IronStar

by Hallman, Grant

  The steamship fleet was coming along nicely: eight vessels now commissioned and four more in various stages of completion. The larger long-range mortars were still exploding occasionally but disastrously when test-fired; there was obviously something she was not quite remembering about the technology of iron castings. The flood control gate and dam on the Upper Geera was nearing completion, but the surge of winter runoff down it and the central tributary, the Geeratha, was already passing its crest.

  And the damned O’dai encampment still sat across the river, in a stubborn stalemate the last thirty-four days had failed to break. Three attempted river crossings had been beaten back easily, yet their nanowire was an intolerable threat to any counterattack other than by artillery. Stalemate. At least they weren’t interfering with farming. The latch on her door rattled gently.

  “Enter”, she called, grateful for any excuse to stop reading the previous day’s rather tedious scouting reports. Her new semaphore towers were proving to be an immense help in getting timely information from downriver. A wooden tower every five kilometers; two operators, one to watch, one to pull levers that moved the three signaling arms into various positions - either two-meter long paddles by day, or colored torches by night. She was unreasonably proud of the two hundred millibaud throughput rate a good signal team could achieve with her compact message codes. When the system was extended all the way to the Sea of the Sun, she calculated a message would cover the two-hundred-plus kilometer distance from the mouth of the Geera to her desk in under twenty minutes. Already over thirty of the forty-two towers were operational. Which leaves the O’dai wondering how we get large raiding parties to just the worst place for them, every time, Kirrah smiled to herself. Two more resupply caravans intercepted, and another unassembled trebuchet destroyed en route, in the last four days alone.

  It’s gotta be getting down to short rations over there, lads! go home! She looked up to see her page, Janna’tha shu’Paddo, waiting respectfully just inside the door. A quick-witted, tanned, slender youth: dark blond hair, hazel eyes, graduate of Slaetra’s school. Apprenticing in Lord Tsano’s service. His assignment to Kirrah’s expanding staff had proved a godsend in managing the growing sea of details.

  “Yes, Janna’?”

  “Warmaster, your visitors are here. The delegation from Pavatta.”

  “Thank you Janna’tha. Please ask Irshe to join us. Delima Guildmaster knows she is part of this?”

  “Both are already present, Warmaster. The small meeting room at the end of the hall.” All assistants should be mindreaders, Kirrah mused. As she stepped into the designated room, six people rose from their places at the table: Irshe, Delima shu'Maakael, and three men and an elderly woman she had never seen. Irshe spoke first, bowing briefly to the largest of the foreigners, the big man with a full salt-and-pepper beard and long gray hair:

  “I show you Kirrah shu’Roehl sho’Draconis, Warmaster of Talam, Royal Guest.” At his two-fingered gesture towards her, Kirrah inclined her head the amount indicated by protocol and made eye contact with the large Northerner.

  Irshe continued: “Kirrah Warmaster, I show you Setta, Baron of the City and District of Uttra, loyal subject of Tannakoi King of Pavatta.”

  Kirrah raised her hand and touched palms with the man, thumbs locked and fingers wrapping around one another’s wrists. “Setta doi’Uttra, greetings. I am pleased to meet an old friend of my borrowed nation. May we prosper together.”

  “Kirrah Warmaster, Uttra greets you. We Northerners have been hearing such fine things about you! With respect, I was expecting a woman three times your height, eyes glowing like coals, and far less beautiful!” The man’s twinkling eyes abruptly became serious. “It is a gift-to-the-heart to behold you. And this must be your famous armor! I am sure Aneppa will serve you forever, if you would but allow him to examine it more closely.” The twinkle is back - and that explains the odd lustful look I’m getting from the big blond guy…

  Setta clapped the shoulder of the large younger man to his right, and said: “I show you Aneppa, loyal Horseleader of Uttra, commander of the horse company we are loaning you. The first of four, I might add.” Kirrah clasped hands with the cavalry commander and said:

  “You are most generous with your aid. We shall not forget our allies.”

