man’s chest, and blood spurted from the wound. The warrior stared at Althor with a stunned expression, as if he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. A massive shudder went through Althor. He had a sudden sense of nothing where a moment before he had felt a living man. Eldrin had once told him that during combat, a battle lust came over him, but Althor knew only the agony of the man’s death and his own inescapable realization that he had just killed another human being.
He had reached the base of the tall ridge and the edge of the battle. He kept going, galloping around the wall of rock until it hid him from the conflict. No true warrior would ride away from combat. Althor shut the thought out of his mind. He had to stop thinking, or he would never finish what he had set out to do.
The noise of the fighting was muted on this side of the cliff. He scanned its base, looking—yes, there. A steep path climbed the ridge. He walked his mount to the base of the path, where rocks lay piled in clumps. The lyrine picked its way through the boulders and headed up the path. He guided the animal with care, letting it choose the best footing.
Coward. A man without honor.
Althor tried to empty his mind of the damning thoughts.
As he went higher, the sounds of battle grew more distant. The wind picked up, pulling at his clothes, keening over the ridge. He took off his helmet and left it on a crag that jutted out from the cliff face on his right. Jagged spires of rock rose on his left, so he rode along a chute of rock. Every now and then, between the spires, he glimpsed the plains to the south, away from the fighting in the west.
He continued to climb.
The path curved westward and he came out into open air, the top of the cliff level now with his shoulders. More rock formations blocked his view to the west, but it wouldn’t be long before he rode above them as well. The wind ruffled his hair, blowing across the short curls. He continued upward, and the path opened out at the top of the ridge. He could see the Plains of Tyroll far below, the battle so distant, the armies looked like toy soldiers. He continued along the ridge. If anyone looked this way, they would see a large man on a lyrine silhouetted against the sky.
The path ended in an open space with boulders clumped on his right. He sat on his mount, looking out over the battle as it surged back and forth, hundreds of men fighting, on foot or mounted. Avaril’s men were rolling war towers into place, tall scaffoldings of glasswood that resembled giant lyrine. Warriors climbed ladders up to platforms on the tower and shot arrows at the melee in the battlefield below. Eldrinson’s men had too few defenses against the onslaught.
Althor felt as if he were moving in slow motion as he reached over his shoulder and dragged the protective cloth off his back. He let the cover go and the wind caught it, sending the cloth floating down the ridge. He reached back again—
And pulled the laser cannon out of its harness.
Althor had wrestled with his decision for hours last night. He had returned Soz’s gun to the port and walked back out into the Lyshriol darkness, but he hadn’t gone home. Instead, he boarded the military shuttle that sat on the tarmac. Its armaments included a laser carbine, more of a cannon than a gun. He knew how to disconnect it from the ship; he had used such a weapon a hundred times and more in the war games he played. He had never shot a cannon in real life, but he knew every nuance of that massive weapon. Only one aspect differed now from his virtual battles.
Death here was real.
The gun weighed far more than any broadsword, but he had no trouble holding its bulk. With a shove, he pushed the activator lever forward, and the cannon hummed. Lights flashed along its body, lines of red turning green as its systems activated. Althor pressed the controls in a pattern as familiar to him as speaking. He raised the weapon, tapping on its targeting systems, and aimed at the tallest of the two towers.
This endless war was crushing his people. So many had died and so many more would give their lives in the generations to come. Today he would lose any claim to honor, but he would be committing a far greater crime if he didn’t protect the people and land he loved. His mother came from offworld. By law, she couldn’t interfere. But he was a citizen of Lyshriol, born and raised here, a son of this land. They had sent him to fight a war, the weaponry on the transport was dedicated to protecting his mother’s family, and his father had given him the choice to use or not use the technology of her people. He had meant only the enhanced bow, but Althor chose a different interpretation.
He fired the cannon.
The laser shot cut through the air like a lightning bolt. When it h
it the war tower, the structure exploded and men fell from its cross-bars, screaming as they plunged to the ground. Multicolored flames erupted along the structure, incinerating the glasswood. Nausea surged in Althor, but he couldn’t stop, not now, not until he ensured that the knowledge of this day became burned so deeply into the collective memory of his people that no one would ever again challenge his father to die.
Althor shoved the recharger forward and aimed at the tower on the other side of the field, moving with a surety born from years of practice. He fired again, the laser shot brilliant in the air, and destroyed the second tower. Men were shouting below, running, staring at the figure on the ridge who brought down lightning from the sky.
He toggled the magnifier, and the battlefield jumped into view, showing him which men wore the armor of Avaril’s army. He narrowed the beam and cut a swath through the fighters, selectively picking off Avaril’s warriors. This was no different from the combat simulations he had done—except that today, tears ran down his face. It felt as if he had been on this ridge for hours, an eternity, but the targeting display told him only seconds had passed. He kept firing, dying inside as he slaughtered his father’s enemies.
When Avaril’s few remaining men began to run from the field, Althor stopped and lowered the cannon. In the Plains of Tyroll, his father’s men were standing utterly still or sitting on their mounts, staring at the ridge. The ashes and charred bodies of their enemies surrounded them. His father was walking toward the ridge, his face upturned. Althor couldn’t see his expression, but he knew his shock. His second-born son had just pulverized every tradition of decency valued by their people.
Among the star-spanning military of the Imperialate, Althor knew he would be no more than one small cog in a massive, interstellar war machine that protected a thousand worlds and more, a trillion people living across the stars. He couldn’t end that brutal, soul-parching conflict, but here on Lyshriol, he could preserve what he loved. He committed the ultimate sin for the greater good because no one on Lyshriol would ever dare go to war again, finally understanding the powers his mother’s people could call down upon them.
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