Guardians of the Flame - Legacy

by Joel Rosenberg

  "She already knows it. Move."

  "Be well." Her hand still clapped over her own wound, forced herself to her feet. "You all heard the man. Let's move out, people. And now means now."

  Aeia started to say something, but Karl shook his head. "We don't have time, girl. Just go. Run for it. Get her out of here, Bren."

  Bren Adahan threw Karl a brief salute, then caught Aeia's hand and dragged her away. She only resisted for a few feet, then broke into a sprint, her shoulders shaking.

  "I said now," Tennetty first kicked Ganness into a trot, then shoved Slovotsky into motion, while Ahira, holding Jason in his arms, took off in a dead run.

  "Just a moment. I'll catch up with you," Doria said, her voice cracking.

  "He said to move it," Tennetty snapped. "So you move it."

  "It's okay, Ten," Karl said. "Get going. Get them home."

  "Understood, Karl." Tennetty nodded once, and staggered off after the others, her pounding feet sending sand flying into the air.

  Doria laid a hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. "I have something for you," she said. She gripped his arm more tightly. "It's not much, but it's all I have left. The Mother took all the rest. I can't heal you, Karl, but I can sustain you. Just a little longer."

  The wind whispered a distant message, a vague threat.

  "Oh? That's not what you left me this for?" She addressed the air. "I don't care; we take care of our own, old woman. We take care of our own."

  Staring into Karl's face, she laid her hands on his shoulders and began to mutter harsh syllables, words that could only be heard and forgotten.

  It was strange. Weren't Doria's eyes yellow on This Side? And wasn't her face gaunter here? The eyes seemed dark; the face seemed to soften.

  Where her fingers touched him, strength flowed into him like an electric current.

  His wounds still ached; as he tried to get his right leg underneath him, it still refused to support him. But the pain in his leg and side were somehow distant; all fatigue was gone.

  "It will . . . sustain you longer than they'll think possible, Karl," Doria Perlstein said. She was twenty again, a bit chubby, her eyes brown now. The Hand cleric was gone. "I hope. It's not enough, but it's all I can do—"

  "Get out of here, Doria."

  "Goodbye." She turned and ran off after the others.

  God, he felt strong.

  He looked down at what he had. Six rifles, and thirty or so assembled bombs, plus three pistols. He crabbed himself over to the pistols and gathered them all together, then tucked one into his belt.

  He waited.

  He didn't have long. There was a distant shout as three men came into view.

  Rolling over into a prone firing position, Karl cocked the nearest rifle, put it to his shoulder, took aim and pulled the trigger; at the crack of the rifle all three of the slavers fell. It took him half a moment to realize that at least two of them had taken cover; his single shot couldn't have knocked down all three.

  I knew I was good, but I didn't think I was that good.

  He laughed out loud, letting them hear it. "Come on, you bastards. I'm waiting for you." He thought about ducking back toward the treeline, but decided against it. It would be too hard to haul the rifles along with him, and he was going to need all of them. As well as the bombs.

  He hefted one of the bombs. Probably best to use a bomb next. Shake them up a bit.

  Maybe there was another way to shake them up. Maybe he could make them think they were up against more than one lone man.

  "Chak, Rahff, Fialt," he shouted, "the next one of the bastards is mine. Hold your fire."

  Another man crept around the bend, his rifle held out in front of him as though it was some sort of magical shield. Karl disabused him of that notion with a misthrown bomb that sent sand flying into the air, and the man flying for cover.

  "Dammit, Chak," he shouted, "I wanted that one. I had him in my sights until you threw the bomb."

  Maybe he could hold out long enough. Maybe. Give the others just a few minutes to get going, and then perhaps Karl could crawl into the woods, dig himself into some sort of cover, and hide out.

  "Ease back out of the line of fire, Rahff. You'll kill more of them if they can't see you."

  But first he had to give the others enough of a head start. The slavers wouldn't be long in coming. Not long at all.

  Another man poked his head out from around the bend, and Karl let him fire off a shot before taking aim with his next rifle. He let the man creep a bit forward, and then potted him neatly.

  "Nice shooting, Fialt. We'll kill them all by dawn."

  Just a bit more time, that was all.