  “We could hardly stand by and watch our friends to the south be annoyed by those O’dai sweat-rags, now could we?” said Setta. “We saw them swallow Ale’appa across the Southern Sea, my pardon, what you call ‘Sea of the Sun’, and already the price of salt pudra-fish at my favorite fishmongers has nearly tripled. If our Talamae neighbors became …distracted, by these pirates, where would we buy oil for our lamps next winter?”

  Right, Kirrah thought, remembering her protocol lessons with Slaetra. For appearances’ sake, we may not suggest we are in trouble, and for courtesy’s sake neither does he.

  “Your interest is well informed. I am told by Delima Guildmaster that our crop of oilseed is good this year, already nearing first harvest. As you may have noticed, the O’dai seem to enjoy sleeping in the open near our small lake. It is only their Kruss-weapon that keeps us from entertaining them more thoroughly, although I have heard they suffer from hunger by day, and have …bad dreams, at night.” Shrewd looks were exchanged.

  “We hope to learn more of your tactics in the next few days, Kirrah Warmaster. Whuff! Dazzled by your wit and beauty, I forget my manners!”

  Despite her initial caution, Kirrah found herself being charmed by the big, cheerful stranger.

  “I show you Tova, a merchant trader in our modest village, and a personal friend. The poor man was so interested in the rumors of trade with your Reg’num that he begged me leave to come along and speak with you himself.”

  Kirrah clasped hands with the stocky, ruddy-haired man.

  “And last I show you Vesai, delegate from our good King Tannakoi to our humble court at Uttra, and present to observe, on his behalf, our discussions.” Kirrah clasped hands with the elderly woman, and reminded herself to respect the quick intelligence behind those bright violet-flecked gray eyes. She was surprised to notice a slackness down the left side of the woman’s body when she moved. Stroke. That’s the first sick person I’ve seen on this planet, and she’s still working…

  “Your presence graces us, Vesai-of-the-King.” The woman’s eyes widened slightly in approval as Kirrah used the Talamae equivalent of her formal Pavattan title. Thanks to Janna’tha for the briefing. “May I offer you a pillow or a more comfortable chair? And perhaps refreshments for everyone? These chairs seem designed to keep meetings short and on-topic, but we have much to discuss.” Six hours later, these words were deemed prophetic on both counts.

  Chapter 32 (Landing plus one hundred thirty): Parley

  “Victory goes to the player who makes the next-to-last mistake.” - Savielly Grigorievitch Tartakower, early 20th century (pre-digital) Chessmaster; Russia, Terra

  “I still do not understand how he was killed.” Issthe was thoughtful, and as close to worried as Kirrah had ever seen the tall pale priestess. Or perhaps it was simply professional antipathy to a mystery in one’s own field. And truth be told, Kirrah had no idea herself what had caused the odd wound. Unlike the previous three, this one pierced the skin under the left triceps, and according to her suitpack’s probe, it exited between the third and fourth ribs beside the sternum. But exactly like the others, the four or five millimeter wide lesion passed directly through the dead man’s aorta, and all the victims had bled rapidly to death inside their chest.

  “At least we had an eyewitness this time, Issthe. We spent hours trying to imagine how the other three dead scouts could have been standing, to make a straight line of their wounds. And indeed this damage here,” Kirrah indicated the probe’s view of the long, narrow entry wound, “…looks a little like a bullet wound.”

  “One of those Reg’num weapons that throws solid objects like arrowheads.” Issthe’s smooth brow formed a tiny unconscious wrinkle above
her nose, at the thought of deliberately causing an object to penetrate another’s flesh for harm.

  “Yes, but those projectiles are travelling so fast, they bruise the tissue. See, there is very little bruising here, except where the man beat at his own arm. His partner said he suddenly started screaming and tearing at himself, and moments later collapsed. So whatever it was, was not a sudden strike in a straight line. Does your ath'lae'mara have anything to add?”

  “As with many killed in war, there was a faint taste of anger left on the body. With this man it has seemed both more distant and …colder, somehow. It was wise to have the bodies brought back here, I think.” Kirrah had had enough experience with Issthe’s abilities at both diagnosis and healing, that she was unwilling to discount almost any hunch the calm woman expressed. The doorlatch to the small infirmary rattled and at Kirrah’s word, Janna’tha entered.

  “Warmaster, your transport is ready.”

