by Thomas Locke
There was a knock on the door, then Vance and a guard led in the prisoner. A metal band locked his wrists to his waist. The ends were linked to the guard’s left arm.
Logan demanded, “Why do you have him chained so?”
“I suggested it,” Vance said. “In case they had walkers of their own. Keep him anchored here. Maybe.”
The man’s dark gaze remained fastened on the glittering piles. “That lot’s mine? All of it?”
“Unchain him, and station yourself by the door,” Logan said to the guard, then pointed Vance into the empty chair on their side of the desk. “The gold is yours if you give us what we want.”
The prisoner rubbed his freed wrists. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“What do they call you?”
“Pitt.”
Nicolette snarled, “You will address the commander in proper fashion.”
“Pitt, sir.” His oversized hands were in constant motion. He tightened his belt, plucked at his coverall, stroked his wispy mustache, cracked his knuckles, pressed his temples, then went back to rubbing his wrists. He had an underfed look and a vicious air. He was, Dillon assumed, capable of anything for gold—or even for a good meal.
“My name is Logan, and I’m the senior survivor of the Hawk clan. You know a Hawk’s word is his bond, yes?” Logan waited until the prisoner nodded. “So here is your choice, Pitt. You tell us everything you know. You satisfy our every question. Then you take this gold and we will plant you deep in Hawk territory, where you’ll be guarded and kept safe until this engagement is finished. Then you and your gold are free to go wherever you like.”
When the prisoner did not speak, Vance instructed with deadly ease, “Tell the commander you understand.”
“I hear you, sir.”
“If we are not satisfied with your responses,” Logan said, “we will ship you back to Clan Havoc. And I assume you know what they do to turncoats.”
“Make your last breaths hard, they do,” Vance said. “Very hard indeed.”
“No,” Pitt said. “I’ll talk.”
And talk he did.
Sean listened with very real dread as the turncoat brought Anyon’s and Carver’s fears to life.
The Grey Assassins, Pitt called them. Giving flesh to legends over a thousand years old.
They numbered less than a dozen and were an unruly lot, he claimed. All of them were off-worlders, and most hated the need to follow orders. There had been fights between these off-world blades and Tiko’s men. Only a few, but they had ended badly. Now most of the off-worlders had been moved back to wherever they came from. The leader of Clan Havoc had insisted that one of their elders be his permanent guest while the ditrinium was refined and their weapons constructed. The amount they required for their knives was staggering. A fistful was enough to power a military orbiter. Each knife had to be processed in a manner that took weeks. What was more, the uniform that gave these Assassins their name was woven with threads of yet more ditrinium. Duke Tiko had insisted that the cannons he had used to bring down the Cygnean battle fleet be built first, but the elder off-worlder had disagreed, and they had settled on one cannon, one uniform, one knife.
“This tale of yours has all the markings of barracks chatter,” Logan declared, clearly goading the man.
Pitt bridled. Now that payment was agreed upon, he spoke the Hawk tongue with a rough twang. And he understood far more. “I ain’t no liar,” he snarled. “Any who says otherwise learns my skill with an Aldwyn blade. I’m a tunnel rat, born and bred. I don’t hold no truck with empty words.”
Logan glanced at Dillon and then back to Pitt. “So the trouble was shipped in from off-world, you say.”
“Aye, that I did.”
Dillon asked, “What is this he’s saying about a battle fleet?”
“Clan Havoc defeated a full battalion sent from Cygneus Prime,” Logan replied. He asked the twins, “You think these off-worlders he’s speaking of come from beyond our own system?”
“Maybe,” Sean replied. “Can I ask him something?”
“Have at it,” Logan replied. “This appears to be your problem as well.”
Sean asked Pitt, “Have you seen these off-worlders for yourself?”
“Only once,” he admitted. “And that was from a safe distance. Tiko drew us up on parade, showing off his forces.”
“What can you tell us about them?”
