Valour and Victory

by Candy Rae

  The yard was as deserted as the kitchen had been. With rising panic, Xavier ran to the stables. No horses munched in the stalls. His own horse was also gone.

  By now Xavier was prickling with unease and more. He ran out of the stable.

  Standing in front of him was the farmer, armed with a sharp looking pitchfork. Beside him stood his wife and she was holding what Xavier, to his horror, recognised as a gelding-knife. He heard the sounds of footsteps behind and whipped his body round. It was the two sons of the farmer and both were holding a sharp-looking scythe.

  They marched him out of the yard and into a nearby field. There he was forced to dig a hole six feet in length, three feet wide and four feet deep.

  Xavier began to blubber, he pleaded for his life. He told the farmer and his sons that they could have all of his coin if they would let him go.

  The three said nothing, encouraging him with their fists to keep digging.

  “Drop the spade,” ordered one of the sons at last.

  Xavier fell to his knees, begging for clemency.

  They ignored him.

  He tried another tack.

  “I am Prince-Duke Xavier. It is your duty to obey me.”

  They laughed.

  “You are an evil man. You do not deserve to live,” said the farmer and nodded to his sons.

  They grabbed him and staked him to the ground beside the grave hole.

  They castrated him, laughing at his high-pitched screams.

  They walked away.

  Xavier bled to death.

  When it was over, the three men returned, untied his lifeless hands and kicked his body into the grave. It tumbled in face down. They filled the grave in, patting down the mud until it was level.

  They walked away again.

  * * * * *

  The Guildmaster

  “Is it working?” asked Jhonas in excitement. It was three days since the Boton had arrived, carried by a young boy called Hans riding the longest legged Lind Guildmaster Annert had ever seen.

  It had taken time to disconnect the crystal and to work out how it could be connected to the prototype power-core. They had been very careful not to damage the connector leads and had made an adaptor.

  Now both crystal and prototype sat in the sunny garden that lay behind the Guildhouse and Jhonas was staring at the dial so he would be the first to detect any flicker of movement.

  “Nothing,” wailed Jeannie, looking over his shoulder.

  “But the crystal is charging, look at it!” shouted Annert in triumph. “It’s just not transferring the energy it is accumulating to the prototype yet.”

  “I think it is, a very little bit,” said Jhonas, “but it’s too little to have any effect on the coils inside the core.”

  Professor Angus the Theorist sauntered over to the group. “Probably because the metal you used to make the coils in your prototype are not the same as in the original. Trust me, my calculations are correct, with the real power-core the crystal will transfer its energy and keep on doing so until it reaches the critical level. It will blow because it cannot take any more. I’ve checked and rechecked the calculations. What did you use to make the coils?”

  “Copper,” answered Jeannie.

  “That’s why,” the Professor answered, “I don’t know what metal our ancestors used but it was certainly not copper. It doesn’t have the strength or the capacity for the amount of energy the core needs.”

  “We can’t just send it off just because we think it will work,” protested Jhonas.

  “Do you have a choice?” asked the Professor.

  “None at all,” confirmed Annert.

  “Look,” began Professor Angus. “The original power-core will accept energy, any energy. The crystal is the source and we have the leads and adaptor.”

  “It fits perfectly on the prototype,” agreed Jhonas.

  The Professor ignored him, “which was built to the exact specifications except for the coils themselves. We don’t know what metal it should be. The print-outs didn’t say because they did not need to. Our ancestors knew what to use without being told. We’ve tried copper, iron, and silver, even gold. We cannot test it so you must trust me. Mathematics and logic do not lie.”

  “You may be a cantankerous old bastard but I think you’re right,” said Annert with a sigh.

  “Thanks a lot,” said Angus, pretending annoyance although secretly he was very pleased.

  “You have never, for as long as I have known you and that is a long time, been wrong regarding something important. The little things, like putting a pan of milk on to boil, that you are not good at,” Annert continued with an arch look, thinking about the resultant mess in the kitchen the one time Angus had volunteered to make the evening kala. Miggi, Annert’s maid for more years than he cared to think had almost given notice over it. Jeannie and Jhonas had cleaned the mess up (the milk had been dripping from walls and ceiling) while Miggi had retreated to her room in high dudgeon.

  “I am a genius,” declared Professor Angus.

  Annert laughed.

  “I trust you even though others may doubt. Now, we must package up the crystal and the adaptor.”

  “And the leads,” added Jhonas, “and the spare leads. We don’t know if the original leads were buried with the power-core and even if they were they will have degraded.”

  “I’ll write out the first draft of the instructions,” offered Jeannie.

  “Make it simple,” advised Angus, “they are in very dangerous country. Tala might not make it through to the core site. One of the others might have to do it.”

  “We will,” promised Annert, “but I’m sure she’s still alive. Tala Talansdochter is one of the most determined people I have ever met.”

  “I think I’ll add some spare wire to the pack,” said Jhonas, half to himself, “might come in useful.”

  * * * * *

  Hilla

  It took the army over a tenday to travel from the staging area to the ridge. The army marched through a country deserted by its inhabitants. Crops grew untended in the fields and herds of grazing cattle watched them pass from large astonished eyes.