  He waited patiently for several minutes. What was keeping them?

  Maybe it's just as well I didn't go through such a long goodbye scene. A few more minutes of this and I'm getting my butt out of here, if at all possible.

  He didn't look forward to holing up while he healed, and then trying the overland route back to the Middle Lands, but he'd been through worse. Probably he had sufficient supplies in the cave of the sword, and he could swim out there even without the use of one leg.

  He smiled as he forced himself to a sitting position and pulled two more of the rifles onto his lap, cocking one and bringing it up to his shoulder. Just a few more slavers, a few more minutes, and—

  Pain exploded in his back; he tumbled to the ground, his body gone from the chest down.

  From behind—idiot! They had sent somebody to creep around him. The other slavers had just been trying to slow him down.

  There was blood in his mouth. Salty, it seemed to warm him.

  The world began to grow gray around the edges. The dark shapes gathered around him.

  "Careful with him. He's still dangerous."

  "He's nothing. I'll take him."

  Got to—

  His distant, clumsy thumb and forefinger worked hard between his belly and the sand, pried a pistol from his belt, and cocked it.

  But he couldn't turn over. The world was just too far away; his arm was just too weak.

  "Careful, I said. Turn him over and make sure he doesn't have another weapon. Then bind him."

  Rough fingers pulled at his shoulder, adding just enough to what remained of his fast-fading strength to let him get his pistol out from underneath him.

  Grayness spreading across his body, Karl Cullinane—

  "He has a gun! Stop him!"

  —pointed it at the stack of guncotton bombs, each with its own detonator.

  "Andy . . ." he said, then decided that he didn't have the time for fancy last words.

  He pulled the trigger once, hard.

  CHAPTER THIRTY:

  The Heir Apparent

  Once we have a war there is only one thing to do.

  It must be won. For defeat brings worse things than

  any that can ever happen in war.

  —Ernest Hemingway

  When the final explosion sounded, and the distant fires lit up the sky, Ahira and Slovotsky had already loaded all of the others into the launch that lay half grounded on the sandy beach.

  Walter Slovotsky closed his eyes for a moment. Dammit, Karl.

  "Move it, you two," Tennetty commanded. "Get in the boat."

  In the launch, Aeia buried her face in her hands, while Bren Adahan put an arm around her.

  Doria, this strange, new-old Doria who now looked like the Other Side girl who had crossed over with them, wept openly as she supported Jason Cullinane's half-conscious form. Ganness only paused for a moment, then resumed passing out the oars.

  Ahira's fingers closed on the gunwale tightly, so tightly that wood cracked and split beneath his hands.

  Only Tennetty appeared unmoved, her face rigid, her eyes flat and lifeless. "We don't have time. Get in."

  Summoning up a bravado he most certainly did not feel, Walter turned toward the dwarf. "Shit. We can't allow it. Can we?"

  "Hell, no." Ahira smiled and shrugged. "And we won'
t. Besides, I hate boats."

  Tennetty started to rise from her seat in the rear of the launch, but as Walter and Ahira pushed the boat out into the water, she sat back down. "What do you two think you're doing?"

  "It should be obvious." The dwarf's chuckle probably didn't sound forced to the others' ears, but Walter knew him better. "We're staying," Ahira said. "If Karl survived, we'll find him and we'll get him out, no matter what it takes."

  Walter blew a quick kiss to Aeia. "I know this is going to sound strange, but I want you to watch out for Kirah and my daughters—have Ellegon bring them to you, as soon as he can leave Holtun-Bieme."

  Setting your mistress to take care of your wife and kids was peculiar, but that, in and of itself, appealed to him. Besides, it meant that Janie and D.A. would spend the next while in Home and Biemestren. Jason stood to inherit the crown; he might like the way his childhood playmate had filled out as she had grown up, and that might work out well for Janie. Worth a shot.

  "No," Jason croaked out. His arm shaking as he tried to prop himself up on his elbow, he slipped back to Doria's lap. "No more sacrifices. Not now. Tennetty, stop them."

  "Yes, Jason." One hand still holding her side, Tennetty drew a pistol and pointed it halfway between the two of them. "I won't have you waste his death." She motioned with the pistol. "Get in."

