by Lyndon Hardy
She lifted her sword in challenge, trying to hold the tip straight and firm.
But she could not. Her hand was shaking too much.
“This is your concubine?” Angus looked at Briana. “The one responsible for the attack on the warehouse that nearly undid my plans?”
“I do not recognize her,” Dinton said “How could I. They all look the same.” He scowled at Briana. “Drop your weapon, native,” he said in English. “You have no hope against two warriors of our kind… two flock leaders, no less.”
He drew his dagger, and so did his brother.
Briana’s chest tightened. She tried to take a breath but could not. A heartbeat. And then another. Her sword continued to quiver. A dozen beats more.
She felt no surge of strength — now,when she needed it the most.
Her shoulders sagged.
She had courage, sure. She easily could limp across the distance between her and the two exiles. But then she would be cut down. As had Fig when he faced Slammert. A single slash or two and it would be over. And after that, over for everyone else as well.
“Come on. Let’s get this over with.” Angus growled at her. “My brother and I — ”
“My younger brother and I,” Dinton interrupted, “have much more important things to attend to. Force your tiny and weak body to charge at us so we can move on.”
A single woman against one surprised and over-confident man, yes, a possibility. But against two trained and alert warriors? There was no way a lone female could triumph. What could she do?
In desperation, Briana flung her sword forward, point first, toward Angus, hoping he would be surprised, and it would pierce his chest.
He easily batted it away.
Instinctively, she stepped backward. Okay then, get them away from the microphone. It would give her a little more time to think. She retreated, limping back up the passageway as fast as she could. Dinton and Angus followed, one of them carrying a torch. Like hunters cornering a fox at the end of a chase, they closed the distance slowly, as if anticipating the pleasure of an inevitable kill.
Briana managed to pass the rock sealing the passage to the outside and then stumbled in the encroaching darkness. Reaching down, she felt the slimy stickiness of the egg she had kicked aside. The wasps, pheromones — an idea.
She continued down the passageway, hand on the wall in imitation of what Ursula had done. She could not see anything, but she could smell. She tripped again, this time over the outstretched, hairy arm of one of the wasps. It was not moving. Grimacing while she did it, she felt over the inert body until she touched the fragrant liquid oozing from a fatal wound. Her tunic was already soaked, but she had to be sure. Using both hands she coated herself with more of the slime and then stood, fanning her arms in the air.
A sound, and then motion. At least one of the wasps was still alive. They had not all perished in their frenzy. She stepped backwards and waited. The sound came closer, the raspy rattle of the insect’s body dragging over the fallen others of its kind.
The wasp pursued her slowly with an uneven cadence. Perhaps one of its limbs was injured or gone. No matter. It was doing what she wanted, following her back up the passage.
Briana saw the flicker of the torchlight ahead, and then Angus and Dinton came into view, both with daggers still drawn. And there also was the egg, glistening on the ground. Fighting back the repulsion, she forced herself to pick it up and cradle it to her chest. It was what she had to do. The slime oozed over her torso, hands, and arms, sticky beyond belief.
Angus and Dinton approached. Briana wished that both her legs were working so she could move faster, but perhaps the two aliens would be startled enough, nevertheless.
Dinton extended the torch toward her and pointed with his dagger.
Angus nodded and stopped. “I see that she returns. Perhaps resigned to her fate.”
Briana kept coming. She limped up to face Angus and, before he could react, thrust the egg upon his dagger to shield herself from its sharpness. She wrenched away her own grip and wrapped her arms around the alien, hoping that some of the pheromone liquid would transfer to his chest — so that he, too, would become a target.
Dinton turned to stab Briana in the back, but hesitated when he saw the wasp lumber into view. It ignored him and moved to attack the struggling duo at his side.
“Randor’s handiwork haunts us still,” Angus called out as he tried to extract himself from Briana’s embrace. “We should have destroyed them long ago. Why, brother did you never listen to any idea that I ever had?”
Dinton did not reply. He avoided the flailing arms of the wasp and moved closer so that he could target its eyes. Briana could not tell what was happening behind her and clung to Angus as hard as she could.
But the alien she embraced was far stronger. He release the grip on his entombed dagger and then ripped Briana’s arms away, flinging her to the ground. She looked back and saw that ,with two deft strokes, Dinton had dispatched the wasp.
A final feeble try, but it had not worked. So much for the valiant warrior saving the day.
A sense of gloom crashed over her, one that she knew she would never be able to throw off. A victory on Murdina that she would never be able to enjoy, and here where it mattered more, total defeat.
While Briana sat stunned and felt herself fall into what felt like a bottomless pit, Angus and Dinton roared back and forth at each other in triumph — in triumph at what they had just done — wasp slain and native captured. The only word she recognized at all was ‘Randor’ repeated a few times.
‘Randor’, she puzzled. Why would she recognize that? She frowned at the distraction, grateful that it gave her a momentary respite from dwelling on her plight.
Yes, that was it. Maurice’s message. What Randor had told him about the brothers. An interesting tidbit about a strange culture, but nothing of consequence.
Her tiny and weak body, Dinton had said. It was so unfair. But she could not deny it. She could no longer stand. In the end, it was her body betraying her, betraying her when she needed it the most.