  “Thank you, Janna’tha, are…”

  “Armsmaster Opeth and Irshe-ro’tackh are already waiting, Warmaster.”

  “Thank you, Janna’tha. Most appreciated.” Kirrah rolled her eyes at Issthe, who smiled a small smile in return and followed the Regnum lieutenant into the courtyard where their carriage was waiting. Kirrah and Issthe joined Irshe and Opeth already seated in the carriage. They pulled through the school’s gates and made their way south past the palace. On the way through the military barracks they were joined by a troop of Wrth guards. Peetha had come as close as her ingrained deference to authority allowed, to objecting outright to Kirrah facing the O’dai without her. They compromised that she would come along, but stay on the ship unless there was trouble.

  The sound of the carriage horses’ hooves on the paved street punctuated Kirrah’s thoughts. She turned to ask, “I was a little surprised when I learned we have a parley, Armsmaster Opeth. How has it been arranged?”

  “Warmaster, it was agreed to meet on the south shore, we four and four of the O’dai, no guards. The meeting shall take place on a raised wooden platform with three walls, to protect the O’dai from our arrows. They shall keep all their forces back one hundred eighty hab’la except for one observer eighty hab’la distant. We shall land and our ship shall stand twenty hab’la offshore. Their observer or ours on our ship can signal for a withdrawal at any suspicious movement.”

  “Very well negotiated, Armsmaster. Safe against treachery, even-handed. Thank you for doing this.”

  As arranged, their steamship pulled up to the south shore of the lake, to the same decrepit wharf where their first raiding party had landed some forty-four days ago. The four stepped down the ramp and onto the low bank. With the Geera’s tributaries and the lake’s water level just beginning their decline from the winter runoff, the bank was only about a third of the one meter height they had climbed last time. The day was past noon, the sky that beautiful deep cerulean blue at the zenith and a glowing blue-green toward the horizon. Dozens of small to medium cumulus clouds marked the tops of thermals. The usual abundant wildlife on the southern peninsula was absent, replaced by the gear and litter of almost ten thousand besieging enemy soldiers. Kirrah cautiously scanned the area immediately around their meeting place, verifying it was open and deserted as promised.

  As Kirrah, Irshe, Opeth and Issthe moved toward the small platform, five riders broke from the O’dai camp and approached, one stopping the agreed eighty hab’la (about thirty-four meters) away and the other four stopping a few meters on the other side of the platform. One splendidly plumed and caparisoned individual stood in the center, with two slightly-less-brightly attired men in front, and one large fellow behind and to the right, in page’s uniform but looking far more like a bodyguard. With a small start Kirrah recognized under-Captain Staegro as one of the two men in front. According to the carefully choreographed protocol, the two groups somewhat warily mounted the platform at the same time and took their places at one of the two tables. Where the O’dai sat, they were indeed shielded from any arrows shot from the ship, by a three-meter high plank wall.

  Irshe introduced the Talamae contingent, and the blond man at the left of the table opposite them introduced “His Exalted Personage, Paedako Prince of O’dakai, Supreme Commander of the Nineteenth O’dai Imperial Army and Fourth Son of His Astral And Terrible Majesty King Oka’sse Wielder of the Sacred Staff, Ruler of Plains, Lord of the Sea and Sky and Universal King of O’dai". Kirrah suppressed a giggle, partly because she was impressed by the man’s lung capacity and partly because she knew from her briefings that there were at most three O’dai land forces and she was in the presence of the largest. What she could see of Paedako behind the regalia was a youth about Janna’tha’s age, well-muscled, heavier built, not fat but somehow soft-looking, mild brown eyes under a dark brown mane of hair, and a mouth that seemed born to pout. Apparently the names of the other O’dai were deemed irrelevant, as introductions ceased at that point. A small awkward silence followed the introductions. As Kirrah was about to open her mouth, the young Prince spoke:

  “We hoped to see our countryman Fleet-Captain Schmado returned as part of this meeting. I am sure whatever duties he may have conceived he had in Talameths'cha are fulfilled, and trust he is well and free to return to his honored place in our service.”