“The elders were dressed in uniforms of blue. Three, maybe four of them. All of an age, don’t you know. Grey-haired or no hair at all.”
“How long ago was that?”
Pitt’s brow furrowed. “Three cycles, was it? No, four.”
“Which would have made it around six months back,” Dillon said.
Sean asked, “Does Havoc have ghost-walkers of their own?”
“Not on your life.” Pitt smirked.
Nicolette demanded, “What strikes you as humorous?”
“The duke is right terrified of the prospect.”
Logan leaned back. The twins were seated to either side of him. He looked first at Dillon, then Sean. Then back again.
Sean said, “So Duke Tiko knows the ghost-walkers exist.”
“Oh, aye. He’d have to, wouldn’t he. Seeing as how them in blue come and go from his keep.” Pitt took a step forward, another. His restless hands reached out and snagged a coin off the top of the pile. When no one objected, he took another and made them both disappear. “Made them off-worlders promise they’d not shift without his say-so. On account of the legends.”
“Legends?” Sean asked.
Logan offered, “Havoc once ruled the largest continent on Cygneus Prime. Legend claims it was Havoc ghost-walkers who awoke the dragons. When the battle ended, Tiko’s forebears scarcely had enough survivors to fill the holds of a single ship.”
Sean asked, “How long ago was that?”
“More than twelve centuries,” Nicolette replied. “Long enough for dragons to become part of the clan’s legend, an excuse for their defeat.”
“Eventually my Hawk clan took over the Havoc fief and ruled until they were defeated by the council that now rules Cygneus Prime,” Logan went on. “Our own history is much more straightforward. We lost our fief in fair battle. But you hear such fables among many of the defeated clans. Their downfall came at the hands of those fell beasts. It is the only way their pride survived.”
“Dragons,” Dillon said. Just loving it.
Logan went on, “According to the legends, the dragons were finally conquered in a battle that laid waste much of our continent. The surviving dragons supposedly swore oaths of surrender and vanished. Swam into the inland sea at the heart of our former lands. They haven’t been seen since.”
“Because they never existed,” Vance said. “Except to spice up the bedtime wonderings of children.”
“Back to these so-called Assassins,” Logan said to their captive. “What makes them special?”
“How they’re equipped,” Pitt said, more definite now. “Blades and uniforms made from ditrinium. All done up according to what the off-worlders say. Word is, they’re wanting guns as well. But so far they haven’t gotten one to work, not smaller than a fair-sized cannon. Something about the forging process makes it nigh on impossible to shrink the firing mechanism like the off-worlders want.”
Logan turned to Sean and explained how it all came down to ditrinium. The metal found only on Aldwyn. Forged in the heat of a dying star. The mineral that powered Cygnean energy systems and the fleetest ships. Why the miners lived there at all.
When Logan went silent, Sean said, “The off-worlders aren’t here to buy the mineral. They’re after the finished goods.”
Nicolette asked, “What does that tell you?”
It was Logan who replied, “The production was done in secret. For a purpose the off-worlders are so intent upon keeping to themselves, they give away the technology and pay to have it made here.”
Dillon asked, “But who is the enemy?�
�
Sean nodded. That was the question. He asked Pitt, “What can you tell us about the weapons?”
“Long knives,” the miner stated.
Vance said, “Knives don’t explain this sort of secrecy.”
Nicolette said, “You don’t form a special brigade to carry knives.”
“Knives long as my forearm,” Pitt insisted. “And Tiko’s new blast cannons, big as a fair-sized house they are, with ditrinium worked into their hearts. No shield can stand against them, is what we heard after your battalion went down.”
Sean remained focused upon that first weapon. Knives. Tendrils of unease wrapped their way around his gut and squeezed, though he could not say for certain why, or what caused the unease.
Dillon’s expression had turned as dour as Logan’s. He said, “There’s a faction among our group making trouble.”
“You mean, walkers against walkers?” Logan asked.
“We don’t know for certain.”