  The members of the commissariat were gathering in these beasts. Feeding an army this size took a lot of provender and fresh meat was a welcome addition to the army’s diet, especially for the Lind.

  On the northern continent, cattle consisted of the native species, kura, zarova and jedzic. Here in the south, especially in the northerly duchies, the cattle were descendants of the animals who had arrived on the Electra, sheep replacing kura, cows replacing zarova and oxen replacing jedzic.

  There was also an abundance of pigs that were only now, after six hundred years, beginning to make inroads into the northern continent. Although the Lind found the meat tasty, it was found that pig meat upset their stomach inducing attacks of diarrhoea and tummy pains.

  The Commissariat had been instructed to ensure that nolind received any pig meat as part of his or her daily ration. The human soldiery were finding that gammon and bacon were being served to them in ever increasing amounts. All of a sudden vegetarian stews had become very popular. There was a limit to how much pig meat one could eat and enjoy.

  Wagons full of supplies accompanied the army as it marched, an endless train departing full and returning empty except for the refugees.

  With the other Garda Officer Trainees Hilla Talansdochter marched and marched some more. The Academie Battalion was a small one but it had a reputation to uphold. The Academie trained the officers who led the battalions. Even the Militia officers attended courses at Settlement. Many of the Militia were time-served members of the Garda.

  “Oof, it’s hot,” grumbled Hilla to Jen Durand who was her file partner. “Hope there’s a rest stop soon.”

  “Shouldn’t be long,” Jen replied, “but Villy said Major Bellahouston wanted to reach the assembly point before it gets dark so he was going to pick up the pace.”

  “Villy?”

  “Leften
ant Villiers then,” said Jen, referring to their own officer who commanded the Senior Staticum, the second and therefore senior year Officer Trainees. “Honestly, the man takes himself so seriously I just had to think up a nickname.”

  “Don’t let him hear you,” Hilla warned, “he’s sure to take exception.” Leftenant Villiers was not noted for his sense of humour.

  “People that can’t take a joke on themselves represent a sad facet of humanity,” retorted Jen. “I’m sure it’s a sign of inner insecurity and he is boringness personified too. I wish Robain was still our officer. You knew where you stood with him, he could laugh with us and it didn’t affect his authority one whit.”

  “Leftenant Villiers is another kettle of fish,” agreed Hilla, trying not to think of the missing Robain.

  The two girls marched on in companionable silence.

  They reached the reserve lines behind the ridge as dusk was falling. All the Trainees were tired, footsore and very thirsty.

  First they were directed to the cook tents. There they ate with gusto large portions of army stew from their mess tins and drank their fill of mugs of kala. Only the very rich could afford tea. Tea was only be grown in a small area in the southern continent where climate and conditions were right. Jen, from an old and wealthy Argyllian family, had tasted it a few times, Hilla never.

  The Trainees marched off to the section of the camp assigned to them and made haste to erect their tents, delivered by wagon earlier, twelve to a tent. It did make for a bit of squash (they were designed to take eight) especially when arms and equipment was added.

  Hilla grimaced as she surveyed the small space that was hers.

  She had just finished arranging her belongings when Leftenant Villiers popped his head inside the tent. “Settle in and be quick about it. You know where the latrines are?”

  The twelve assured him that they did.

  “Early bed,” he added in a no nonsense voice. “Durand and Talansdochter, you’ve got first watch.”

  Hilla groaned.

  She and Jen had optimistically thought that for this first night at least they would be watch-free. All Hilla wanted was to lie down and rest her weary legs. With a sigh she bent down, picked up her helm, sword and shield.

  “Yes sir,” she replied, straightening up.

  “Where do we report?” asked Jen.

  “Large brown tent in the middle of this section,” answered Leftenant Villiers. “You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the big blue flag on top. This is the blue section of the camp. Warrant Officer Taplin is duty N.C.O. He’ll tell you what to do. Rest of you settle down and get some kip. You’ll be woken if you’re on watch. Hurry up you two, he’s waiting.”

  With a last wistful look at her empty sleep bag, Hilla followed Jen past the Leftenant and out of the tent.

  * * * * *

  Rilla

  Susyc Julia and her Alyei had spent many a long bell discussing with her commanders how best to organise the army. She knew that she would need to arrange for ‘a defence in depth’ along the entire length of the ridge, making optimum use of the different types and abilities of her troops, catering for their strengths and weaknesses and taking account of the experience of each, many of whom had never worked with any but their own kind before.

  There was also the language problem. Most of the Lind (and the more so the further west their rtathlians were situated) did not speak or understand any tongue but their own.

  Jim Cranston, the very first human Susyc, had encountered the same problem and in his day had solved it by allocating each Lindar a young vadeln-pair from the embryo Vada. His solution had worked well and since then each Susa of the Vada had incorporated this into his or her battle-plan.

  Julia had decided to do the same, with one change. Every Lindar, even the large Lindars from the other continent and the vicious-looking Avuzdel Lindar were allocated not one but two cadet duos, one junior and one senior, to manage the telepathic web-link between them and the command post. Other cadet vadeln-pairs were allocated to other command units along the ridge.