Her body! Another thought formed. What was it Ashely had said? ‘If we are ever going to be judged the equals of men, it will because we used our wits rather than our bodies.’
Yes! Not our bodies, but our wits!
Like a rock climber looking for an elusive handhold, her mind caromed through all that had happened to her while here on Earth and Maurice on the alien’s orb.
Rubbish, irrelevant, of no use… Wait! What had Randor said about the three brothers? Yes! One last hope!
“You are the one named Angus, right?” Briana pointed at him. “The one your sibling calls the youngest?”
“Yes, yes. He takes every opportunity to remind me,” Angus replied.
“But why do you allow that?” Briana asked. “Randor says it is the other way around. You are the elder and Dinton the youngest of all.”
“What? Randor? What do you know of Randor?” Angus asked.
“A tribunal on your home world. One of three.”
Angus squinted at Briana for a moment before speaking again. “How do you know these things about Randor? Why did he speak so?”
“He said you were triplets. That you, Angus, came out of the womb the first. Then Thaling and finally Dinton, here. But as you grew, your father came not to trust how you would rule when he was to pass.
“Passion and fury were everyone’s lot — flaws in the character of your species, but for you, it was more extreme than most. So he told everyone Dinton was the first — the most introspective, the most deliberate of you three, the most like himself, the one most likely to ensure your flock survived.”
Angus snarled. He reverted to his native speech. “Did you know of this, brother?” he challenged. “Is it true?”
Dinton did not immediately answer.
“Angus, how does that make you feel?” Briana interjected into the silence. “How long has it been for you without
your birthright? A thousand years, right?”
“It was for the best, Angus.” Dinton hurried to say. “Your temper would have lead our flock into continual perils. All of us would have perished long ago.”
“Did you know of this? Is it true?”
Again, Dinton did not speak.
“Is it true?”
Dinton looked at the glare in Angus’ eyes for a moment. “Yes, our father told me when I was old enough to understand the reason,” he finally said. “But, but, I have not been autocratic. I was the one who suggested the idea of the periodic game to decide who next was to wear the baton. You had a chance at ruling, at maturing, as did Thaling, too.”
“Games! Games that you won almost every time. Stupid contests so you could demonstrate over and over your superiority. The implicit message that you were the only one worthy to command. The prohibition against using magic. To work for our release.”
“It was not so easy, brother,” Dinton shouted back. “Holding you in check for a thousand years took a great deal of effort. The threat of the Faithful finding out we were performing the crafts was too great a risk.”
“Yes, a thousand years! A thousand years of trying to keep my urges under control, for enduring the humiliation of your petty little victories. For… for enduring the shame of being sentenced to the pit of the wasps.”
“If you ruled, it would have been disaster! “
“Worse than that. Dinton. It is a disaster! Ill-prepared, poor Thaling has returned home, to a doom you were unable to prevent. You are pathetic, Dinton. A failure. A disgrace.”
“I still wear the baton,” Dinton snarled back. He waved his dagger in Angus’ face. “Do not speak to me that way ever again.”
Angus threatened with his blade as well. “Worse than a failure,” he spat. “Too paralyzed by doubt to act. You are a coward!”
“Immature youngster,” Dinton shot back.
“Weakling!”
“Child!”
“Mouse!”
“Infant!”
The two circled each other for a moment, and then Angus struck out at his brother. Dinton blocked with his free arm and tried to slice into Angus’ gut. Angus twirled to the side.
Dinton attacked again, this time with a fake to the face and then a thrust downwards towards the chest. Angus took a half step back, then suddenly reversed himself and thrust at his brother again.
For several minutes they dueled, the flash of their blades almost too fast for Briana to follow. A stab towards the gut. A slash at a wrist before it fully withdrew. A spin to the side.
Then Dinton sucked in his breath and hesitated rather than trying to pursue a momentary opening. He was beginning to tire. The younger in chronological age, but the one who donned the ring of eternal youth the later of the two.
Angus seized the advantage. He flung his free arm across and under Dinton’s lunge, sending the blade upward and out of the way. Then, in the blink of an eye, he plunged his own dagger into his brother’s chest, a fountain of blood exploding when he withdrew.
Dinton sagged to his knees, disbelief etched into his face. Rings of eternal youth halted the natural aging process but did nothing to stop a violent attack. Angus bent forward, thrusting a gloating face into that of his brother.
“Now, who is the most worthy to wear the baton?” he crowed as he reached to Dinton’s belt to start untying its constraints.
Dinton tried to speak, but could not. With a dying effort he plunged his own dagger into Angus’ gut, and then collapsed, dropping his blade to the ground.
Angus swiped he hand across his stomach and then looked at his palm coated in red. His eyes widened as he saw Briana collapsed at this feet. He staggered a step or two towards her, and then grinned in apparent triumph.
“Imsoarion,” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
Briana recognized the word as it echoed against the cavern walls — the first of the last three that would break the incantation and cause Etna and Kilauea to erupt. She struggled to pull herself up off of the floor as much as she could.
