The Burning Crown (Stone Blade Book 4)

by James Matt Cox

  This time Osbury did walk away, and Fyrelm kept a small smile well after the door closed. In all his years he'd never bested Osbury's wit and he suspected they would both die before that happened. Fyrelm looked along the wall containing the portraits of his ancestors. Some were holos and others flat pictures or paintings, but they all showed ordinary men or women doing ordinary things. Yet... Each face had a pair of eyes full of wisdom and sense and with a gaze that penetrated the years. Fyrelm wondered if his grandchildren's grandchildren would think the same of him.

  "Enough, old man!" Fyrelm chided himself. "If you've no sense of your own then listen when it is spoken to you!"

  With that Fyrelm took out his stylus and seals. He knew exactly what he wanted to say but had no ideas on how to say it.

  'My Dearest Son:

  'I know the years have grown long between us, as have the regrets within my heart. I hope someday you will come to understand and, perhaps, even to forgive what I did.'

  With those words penned the rest loosened and began to flow.

  ***

  Outremin scowled mightily and cursed the Faircoast traffic that impeded his journey. His driver wisely kept silent and let him stew in his mood.

  Fools! Fools and worse, he thought. Bad enough the incident happened and worse luck that Brightcrown involved itself. They would receive their meed soon enough, he knew that, but Laird Fadding's stew still needed some cooking and spice before reaching its full, poisonous potential. House Varl's alleged allies chafed him the most. Though Binkor-Sud and its lapcat Snughblak both realized profit far in excess of what either deserved, and though they shared absolutely none of the risk, still they sniveled like spoiled children at every pebble in the path.

  Left to his own devices Outremin would have things settled quickly and easily. He would have everything smoothed with very little mess, but no! The idiot Binkor-Sud Simmons and his witless toady McConney raced about, stirring up a stench and making asteroids out of every minuscule grain of sand! He gave them their due, for now, and spoke the words needed to pacify them. For now. Soon enough, though... He took a pleasant moment contemplating their personal disposition.

  "We've arrived, Sir Beau," said the driver.

  Outremin exited the hover and entered Lord Garver's estate. He admired this minor Varl Lord. Hubert Lord Garver had a keen eye toward his best interest at all times, and he knew unequivocally that it lay with the desires of House Varl and those closest to Laird Fadding. The man wanted to ingratiate himself to Outremin and so far he'd done a respectable, if transparent, job of it.

  A few paces down the main hall Outremin saw two of Garver's house guards hurrying through the corridors. For no reason other than petty spite he stopped them and forced them to attention.

  "What is your hurry, Guardsmen," he asked.

  The oldest of the pair saluted and answered.

  "Serjeant Dunhall summoned us, sir. He said something about testing a potential recruit for the house guard, sir. Says he needs a pair of swords to test him."

  "Stellar, then," said Outremin, seizing the chance for some amusement, "Carry on. Escort me there, if you will."

  If Outremin's appearance startled Dunhall or Pelso, Garver's master-at-arms, neither showed it. He found his eyes instantly drawn to the other man in the room, obviously the recruit of whom they spoke. The man stood solid and sure, both rested and relaxed despite the others around him.

  The stranger met Outremin's gaze without a flinch, or even a flick of interest. When Outremin tried to probe those eyes he met a wall of stone! This man cared nothing for propriety, manners or even the threat of four well-armed men. Fascinating. Then, to put the top on matters, he dismissed Outremin completely from his thoughts and turned them to the two guards.

  More puzzled than insulted now, Outremin examined the man. He saw hard muscles and an abundance of scars, badges of combat, but also something else beneath them. Something in the man's eyes, his posture and the very attitude that oozed out of him. This man was a killer, pure and simple. He had killed many times, would kill many more and thought no more of it than swatting a biteme. Everything about him shouted that and Outremin recognized it easily now.

  "Welcome, Sir Beau," said Dunhall, daring to break Outremin's examination, "We were going to evaluate a potential member of our house guard. I'm honored you chose to join us."

  Another toady, thought Outremin, but one who knew well his place. He smiled at the fool. Then, while everyone but Dunhall donned dampers, he examined the man's credentials. He knew by the tone of Dunhall's voice that the man had irritated him. Interesting.