  Rilla and Zawlei, to the former’s consternation, were assigned to the section of the ridge under the command of the Duke of Duchesne. She would have much rather been given a placement with one of the northern segments. Shona and Danei had been given the Seventh Garda Foot and Toinette and Wlei had departed to take up their post with the Stewarton Militia with unconcealed glee.

  But orders were orders so Rilla packed up her kit and set off along the ridge to the right wing where the Duchesne levies were camped.

  She and Zawlei weaved their way though the straggling encampment, past the ordered tent-lines of the Garda then through the not so well ordered lines that belonged to the various Militias.

  They passed through the indefinite boundary that marked the final tent of the last Militia battalion and entered the part of the ridge allocated to the Duke of Duchesne. Rilla and Zawlei spotted the difference at once and one of these differences was the feeling of being watched. As Zawlei threaded his way through the men looked up and stared. A few called out a greeting but most stood in wary silence.

  What struck Rilla was that virtually none of the men (try as she might she espied no women that first day) were dressed alike. These were farmers and townsfolk, trained in arms but had neither a uniform nor felt the need for one. Their fighting leathers were of no set type and some looked to be of ancient design and make.

  : They wear what is comfortable : Zawlei mentioned, aware as always of what Rilla was thinking : it all helps :

  Rilla felt very self-conscious dressed in the standard battledress and armour of the Vada, with the silver Lind head on her breast and the three white Cadet year-stripes on her sleeve. As she rode she could hear low-voiced southern-drawling conversation behind her as the southerners made free with their comments not realising that Rilla had very sharp hearing and what she couldn’t make out Zawlei certainly could. He passed on all the nice comments and kept the not so nice ones to himself.

  “It’s a girl!”

  “Little slip of a thing.”

  “Do you think she knows how to use that sword she carries?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. Must be for show.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you.”

  An embarrassed Rilla tried her best to ignore them.

  At last they reached the bizarrely decorated tent Weaponsmaster Jilmis had described (in lurid detail) to her as the Duke’s headquarters when he had informed the dismayed Rilla of her assignment.

  Rilla took a deep breath. She knew she was expected and right enough she spied the person who must be the one detailed to wait for her. He waved and beckoned her and Zawlei over. He had been briefed. He welcomed them by name.

  “Cadets Rilla and Zawlei?” he said, “we’ve been expecting you this last candle-mark.”

  “We were delayed,” Rilla apologised. She dismounted with the ease of one ‘born in the saddle’ and the young man grinned in appreciation. The heir to the Duchy of Duchesne knew skill when he saw it. He was twenty-eight, married to a cousin of the late Crown-Prince Paul and had four children and another on the way.

  : He looks a most capable person : telepathed Rilla to Zawlei.

  : He has a nice face : he agreed.

  : Strong, rather than handsome :

  The younger William had been his father’s choice to greet their ‘communications link’.

  “They’re sending us a girl,” the Duke had told him. “I still can’t get used to the idea of women fighters, doesn’t seem natural somehow. Whole Vada seems to be filled with them and some are quite pretty. You greet her and bring her in to me soon as she arrives. The earlier she gets used to the way we work the better. Her Lind comes in too. He’s the one who does the actual transferring of messages. Got her accommodation ready?”

  “Yes Father. I’ve set up a tent next to yours.”

  “Good, she’ll be safer close by not that I think any of the men will try anything. The
se giant Lind of theirs are sure to deter all but the most ardent but let’s not take any chances. I don’t want any incidents.”

  “I’m Duke-Heir William,” the young man introduced himself. “If you, Cadet Rilla and you, Cadet Zawlei will come this way? My father wishes to meet you.”

  “Rilla and Zawlei will do fine,” said Rilla as they followed the young noble into the tent. Zawlei had to duck his head as he passed through the opening.

  The Duke was standing round a map table in the centre of the tent with some other men as Rilla and Zawlei came to a halt inside.

  He raised his head and looked at them, a penetrating look but he must have liked what he saw because his face broke into one of his rare smiles although he didn’t waste any time on a superfluous welcomes.

  “Rilla and Zawlei Father,” said his son.

  Rilla stepped forward. “Cadets Rilla and Zawlei reporting for duty My Lord Duke,” she said, coming to attention. The Vada did not salute.

  “About time,” he growled. “Expected you a candle-mark ago.”

  “I came immediately I was informed of my assignment,” said Rilla, refusing to be intimidated and she recognised the approving glint in the Duke’s eye for what it was. One or two of the men around the Duke gasped.

  A Duke was an all-powerful person within his own demesne and they were amazed at the temerity of her reply; that a young woman could stand up for herself in this way was as unexpected as it was unusual.

  “Come over here,” Duke William ordered.

  Rilla took up the indicated position. Zawlei took up position beside her, to where the Duke’s vassals had vacated a very large space.

  Rilla barely came up to his shoulder though Zawlei’s head was on more of a level with the Duke’s.

  “Now,” began Duke William, stabbing at the map with his forefinger, believing he would need to explain the intricacies of a military map board to the girl. “This is our section of the ridge.” He stabbed again, “this is us.”