“Transminator,” Angus yelled, although this time not quite as loud as before. He fell to his knees in front of her, one hand pressing against the blood oozing between his fingers.
Briana looked about desperately and saw Dinton’s dagger lying in front of her.
Angus paused for a moment to savor what he was doing and then started to speak the final word. As he opened his mouth, Briana lunged for the dagger and grabbed it. She hurled herself at the alien. With both hands, she thrust it into his mouth and up into his brain.
Three Scoops
BRIANA HAD been wandering the streets of old Hilo for hours. The sun was hot. She needed to stop. There was still much to do, but at least the most important things had been taken care of.
She had spoken aloud the counterspell soon after Angus and Dinton had hit the ground, and after taking care of Fig and Ashley, had checked with the gas monitor at Kilauea. The counter-incantation had worked. The accumulated energy was gradually ebbing. SF6 levels were going down.
Fig was recovering. When she had glanced at him in Oscar’s hut, she had seen the dance of the thousands of little lights clustering around his wound. The micromites were forming a clot by bridging together their tiny bodies. Most drowned in Fig’s blood as it pulsed around them, but they had slowed the flow enough that, when she returned, he was still alive and able to be rushed to a hospital.
He was still there but would be released sooner than Ashley. Even though she no longer complained about a voice in her head, she was unable to shake the horror of her mental trauma. Drugs, shock treatments, and talking sessions, the psychiatrists had said, and she would recover. Although, Briana could tell, they were not sure when.
Maurice was lost forever, somewhere on another planet, who knew how far away. But then, the world he sought was an internal one. His struggle was to make the external no longer relevant. Perhaps he would achieve Nirvana no matter where he was.
And then there was Jake. In the end, he proved himself. Maybe he really did care for her. What would have been different had she chosen to stay with him rather than flee? She would never know. But judging from the way the women were fighting for his attention after the battle, he would be satisfied with his fate.
Jake would not know what became of her either. Nor would her father. Yes, the Archimage might be proud of what she had striven for, but the closure would be unknown forever.
Tears began to well up in her eyes. When she and her father had parted, it had not been on the best of terms. If she were to do this over again, she would have given him a hug and whispered in his ear that she would always love him.
A bus screeched to a stop at the curb beside her and then almost instantly roared off again, the foul smell of diesel poisoning the air. So unlike Murdina, she shook her head. Most of this orb had no soul. All noise and flashing lights. All hurry from one event to the next.
On Murdina, there was time to lounge in the green hills of spring, smell the newly sprouted flowers and the cool, pure air. Time to be the doting auntie to newborn nieces and nephews. To fend off her sisters’ playful teasing when they were tired of waiting, about which of them would be her matron of honor.
Of course, eventually, she would want a life-companion and children of her own. Most ideal would be a mix of the few men she did know. Some of Jake’s roaring lustiness mixed with Fig’s unconditional love. And a dash of Maurice’s calm demeanor and wisdom thrown in as well.
The tears swelled. The cool green hills of Murdina. She never would see them again. She surrendered to the surge of sadness that crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her home, those she loved, almost all of her entire life — gone and lost forever.
Passersby stared at her while she stood sobbing, but not stopping to offer aid. For how long she continued this way, Briana could not tell. Finally, savagely, she tore her thoughts away from the sadness. The hero’s sacrifice was complete. It was over and done. There were
other things to ponder now.
The sudden appearance of electronic drones and motorcycles would not be of much consequence on Murdina after all, she decided. Batteries eventually would no longer work. The gasoline all consumed. Yes, the thaumaturges and alchemists would study these things, but it would take years, decades, maybe even centuries before they would have any practical impact on the way of life.
The culture of Murdina was resilient to such sudden changes. So unlike the brittleness here on Earth, the fragility of this civilization.
One might think the instant communication, knowledge of the working of atoms, and the harnessing of energy meant its technology was superior. Yes, a good idea could be implemented worldwide in seconds, but then so could one that was bad. A sole visitor from another planet, single handedly, had almost brought an end to everything.
Millennia ago, when the seekers of knowledge on this orb came to the crossroads for which paths to take — thaumaturgy or physics, alchemy or chemistry, magic or mathematics, irrevocable choices were made. Now, it would not be easy to mix the discoveries along the road not taken without shattering consequences.
This planet needed protection, a guardian to ensure the use of the arcane did not destroy what was already here. The tiger wasps must be disposed of. The entrance to the caverns of the Heretics sealed. Emmertyn persuaded to stop using his trances to take unfair advantage in the stock market, Iggy to give up dispensing alchemical potions of great power. The little sprites, the ones who survived, to restore the data at CERN to its original condition.
Ah, the imps. This place was absolutely infested with them! Micromites, hoseherders, hairjumblers, rockbubblers… They could not be eliminated, but maybe controlled to do no major harm.
Prevention and control. Perhaps, ultimately, that is what she was meant to do. She had the familiarity with all five of the crafts. She could spot their use before anyone else. Her thoughts rumbled about, but eventually came to a solid conclusion. It felt right. Yes, the guardian. After everything that had happened, that was to be her own destiny.
Fig would help, of course. Ashley, too, once she was better. And Ursula would be an excellent administrator at a home base somewhere.