  "So, boy," said Outremin, "Serjeant Dunhall seems to think you can fight. Can you?"

  The man shrugged. "I guess we'll find out."

  Dunhall reddened at this and Outremin felt a small spark of anger at the man's tone.

  "Arrogant," said Outremin, "and insolent too. Boy, you do know these men are experts at unarmed combat."

  "Do now," said the man with no apparent interest in the fact, "Do you want me to kill them or just hurt 'em?"

  Dunhall trembled at this and Outremin felt a stronger flash of anger. Something nagged at the back of his mind, though. No doubt this fool felt the confidence he showed but Outremin sensed some deeper game.

  "You fool," said Outremin contemptuously, "Do you actually think you can kill a man while wearing a damper?"

  "Can and have."

  Outremin spared Dunhall an amused glance. This would be good!

  "Very well, boy. Impress us."

  Now Dunhall smiled too. Both of them knew what would come next and this arrogant stranger deserved every bruise of it!

  ***

  Pelso sent the two guards in first. They advanced warily but the arrogant fool simply stood and waited. When the older guard launched his attack the three of them erupted into a whirlwind of action too fast for Outremin to follow. It ended with a loud crack as the older guard fell back with his leg cleanly broken. The younger guard tried to attack in distraction as the master-at-arms waded into the fray but the stranger stood and easily defended against the two men. After a snap to the throat - deadly had the man's damper not slowed him - Pelso fell back, stunned but not out. Not liking the odds now, the younger guard grabbed a shortstaff from the weapon rack and spun in to attack.

  This time Outremin saw the arrogant man smile. The fool actually smiled! Then he evaded the staff as though it stood still, grabbed it, spun and broke it. In a continuation of the same move and slowly enough not to activate his damper, the man stabbed the splintered end of the staff into the guard's shoulder. Blood dripped out when he twisted it but the guard held his stance. Unfazed, the man stamped and broke his knee. The guard tried to twist and defend but the man grabbed his arm and, again moving slowly, broke it.

  On his way back to Pelso the man kicked the older guard's other leg out from under him, sending him to the floor again. The master-at-arms, recovered now, tried his best to fight the stranger. This time he ended up in a damper-proof neckbreaker, gasping for breath as the stranger slowly increased the pressure.

  "Hold. Hold! I said HOLD, burn you!" Dunhall's voice actually quavered.

  The man looked at Dunhall, then Outremin, then released his hold. The master-at-arms collapsed to the floor, still gasping for air.

  "Slib. Did I pass?"

  ***

  The man gazed at Dunhall a moment before dismissing him and switching his gaze to Outremin. Heh! That was his game! Outremin matched his icy stare with a smile while Dunhall recovered his composure. Outremin gave the man another three points in his mental tally.

  "Your record says you were dishonorably discharged from service," said Outremin.

  "My CO was a coward! His stupidity got most of our unit killed!"

  There was Outremin's desired reaction. He didn't show the smile he felt."

  "Still, desertion is a serious charge."

  The man opened his mouth, then clenched his jaw tight. Outremin saw those muscles twitch as he appr
oached him.

  "Careful, sir," said Dunhall.

  "Not to worry, serjeant. Seigneur," Outremin paused and checked the data, "Stone will not strike a superior. Isn't that right, Stone?"

  The man, Stone, glowered but didn't speak.

  "Answer me, mister!" Outremin snapped it as a command.

  "No sir!"

  This time Outremin didn't hide his smile.

  "What we have here, Dunhall," he said, walking slowly around Stone, "is a soldier. A true soldier and not one of the pathetic substitutes we so often see." From behind he brushed imaginary dust off of Stone's shoulder. "We have here a man who can and will kill for his cause, and he will do so without batting an eye. Isn't that right, Stone?"

  "Yes sir."

  "What we have here," said Outremin, now walking in front of Stone and facing Dunhall, "is a soldier who needs a leader. One who needs, wants and requires a leader. Not just an officer and not just a commander, but a leader. A leader worthy of respect. You, Stone. How many men have you killed?"

  "I don't know, sir. I don't keep count."