  "Don't point a gun at someone you aren't willing to kill," Walter said, crossing his fingers and hoping that she wasn't, or if she was, she'd explain it rather than demonstrate it. "And we're not talking sacrifice. We can hide better than any two other people. Trust me."

  "Jason?" She turned to the boy.

  "No. Don't let them get killed, too."

  Tennetty looked Walter Slovotsky in the eye. "I haven't made a habit of disobeying Cullinane orders."

  Walter stared back at her. "Until now. It's necessary."

  Ahira nodded. "It is, Tennetty."

  She was silent for a long moment. Then: "It had fucking well better be." Tennetty uncocked her pistol and tucked it into her belt. "Push us off, then."

  "No." Again, Jason tried to raise himself up, but failed.

  Tennetty gripped the boy's hand. "Sorry, Jason. This once, we'll do it someone else's way. Bren, Aeia, Ganness, out oars," she said, using her free arm to wrestle her own oar up and set it into the crude wooden oarlock. "You two, push us off."

  "But what is the point?" Ganness shrilled.

  "The point is nobody is going back to Pandathaway to brag about having killed Karl Cullinane," Ahira said, fastening strong fingers on the gunwale. "Even if they have killed him. Now, get out of here. If we get out of this, we'll see you someday." Wading waist-deep into the cold water, the dwarf gave the launch a tremendous shove that hurled it away from the shore; the shock of the release sent the dwarf falling face-first in the water.

  Walter Slovotsky quickly waded to his side and helped him get to his feet.

  The oars were set in the water; Ganness calling cadence, the launch began to make its rough way away from the beach, toward the offshore island beyond which Ganness' ship was anchored.

  As they returned to the beach, sputtering, coughing, Ahira turned around and waved a farewell to those in the boat. He couldn't say anything, not still half choking on the water.

  Or maybe the water he'd swallowed was just an excuse, Slovotsky decided. Maybe the dwarf didn't trust himself to speak right now.

  But somebody had to say it.

  "Jason?" Walter called out.

  Doria helped him up to a sitting position.

  "Walter . . ." He worked his mouth, then shut it. Jason Cullinane shook his head. "Good luck."

  "Like your father said, we don't have time for long goodbyes. Just remember this: You're inheriting something more than a crown. Understood?"

  Jason Cullinane's tear-streaked face was grim. "Understood."

  EPILOGUE:

  Requiem

  Let no one honor me with tears, nor celebrate my funeral rites with weeping.

  —Quintus Ennius

  A Few Tendays Later, in Biemestren

  The cool, clear voice of Ellegon sounded through Biemestren: *I have found them at the border, and we come. With sad news.*

  They all came out to see, waiting not in the throne room, but in the courtyard, beneath the window of what had been Karl's study.

  They gathered—the rulers Andrea Cullinane, Listar, Baron Tyrnael, and Thomen, Baron Furnael; the warriors Garavar, Garthe, Pirojil, Durine, and Kethol, plus a full troop of the House Guard; Master Engineer Ranella with Journeyman Aravam and Bibuz and a dozen apprentices; fat U'len, the castle's head cook, with her assistants Jimuth and Kozat; maids and scribes, coopers and blacksmiths and stablemen—they gathered, waiting.

  Above, a distant black spot in the sky grew slowly, then took shape and form as the dragon descended, leathery wings beating the air in a relentless fury.

  *We come.*

  Dust flew into the air as the dragon stooped in for a landing.

  By the time eyes had begun to clear, Bren Adahan had unstrapped himself and vaulted to the ground, reaching up to help Aeia down, then Tennetty, Jason, and finally Doria.

  "Doria!" Andrea Cullinane's eyes widened. "Is it really you?"

  The blond girl nodded, while Jason and Aeia ran to Andrea.

  Thomen Furnael eyed him levelly, his face grim. Bren shook his head.

  "He's dead," Andrea Cullinane said, her eyes searching his for some hope as she held her son and adopted daughter to her.

  I can't offer you the hope you need, Lady, Bren thought, holding his face impassive.

  On the trip home, he thought he had gotten used to the idea of Karl Cullinane being dead. But he hadn't, not really. Not until now, not until he had to inform Andrea that she was a widow.

