by Candy Rae
Mother Breguswið prayed for the souls of her daughters in religion and that the Larg would be content with the slaughter of the occupants of the chapel and would leave the strong room alone. Her lips murmured, there was comfort in the ritual phrases.
She looked up with a wistful smile. How many times had she watched the sisters at their devotions, drinking in the piety and peace that was the Community. This was the last time.
To every sister she had offered a sleeping draught to spare them the agony ahead. Each and every one had refused, preferring to spend their last candle-mark in prayer and in quiet contemplation of the glory of the afterlife as promised in the scriptures.
Mother Breguswið closed her eyes and began to recite her final prayers.
In the strong room, the twelve little girls, the youngest postulants and Sisters Coenberg and Cynwise sat with Sister Earcongota in silence. That was not to say that the sisters were not praying, they were, but no sounds passed their lips.
Sister Earcongota looked over at Coenberg and Cynwise, remembering the day they had arrived at the convent, with their cousins Estelle and Isobel Cocteau. Was it only so few months ago that Isobel had returned for a visit, bringing with her little Jill who sat on the cushioned floor, her arms round one even younger than she?
Perhaps the Larg would not attack. There were other plantations and farmsteads nearby, perhaps they would be content with them? But Sister Earcongota knew in her heart of hearts that the Larg would not be able to resist.
Sister Earcongota prayed for courage. What if the Larg did enter the convent and found some way to penetrate the strong room? Everyone in Murdoch knew what the Larg were like. They enjoyed killing and it was not for them the quick kill of predator and prey. They tortured their victims, old stories were told of how one Larg would hold down their victim whilst another ripped them apart. It was even said that they would begin to eat the insides before the victims were dead.
Sister Earcongota came to a decision. She beckoned Sister Cynwise over and began to whisper in her ear. Cynwise nodded and tip-toed over to the shelf where earlier, on Mother Breguswið’s orders she had placed a jug of fruit juice and some glasses. The children would not know that it was not only fruit juice they were drinking. Into the juice Sister Earcongota had mixed six large measures of ungba, a soporific drug used by apothecaries to send their patients into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Moving among the girls Cynwise persuaded them all to take a drink. They were thirsty and drank eagerly. Cynwise partook of her own share then placed the half-empty jug back on the shelf.
“Can I have some more?” asked Jill after she had drunk her portion.
“Can I?” Sister Earcongota smiled.
“May I then? I’m very thirsty.”
“Best not at the moment,” the elderly nun answered, “we don’t know how long we’ll have to stay here.”
“If you drink too much,” said little Alfreda, snuggling into her favourite ‘big girl’, (she was only six), “you’ll need to go to the necessary.”
Jill had no wish to use the bucket that had been placed in the corner so she decided she didn’t want another drink after all.
Within a quarter-candle-mark all but Sister Earcongota were fast asleep on the cushions. Only then did the nun begin to murmur her prayers aloud, content in the knowledge that if the Larg did find them the children would feel no pain as they died.
From the strong room she heard the screams from the chapel when the Larg, having climbed over the convent walls, smelt out the nuns in the chapel and made all haste towards them. Breaking down the stained-glass chapel door with a crash, they began to enjoy themselves.
Sister Earcongota shut her eyes but she couldn’t block out the sounds. She began to pray faster, the words tumbling from her mouth.
The strong room door began to rattle. She listened with bated breath and heard rasping voices as the Larg discussed how best to break it down. Sister Earcongota prayed that it was too strong, even for them.
Then, with a sudden abruptness, the ceiling above her caved in with a crash of lathe and plaster. The Larg had found the access shaft to the attic space. Their weight alone was enough.
Sister Earcongota died at once as a heavy body plummeted down on top of her, her neck broken and did not witness the resulting carnage in the strong room.
* * * * *
The Lai
The highest mountains of the north-western continent where lived the Lai were high and snow-covered at their summits all year round. The lower slopes were tree-filled and lush, many a bubbling stream emerging from the rock-faces and descending, growing deeper and wider until they reached the plains where they joined together to make rivers. Along the river-banks was an oasis of plenitude - good grazing for the herds of kura, zarova and jezdic who browsed there, the only predators being the Lind whose rtathlian was on the continent and the golden-skinned Lai themselves.
Neither gtran nor wral lived in these mountains. No creature, however brave wanted to co-inhabit an area with large flying creatures who breathed fire and who could rip a jedzic apart with a single swipe of their claw-like hands.
The mood among the Lai was sombre. The Ammokko was coming and the Lai knew that soon, the Quorko would emerge from her holds and join in the battle.
The Lai could do little to help yet. They had to wait, hidden under the trees and in the caves. The Lind rtath who lived with the Lai had already gone to the war, four Lindars, totalling almost four thousand fighters. Velku knew they were approaching the Island Bridge, a welcome addition to Susyc Julia and Alyei’s army.