  “I assure you he is well, Prince Paedako,” Kirrah replied, “and invite you to send an ambassador to meet with him. However my first business is to understand your reasons for being so far from your homeland.” Another awkward pause. Finally the Prince tapped the first O’dai spokesman lightly with a thin wand and the man said:

  “It is considered impolite to question the actions of a member of the O’dai royal family. This is forgivable occasionally, for a foreigner not trained in courtly manners, and as an indulgence I am allowed to respond where the Prince does not hear.”

  “We wish to end this war,” Kirrah replied. “Both our nations have much to profit from cooperation, and we appreciate how costly it can be to wage a campaign so far from one’s home. What do the O’dai seek?”

  “Our requirements are modest,” the young Prince resumed speaking. Kirrah realized that she would need to keep a tight rein on her feelings. Even the mild, oily, singsong sound of his voice was irritating her. “We do not intend the destruction of your village across the river, only the return of our citizens, of any person who may be in Talamae hands at this time. And a reasonable annual tribute to be paid to O’dakai. Plus reparations for the damage to Captain Schmado’s fleet, of course.”

  “Perhaps some arrangement can be found,” Kirrah found herself saying over the cold rage that was condensing rapidly in her belly. Both Irshe’s and Opeth’s eyebrows began creeping upward. Issthe’s calm remained untroubled.

  “For example, Talam has already fed O’dai’s sailors, I am sure we could provide food for your men here,” a casual wave of her hand taking in the O’dai camp to her left, “while we escort them to our borders.” Yes, a pout definitely looks like the most native expression on that mouth. “As soon as our merchants have been paid for their first deliveries, to the… what was it, the O’dai tenth fleet?” Under-Captain Staegro’s face had gone quite pale, and the large bodyguard pretending to be a page behind the Prince looked uneasy.

  Kirrah continued smoothly, “We seek no reparations or tribute, however. In a year or two all of Talam and her allies will be so wealthy from trade with the Regnum, such small matters will seem beneath notice. I hope the O’dai nation will be among those so blessed, don’t you?”

  The Prince was definitely staring into space at these words, studiously ignoring Kirrah’s bright, some might say predatory, smile. Another pause, another tap to the shoulder of the spokesman, who bent his ear before the Prince’s lips. A few murmurs, then the man straightened and replied, “One other matter - Talam should know that the Curse of Heaven can only be lifted when the Heaven-messenger is returned unharmed to O’dakai.” The four O’dai stood and made to leave.

  A little startled, Kirrah sp
oke up. “The Prince’s man speaks riddles. There is no ‘curse of heaven’.”

  “Oh, there will be,” the prince said in his mildest voice, and the four departed, leaving Kirrah and her party looking at one another in puzzled consternation.

  “I fear I may have allowed my anger to interfere with our parley, Issthe. That young …man,” again Kirrah cursed her lack of fluency in Talamae cursing, “was very difficult to be near, without wanting to smack his pouting face.”

  “Indeed Kirrah Warmaster, your anger was clearly visible to me. Yet it was a clean hot candle next to his cold fury. That is a young man very used to getting what he wants, also badly deprived of what he needs, and unstudied in the way of shee'thomm. He knows only force and fear. I pity him greatly.”

  “Pity. I suppose so. What do you think? Opeth?” Her glance touched Irshe and Opeth, sitting across from her at the octagonal conference room in the Palace. Peetha, Major Doi’tam, Lord Tsano and the other three Masters were also present.

  “I think the matter was never alive to peace, Warmaster. If Captain Schmado was disgraced before the O’dai court by your destruction of his fleet, this young Prince surely faces worse if he returns with his army and no victory. Or without his army. I believe he has no option but the conquest of our Realm. It was always my view that parley with him was a thing of form, not substance.”

  “Irshe, was there anything constructive you think could have been said?”

  “Warmaster, the man’s words were an insult to the truth as well as to Talam. I especially liked the part where you pretended to miss-remember the number of their fleet you destroyed down the Geera. With a single sentence, you reminded him of your past victory, filled his mouth with the dust of Talam feeding their stranded sailors, and mocked their boastful habit of numbering their forces starting at ten or twenty. I have never seen such a polite yet thoroughgoing destruction of an enemy’s pride!” A few wry smiles greeted Irshe’s praise.