  They stood still for a moment, none able to give word to what everyone in the courtyard knew.

  But for just a moment. Slowly, as though the motion was an immense effort, Jason Cullinane nodded. "Yes."

  "He's dead, Andrea," Tennetty said.

  It still seemed impossible. Bren had heard tales of the outlaw Karl Cullinane as a boy; when he had first met the giant, Bren had been only a little younger than Jason now was. Karl Cullinane had towered over his life.

  Ellegon's mental voice was slow and even.

  *You are certain,* he said. It was no question; it was a statement.

  Andrea nodded, slowly, her face holding no trace of pain, displaying no emotion whatsoever.

  Doesn't it matter to her?

  *She will not hold up her grief for your inspection, human,* the dragon said, looming above him, eyes the size of dinner plates staring back at him. *And neither will I. It is a family matter.*

  Jason pried himself from his mother's arms, his eyes dry and clear.

  He stood easily, resting his hands on his belt. "We have some things that must be handled immediately," he said as he turned to Thomen. "I may be my father's heir, but I have no business ruling Holtun-Bieme. Not now; maybe not ever. The crown stays where it is. You will continue to help my mother rule."

  "Jason!" Andrea drew back, shocked. "You've just—"

  "I may have just returned home, but there are matters that must be handled now, Mother." The boy drew himself up straighter, his face holding no trace of passion, or of compassion. "Bren will help you rule, too. He's one of you—"

  "Damn you." Bren Adahan shook his head. "Damn you, Jason Cullinane."

  The boy looked like he had been slapped. "What?"

  Tennetty stiffened, her eyes narrowing slightly, her stare softening only fractionally when Aeia laid a gentle hand on her arm.

  "You, your father, and that arrogant bastard Walter Slovotsky have always been the same," Bren said, letting the long-repressed fury flow. "You think that you're the only ones who care, you think that you Other Side people are the only ones that . . ." Words failed him; he flailed an arm helplessly. " . . . that all this matters to. You had better understand me, Jason Cullinane: There are others of u
s in this, too. You think Aeia doesn't care? Do you think she isn't a part of it?"

  Aiea smiled at him, cocking her head to one side. For more than the thousandth time it occurred to him that there was nothing Bren Adahan had or could have that couldn't be bought by one of those smiles.

  " . . . or Garavar?"

  The old general nodded grimly, briefly clasping a strong hand to Jason's shoulder.

  " . . . or the rest of the warriors? Do you think they aren't part of it?"

  Feet shuffled on the dirt, while grim faces stared levelly. Standing side by side, Pirojil, Dunne, and Kethol faced Jason, each raising a hand in a sketchy salute, huge Durine adding an encouraging smile.

  " . . . or Ranella?"

  The master engineer raised inkstained fingers in a brief acknowledgment, then returned to her private thoughts after her lips briefly moved: I'll build you your railroad, Karl, I promise.

  " . . . or Thomen?"

  Thomen, Baron Furnael, the son of the man who had had Bren's father killed, the great-grandson of the man who had kidnapped and raped Bren's great-grandmother, extended a hand to Bren Adahan and clasped it firmly.

  "Or even that crazy one-eyed attack bitch of yours?"

  Tennetty smiled at that.

  "If you think this revolution your father began is the property of the Cullinane family," Bren went on, "you're wrong. It belongs to everyone. We're all in this together; we each have our parts. Fine: Thomen will help your mother rule Holtun-Bieme; that's what he's good at. Agreed, I'll help; I'll do what I can. Of course, Garavar will command troops, while Pirojil and Durine will fight; Ranella and Lou Riccetti will build; U'len will cook. Ellegon, Aeia, Doria—we all do our parts. But so will you, Jason Cullinane. You'll do two things for the rest of us."

  "And those are?"

  He wanted to say: You'll tell your sister to marry me. But he wouldn't say that. Partly it was a matter of pride. Besides, it wouldn't make a difference. Aeia was just as stubborn as the rest of her family.

  "First, you'll work like a dog trying to learn everything you need to, so you can do your part, whatever that is. I don't think you know, yet; I surely don't."