Only when the power-core was located and when the Guildmaster had found the means to adapt it would the Lai emerge from their hiding places and fly to the aid of the army.
The Technicians Guild were also making what Guildmaster Annert was calling ‘bombas’, barrels of inflammables that the Lai would be able to drop on their enemies. It had never been done before but Velku had hopes that these incendiaries might prove effective.
For that was to be the task of the Lai; to draw the Quorko away from the desert where all their hope lay, with the small group of four humans and four Lind who were desperately searching for the spot where six hundred and more years ago Peter Howard had buried the Electra’s power-core.
Velku settled himself outside his cave-daga, stretching out his golden-coppery wings so that the sun could warm his body and wondered how close both teams were to their goals.
* * * * *
The Guildmaster
“I’ve found them!” squealed Jeannie, “the pages about the power-core!”
The other three members of the team deciphering the print-outs raised their heads to look at her.
“At last, breathed Guildmaster Annert. “What does it say?”
“It’s the schismatic of the power-core,” said Jeannie in a triumphant voice.
“At last,” repeated Jhonas.
“Read it out,” Master Annert commanded.
“Is there a diagram?” asked Professor Angus.
“There is and a very detailed one,” answered Jeannie, scanning the information on the durapaper sheets in front of her. “Why, it’s not as large as we expected, about a yard long if that and only about six inches in diameter!”
“It’s a circle then?”
“It’s a rounded oblong,” she corrected him. “I suppose we should have expected it, it is called a power-core.”
“What does it say?” demanded the Professor, his fingers twitching to get hold of the pages himself.
“Tack it to the blackboard,” suggested Jhonas, “then we can all see.”
Jeannie did and the four brought their chairs round to face the board on which she was pinning the five precious pieces of paper.
“Look,” said Jeannie, pointing with one finger towards the detailed diagram on the second page, “that’s what is inside the outer core. What does it say? Looks like ‘polarity conductor’ whatever that means.”
“What are all tho
se wires for?” asked Jhonas, “and how could such a little thing power such a large spaceship?”
“I would imagine that the power-core was designed to harness power from elsewhere on the ship,” answered Professor Angus in his customary dry voice. “I’ve been reading about their solar sails and panels. The power-core would pull in whatever energy they gathered and convert it into the power our ancestors needed to work their engines.”
“A sort of battery?” hazarded Jhonas.
“Not precisely,” Master Annert entered into the discussion. “We’ve got batteries, simple ones I admit but they couldn’t generate enough power to work even one of the weaving looms.”
“It’s not electrical?” asked Jhonas.
“No, but the concept behind it could be similar. I wonder what these round bits are at the end?”
“They must be what connected the power-core to the wires that led to what they called the distribution display,” said Professor Angus who was reading the rest of the schismatic and its explanations.
“So energy from whatever source it was came in at one end of the core and then out the other, to this distribution display?” asked Jeannie who was following the Professor’s lead and was reading the rest of the document. “It doesn’t say it is dangerous,” she added in a disappointed voice.
“No,” admitted Master Annert, “but our ancestors knew that it could be otherwise Captain Howard wouldn’t have hidden it. We have to assume that it can be made dangerous.”
“How?”
“We don’t know yet,” Professor Angus interrupted. “That’s what we’re here for. It has been done, has to be done, can be done again. We’ve only got to work it out. Energy in one end, power out the other.”
“Only!” quipped Jeannie in an aside to Jhonas.
Professor Angus bestowed on her a reproachful look.
The four discussed and analysed the schismatic for some bells until at Midnight Bell Master Annert called a halt.
“We’re tired out,” he said. “We’ll get nowhere further tonight. I vote we get some sleep. I’m sure it’ll be clear in the morning. Miggi will have left us a cold supper.”
The face of Jhonas brightened, suddenly realising that he was ravenously hungry.
Professor Angus gave Master Annert a sour look.
By Noon Bell next day they were not much further on in their quest to solve the conundrum about how to turn the power-core into the weapon that would destroy the Dglai although their understanding of the internal mechanisms of the power-core was much improved.
It was over a light luncheon of cold meats, bread and pickles (Jhonas’s favourite) that they got their first breakthrough.
“What would happen,” asked Jeannie as she sat munching through her second plate, “if energy entered the power-core and could not get out again?”
“It would blow up,” hazarded Jhonas, “stands to reason, it would have to, energy needs somewhere to go.”
“Can you prove that?” she challenged and Jhonas looked crestfallen.
“No I can’t.”
“However,” said Professor Angus, “she might have got hold of something here.” His eyes were gleaming. He swept away the plates and glasses before him with scant regard for the tablecloth, pulled a pencil out from behind his ear and began to scribble whilst Jeannie tried to mop up the spills with her napkin.
Annert leaned over and peered at the complicated mathematical formulas and notations.
“And,” shouted Professor Angus at last, Jeannie had never seen him so excited. “I can prove it!”
“Theoretically,” said Master Annert.