  "Of course. Do you like it? Do you like the sight and smell of death piled at your feet?"

  "Not particularly, sir."

  "So do you dislike it? Do you hate killing those poor souls whose only offense... is being in your way when they shouldn't? Do you deeply despise that, Stone?"

  "Not particularly, sir."

  Dunhall's eyes widened at that.

  "You see, serjeant," said Outremin, "We have here a man dedicated to his craft and who excels at it, even though his craft is dealing out death. He also takes pride in his work. Don't you, Stone?"

  "Yes sir."

  "But when the mission is finished he lets it go, slams down a slosh to the buddies he lost and prepares for the next day's work. Right, Stone?"

  "Yes sir!"

  Outremin nodded. "Get him in uniform, Serjeant Dunhall. I'll have him in my personal service." He caught the slight relaxation in Stone's shoulders. "Also, serjeant, inform the other guards not to try some foolish revenge, else you'll be short more than one man. Prepare yourself, Stone. We may be leaving soon."

  "Yes sir!"

  Stone didn't smile but Outremin felt it. Now the man had a job he wanted and the leader he needed! Dunhall looked from Outremin to Stone and back, calculating the sums as he did.

  "Yes sir, Sir Beau," said Dunhall, "I'll start him on Precedence, Peerage and Conduct as well."

  Outremin walked out of the room and toward the comm center in a much lighter humor. Project Silver would continue, no doubt on that, but Outremin personally blessed the fortunate misfortune that led him right here right now. He'd spoken truth to Dunhall, but only the simplest of it. Dunhall failed to see the genuine treasure that Stone would become to the Great House of Varl.

  After he informed his Laird of the important matters here he sent off a few queries to a better archive. He did so more to satisfy his curiosity than anything else; Stone's credentials spoke volumes for themselves!

  ***

  John Thompson carefully placed their purchases in the back of the hover Kidwell rented and took a moment to admire the way she moved.

  "So," he said as he maneuvered out of the Erin's parking lot, "How long have you known Charlie and Sergeant Stone?"

  "Just since they transferred to Liaison," she said, lighting a drugstick.

  "Heh. Lucky them."

  She smiled and gave him a wink. "They might disagree, Cap'n John."

  That puzzled him.

  "Because of how much they've lost at cards," she grinned, "Friendship ceases, I play for blood and I win a lot."

  Thompson couldn't help laughing at this. Though no closer to solving the puzzle of Charlie, Stone, Kidwell and their situation, he certainly enjoyed puzzling it out on her. She didn't change at all when Stone left so that ruled out anything besides friendship. She also didn't speak of Charlie any other way so that made the three of them friends. By the easy manner and banter between them, she and Stone had seen and survived high-stress situations, possibly even combat. But Kidwell didn't look, act, feel or move military. Then Stone presented Thompson a truly compelling mystery before he left yesterday.

  As soon as Thompson grounded, cleared and rented a berth at the port, Stone and Kidwell dragged him to a bank of storage lockers and made him rent a retina-coded one. Afterward they went to CommTronix. C-Tron prided itself on supplying the best and highest-quality electronics and photonics throughout the League. They also had the highest prices but they didn't brag about that. After they finished there, they rented an economy suite at an inexpensive motel. Next he and Stone went job-hunting. Rather, thought Thompson, they went job-looking. By him they found a dozen openings either of them could fill but Stone expressed no interest in those. He did take copious notes but Thompson never caught a glimpse of them.

  Back at their suite, Kidwell made Thompson surrender his chrono, datapad, comm and even his service ID. She replaced the gear with what they purchased at C-Tron and told him not to worry about the ID. She sealed all of his stuff in a bag and gave it to Stone, who left. Thirty minutes later he returned and informed Thompson that his things were in the storage locker and to leave them there for now.

  The chrono and comm both showed subtle signs of tampering. It might have escaped notice by most people but Thompson found it. More, Kidwell knew he found it and knew he knew she knew. Puzzling.

  "I suppose I can understand that," he said, "Cards are... serious business."

  "They also don't like looking at my duff nearly as much as you do."

  That caught him by surprise! He reddened and forced his full concentration into navigating the near-absent traffic. He thought he was being subtle.