“But we think that’s the issue,” Sean said. “And that’s why we’re here.”
33
Soon after, Sean and Dillon were asked to leave the interrogation chamber. They exited and joined the ranks headed toward the barracks mess hall. Sean was more worried than tired, and he was very tired indeed. “What is the chance of finding a bed around here?”
“Barracks,” Dillon replied. “Pretty basic. I’ll see about getting you a bunk.”
They collected plates and found spaces at one of the long mess tables. They were not excluded from the general company, but not included either. Sean did not mind the isolation. He was still digesting everything Pitt had revealed when Nicolette joined them.
“We’re going to hold Pitt over a while,” she said. “In case we come up with more questions.”
“He agreed?”
“We’ve moved him into an empty chamber. Guarded but unchained.” She waved away a trooper’s offer to bring her a meal. “We told him we needed time to set up his temporary haven, which is true enough. Logan is bringing over his uncle, Linux. He rules the Hawk fief on Aldwyn. Vance and I are dining with him tonight.”
Sean asked, “You’re bringing in reinforcements?”
“Logan thinks it’s time to alert the local Hawk leaders. Whether or not we gain troops is up to Linux and his officers.”
Sean saw the prospect of conflict pleased his brother, or at least excited him. Sean still felt the fear worms burrow in his own gut and pushed his plate aside.
Dillon said, “Know what strikes me most about today?”
Sean did not look up. “Yes.”
Nicolette asked, “You can read his mind?”
“No.” That was true enough. The rest could wait. “But I know him. And sometimes I know what he’s thinking.”
“So tell,” Dillon said.
“Two things.” Sean turned to the woman seated beside them. Nicolette was a striking woman in the fierce manner of a bird of prey. There was no soft component to her, from her gaze to the way her right hand curled around a weapon she did not hold. “None of your crew showed any interest in the gold for yourselves. Even though I suspect there are some former outlaws among your troops.”
“Thieves and hard beginnings,” she confirmed. “What does that tell you?”
“Troop loyalty,” Dillon replied. “Strong officers. Great commander.”
The mess hall’s din was the only sound for a time, then Nicolette said, “And the second item?”
Dillon said, “Go on, bro. Tell the lady.”
“I need to report back to my superiors,” Sean said. “But first we’ve got to get inside that Havoc hold.”
“You’ll die,” Nicolette said. “Slowly and not well.”
“No he won’t,” Dillon said.
She glanced over at Sean’s twin, then asked them both, “You have a plan?”
“That’s what my brother is best at,” Dillon replied. “Making plans.”
34
Logan had no idea how Linux might feel about pomp and ceremony. In the end he decided to create as formal a structure as possible, given the circumstances. Linux was, after all, ruler of the last remaining Hawk fief.
They dined in the guard captain’s private apartment, where a table had been discovered that had them all agog, for it was made of rare woods from Cygneus Prime’s equatorial region. Deep red veins flowed through the table’s polished surface like rivers in a wooden map.
Vance happily took charge of preparations. He enlisted three crew members who had served in the officers’ mess and dressed them in clean coveralls. Four more soldiers were set as a formal guard by the entrance. Their meal was cooked by two who had trained as chefs. But the real prize had nothing to do with the food at all.
When Linux’s transports halted in front of the former guard’s station, Logan saluted his uncle and drew him through the kitchen, around the massive cast-iron stove, and into the pantry. The rear wall had been demolished, leaving behind a pile of rubble and yellow bricks. Vance led them down the secret stairwell, for he was the one who had insisted that such a chamber was bound to exist. Down and down they went, then into a series of four rooms with peaked ceilings and wall after wall of bottles.
Logan said, “There is another room beyond this one. The barred entrance was left open. All the shelves in that chamber were empty. I suspect it was reserved for wealth they took with them.”
Linux took one flask down at random, wiped away the dust, and declared, “The captain lived well.”
“He was your man?”