“Mathematics does not lie,” asserted Professor Angus, this was an old argument. The Guildmaster was a practical man while the Professor was of more of a theorist. “If we gather enough energy into the power-core, once it has reached a critical level,” he stabbed a finger down in the middle of his calculations, “here, it will explode!”
“How big an explosion?” asked Annert.
“Colossal.”
“That’s it then,” the Guildmaster, “now all we have to do is to work out how we can get the energy into the core then blow it up. Any ideas anyone?”
“We build a test core,” said an excited Jhonas, “there must be a way.”
* * * * *
“We’ve tried everything,” sighed Jeannie six days later, eyeing the prototype with disfavour. “Nothing. We can’t get the energy level up to even the first measuring line on the dial. It’s hopeless.”
“We have no mechanisms on the planet that can gather in enough power,” agreed the despondent Jhonas.
“We have nothing, but fool that I am! Of course, why didn’t I think of it before?” Annert stood up and looked around the room. “Where is Angus?”
“Gone to get some sleep,” said Jeannie. “He was up all night and he’s not a young man.”
“Same age as me,” protested Annert, momentarily diverted, “give or take a few years.”
“I can go and wake him,” offered Jhonas.
“No matter,” said Annert, “now, as you said, we have nothing. We may not but the Dglai do.”
“So?” queried the mystified Jhonas.
“Don’t you see? The Dglai, they sent that, that, what was its name, yes, that Boton here. Where did it get its power? It worked for years. Where are the notes Niaill left us? He described it.”
After a frenzied search, Jeannie found the notes, buried under some discarded papers. The three read them and examined the sketches Niaill had made.
“There,” announced Annert, “there it is, imbedded at the top, Niall called it a crystal prism. That’s where it got its energy, from the sun - the crystal captures the sun’s rays and converts it into the power to run the Boton. We have to get this crystal, connect it to the prototype somehow and place it in the sun. Thank the lai it is summer.”
“If it works we might well blow ourselves up,” observed Jhonas.
“Nonsense, we’ll disconnect it before it reaches the critical point on the dial,” Annert answered. “We have to get the Boton here at once. Now, where are these two Lind that Inalei left with us?”
“To keep an eye on us,” said Jeannie.
“Jhonas, go get them, bring them here. They must send word west at once. Hurry now, there’s no time to lose!”
* * * * *
Isobel
A shocked Duke Pierre Cocteau heard the man out.
The Larg were coming. Curse Xavier and all his works.
He turned to his brother who had accompanied him to the gatehouse when the messenger arrived.
“Thank the gods we brought in the local families and livestock,” he said, “dammit, Xavier told me we were safe, I should have known better than to believe him. Get all the women and children into the tower. Men and boys on the walls.”
Mark Cocteau nodded. As he made his way through the crowds of people and animals he stopped and calling the Captain of the Cocteau Guard over gave him his brother’s instructions. He then went to hunt out his son-in-law, his daughter Tamsin’s husband, Kellen Charles Dubois.
Count Mark Cocteau knew that the Larg were intelligent, they could climb stairs and even open doors. The barred doors of the manor would be more of a challenge but not an insurmountable one. Mark realised that refuge with the rest of the family on the top étagère of the tower was not the answer.
Kellen Dubois came running and Mark Cocteau grabbed his arm. “We need to find a better hiding place than the tower,” he shouted over the tumult.
“What about the small wine cellar?” asked Charles Dubois. “Under the trapdoor. We can cover it with barrels.”
“Better yet,” said his father-in-law with a flash of inspiration, “the Larg rely on their sense of smell. Break some of my brother’s finest vintage port above the trapdoor and they’ll smell nothing underneath. Quickly now Charles, before it’s too late.”
Charles Dubois ran off and Mark made his way to the kitchens, passing some of the kitchen staff. T
hey were standing in a tight knot beside the fireplace.
“Help me,” Charles commanded, tugging at the trapdoor but they just watched him. It was one of the scullery-slaves who understood what he was trying to do and ran over.
“Bring food and water,” Charles told the boy as he wrestled with the bolt. It came free at last.
“Is tha’ a safe place,” the boy asked as he ran to do his bidding.
“As long as they are quiet as a covet scrabbling for crumbs.”
Mark Cocteau arrived back, bringing with him the pregnant Tamsin, the two children Charles and Tamsin (it was the custom in the Kingdom of Murdoch to name children after their parents), the widow of his older brother Henri and her daughter-in-law Jennifer.
“None of the others would come,” he said grimly. “Anne says Pierre has commanded them to the tower and there they were going to stay. They think that the Larg cannot climb the stairs.” He shook his head. “Foolish woman.”
Charles nodded. “Get some blankets,” he ordered the scullery-slave and the boy ran up the length of the kitchen to where the linen room was located. Charles began to throw bags of bread, cheese and fruit down the trap-stairs. The scullery-slave returned with the blankets which he gave to the women before, without being asked, went to fetch pitchers of water.