  "Don't worry about it, John," she said, patting his arm, "I don't mind, and it's really a compliment if you think about it the right way." He felt a wink. "Just don't complain when I... return the favor."

  Thompson had to chuckle at that.

  "So," he said, trying to recover, "What makes an average day in Protocol?"

  "Oh that's subtle, Cap'n John. We train, we learn, we train some more and we take the afternoon off to spiff our uniforms. How long have you known Charlie?"

  "Our first assignment was on the proud frigate Jacob Crewley. She was operating out of Slyco at the time and we'd just graduated. I enlisted before he did but he blew through Advanced Comm and Astrogation like it was sugarfluff candy. Heh. Rumor said he'd have graduated even sooner except for a few incidents involving data system penetration and compromise."

  Kidwell nodded knowingly at that.

  "He wasn't any better graduated," continued Thompson, "We were stationed in Sector Prime at... er, Sector Prime. Can't tell you where. We were on ground rotation and Charlie got bored. He got a bunch of us together in the rec room for a massive HyperDeath tournament. That was before Thunder Smite and its dot-twos, you understand. That was the best splatfest I ever did, no blather.

  "We didn't find out 'till later that Charlie owned one of the base's petathread core servers to host it. The local brass were torqued off their pizzles... Ah, 'scuse that! They were really upset when one of their main warsim servers went down, stayed down and kept them out for the duration. That got us transferred to Topaz in the Regis sector, plus-plus fast. We probably should've gotten the big boot, I know Charlie should have, but rumor said he told a light admiral to his teeth that he absolutely would not tell them how he owned their box if any of us got punished.

  "We were assigned to the Isaac Ray once we hit Regis and apparently someone rumored in her captain. He told Charlie to leave the cores the way he found 'em and not to threaten the ship's mission. Charlie jacked one the first time he got a chance. He and a bunch of scrubs had a splatfest, he put the cores back and the captain didn't say a word so we stayed aboard 'till Ceto. I guess you know the story from there."

  "Truth," said Kidwell with a laugh, "That sounds just like him, too. At play he's all play and even at work he's still half play. Of course w
hat he considers play usually involves owning someone else's stuff. You should hear him complain when he has to burn through security."

  "Heard it, lovely lady. More than once."

  "Did he ever tell you what he did before he enlisted?"

  Thompson eyed her critically.

  "No, Vera. He hinted once or twice at a choice between enlistment and something awful but he never went into detail. I didn't ask, either, because you don't. The Navy doesn't care what you were, only what you will. For truth, that's the only time I really saw him torqued. Some backwater-soggy scrubbie kept asking him and asking, and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Next leave he and Charlie settled it behind a port club. Charlie got two days in the brig and that scrubbie got a transfer somewhere awful. Didn't he tell you and Stone?"

  "Nak. You just told me more than he ever did. I could tell he didn't want to talk about it, ever, so I didn't press. We all have histories and sometimes they're not pretty."

  "What about Sergeant Stone?" Thompson tried not to sound too eager. He filed under 'interesting' the fact that she, Stone and Charlie fought hard together and Charlie still didn't let loose anything about himself.

  "Strong, solid, straight-on and ruddy dangerous to anything in his path," she said, "That's Micah in a nutshell and anything else would make a novel."

  Go on! Thompson tried to project that thought.

  "Do you remember the ENW and LNN stories about Caustik?"

  Thompson worked to recall. "Yes. Some kind of scandal. Long time ago."

  "It wasn't that long ago and the stories were horrible. They have a rigidly stratified society with the haves lording it over the have-nots worse than the Imperium. They also had a military unit called the 113th TAS. Caustik called them 'elite' but they were the diametric opposite."

  "Wait," said Thompson, "I remember that now. They were tough and dirty. They did stuff no military, or even civilized people, wouldn't think of doing. They sound like a bunch of Esavians, for truth."

  "What made the news didn't even touch the surface. The rest of it was even worse." She lit another 'stick. "Those men were subliminally-conditioned and controlled juice troopers. In combat they were nothing more than flesh-and-blood killing machines. Amped-up robots juiced past any pain or injury or mercy."