Linux shook his head. “His grandfather ruled the fief before we arrived. The father surrendered to us before the first drop of blood was shed. His one request was to be allowed to keep his troops intact and serve as market guards. I put some of my own men among them. Few cared for the duty, and those who did have vanished with the captain and his troops.” He surveyed the shelves. “These bottles hold a king’s ransom.”
“It’s yours,” Logan said. “All of it. Take the lot.”
Linux swiveled slowly around. His gaze was dark as an unlit tunnel.
Logan went on, “This and the missing treasures are drawn from your market.”
“Some would say this was booty, yours by right of combat,” Linux replied.
“Call it a gift of thanks for allowing me and my men this chance to prove ourselves.”
Linux said slowly, “You remove the Havoc raiders from my market cavern. And now you thank me.”
Logan waited.
Linux sighed. “I suppose you might as well give me the rest.”
With Linux were three grey-haired administrators, two women officers, and a bearded general. They shared their leader’s worried silence. They asked few questions. Linux’s gestures were small. Stillness suited him. He was, Logan decided, a cautious man who had adapted well to his world of caves and deep shadows.
Their meal consisted mostly of vegetables found growing in the militia’s hydroponics gardens. It was plain fare, but no one minded. Linux and his band gave little indication they were aware of what they ate.
Logan had opted not to invite the twins. He was joined at the table by Nicolette and Vance only, and they all wore the same coveralls. Their simple clothing, without any sign of status or rank, was a direct contrast to the finery of Linux and his team.
Logan sensed the undercurrent of tension and knew the reason. His gift of the wine cellar’s content had done nothing to ease Linux’s nervousness. He and his crew awaited Logan’s terms. Logan had effectively seized control of the market. He had shown the ability to halt the Havoc invasion, at least temporarily. Linux and his officers feared Logan’s demands would tax them as severely as Havoc’s raids. Perhaps worse.
Only Vance remained untouched by the tense mood, or at least he pretended better than any of the others. He kept up a light banter that Logan did not bother hearing.
Toward the end of the meal, Sidra popped into view. As Logan had requested, she saluted the table, but she could not complete
ly hide her smirk. “Guard details have changed watch, Commander. All quiet. Havoc tunnel remains empty.”
“Thank you.”
When Sidra vanished, the table remained trapped in complete and utter astonishment. Finally Linux said, “So that’s how you did it.”
And in that instant, Logan had the answer to his unspoken question. He could see the same response in all their faces.
They were not going to help him.
Revealing his ghost-walkers and their secret ability changed nothing as far as Linux was concerned. He would remain cautious. Uncommitted. Because all they saw was the risk of another defeat.
Logan turned to Nicolette and said, “We need to decide about trusting the twins.”
He could see Vance’s confused frown. But Nicolette understood. At least, she was willing to follow his lead. “Everything Dillon has said rings true. He is a trained soldier. He will hold up in a fight. He cares for other troopers. He listens. Sean . . . he continues to surprise me.” She hesitated, then added, “I like them both.”
Linux asked, “Twins?”
“Ghost-walkers who seek to join us,” Logan said tersely.
Nicolette went on, “Sean has developed a strategy we need to discuss.”
When she cast a doubtful glance at their guests, Logan said, “Continue.”
“There is a talent some of their highly trained ranks can do. Dillon calls it hunting. They extend their awareness.” When Logan did not respond, she added, “Beyond their physical forms.”
“Which one can do that?”
“Both have,” Nicolette replied. “Under high-stress conditions. But their abilities have been restricted of late. Neither is certain it will be possible again.”
Logan leaned back. “They want to hunt in Havoc territory.”
“They want to try.”
“What if Havoc has hunters of their own?”
“Sean is certain they do not.” She shrugged. “You need to ask him. All I can say is, on this point he was confident.”
Logan turned back to the group opposite him. “I asked you here to share with you our tactics. And to say that all we seek is an alliance. Nothing more.”