Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  “I can imagine,” Solan said. “I’m sure your liquid computer contains all sorts of secrets the Dahl would rather keep hidden. I wouldn’t mind getting a crack at it myself, actually.”

  “But you never will, Solan,” the Abbot growled. “You’ll never set foot in my Monastery!”

  Solan’s grin became tighter.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said. “But having you come to me like this makes it all worthwhile.”

  The Abbot snorted and turned to leave.

  “Until next time,” Solan called after him, watching the monk’s robes flow away down the hall.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hearing his sister’s voice again made Pol realize just how much he had missed her. The giant didn’t know how the device worked, but he didn’t care. Like a lantern made from concentric disks of crystal, it glowed brighter as Pol grew nearer and filled the air with Cas’ singing. Whatever it was, Pol was grateful and carried it back with him to the cavern that he and his sister called home.

  Next to the fire, the relic reflected the flames in its glass-like structure, the light dancing on the walls of the cave. Pol spent many nights staring into the shimmering brightness, remembering the times his family had spent in front of the fire, sharing the music together. Although Pol was alone, his sister still in a comatose state, this was the closest he could get to the way things had been before he lost it all.

  Years passed, and Pol survived day to day by hunting and living off whatever scraps the land would provide. Getting older, he was no longer as bold as he had been in his youth. His fights with the Pellions became rarer, perhaps because a new group had appeared and drove the old enemy away. Pol hunted these new creatures too. They had hooves like the Pellions, but horns instead of antlers, and made strange bleating noises when they died. Even so, the giant kept his distance most of the time, preferring to attack only occasionally.

  Wrapped in pelts, Pol kept to the cavern at night and rested his tired bones by the campfire. He still had his sister’s singing to keep him company, but even so, the loneliness of constant solitude wore at his spirit.

  On one of the days Pol was out hunting, a storm erupted across the steppes, soaking the giant in the cold rain. He was looking forward to getting back to the cavern when he nearly stumbled over a body sprawled beside a swollen creek. Pol stopped and knelt next to the creature. Covered in mud, it appeared drowned at first but after Pol gave it a firm nudge, the body made a gasping wheeze like a bladder leaking air. Out of curiosity, the giant threw the sack of flesh and bones over his shoulder and brought it home so he could get a better look at it.

  In the firelight, Pol realized it was one of the off-worlders that sometimes made the mistake of coming too close. Normally, Pol would simply give it a good clubbing, but he paused. They made for poor eating, and this one was especially scrawny, but that wasn’t the reason. The giant felt a certain pity for this one, like a bird with a broken wing. He didn’t have the heart to kill it, let alone cook it over the fire.

  Pol made up his mind to keep it. He had always wanted a pet.

  Devlin Maycare’s shirt was ruined and he wasn’t happy about it. Of course, he had dozens of linen shirts made for him by a tailor in Regalis, but the circumstances of losing this one were particularly galling.

  Maycare and Jessica Doric had gotten separated from the rest of their party. Normally, this would have been another opportunity for Maycare to look heroic in the presence of the professor, but the rain and the battle around them made this prospect difficult, not to mention hazardous. He had no doubt that everything would work out, as it always did for him. However, the sheer number of Beastmen appearing from the mist posed several obstacles, one of which being death.

  Taking a spear from a fallen Pellion, Maycare parried the first Feran, striking him squarely below the chin with a satisfying crack. The second Feran was less eager, preferring to deflect Maycare’s thrusts before dying at the end of the spear anyway. Doric picked up a sword, but her lack of military training put her at a disadvantage. Maycare, while attending classes at Westford, had learned a great deal about fencing and general hand-to-hand combat.

  Maycare made a mental note to have Benson remind him to enroll Jess in a few courses. It was painful to see her hold a sword like that. Just painful.

  Another warrior appeared and interrupted Maycare’s thought. The Beastman’s dagger ripped a gaping tear across Devlin’s linen shirt.

  “Blast it!” Maycare said and knocked the Feran unconscious with the butt of his spear.

  “Are you alright?” Doric asked.

  Maycare examined the rip, threads dangling loosely around the tattered edges. Also, he was bleeding.

  “Now I look ridiculous!” he huffed.

  Doric, her own wet hair hanging past her shoulders, shook her head. “You were already soaked.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing, Jess! I have standards to keep, you know...”

  “Let’s worry about finding Henry and the others,” she replied.

  “Fine...”

  For the next hour, the two meandered through the rain and mud, hoping to discover those they had lost. Maycare had almost reached the point of doubting himself when the ragged flashes of light ahead created a beacon they could follow. When they arrived at the source, they found a Feran holding an electrified mace over Sir Golan, lying in the grass.

  “Stop!” Maycare shouted.

  The Feran warrior halted, his weapon hanging above Sir Golan’s body.

  “Who the hell are you?” the Beastman yelled back.

  “Devlin Maycare!”

  “Who?”

  Maycare’s eyebrow rose in surprise. “Lord Devlin Maycare!”

  “Never heard of you,” the Feran said.

  Maycare glanced at Doric who merely shrugged.

  “Well, I’m very well-known actually!” he replied, a hint of defensiveness in his tone.

  Sir Golan, who had seemed unable to move, came to life and raised his sword, slashing the Beastman in the abdomen. The Feran leaped backwards, giving a scream of pain mixed with anger.

  The warrior, perhaps seeing himself now outnumbered, staggered off into the fog and disappeared.

  Against his better judgment, Henry Riff was not afraid. Of course, he had every reason to be. The two-headed giant who shared the cavern with him moved about tending to the fire and lumbering around the enclosed space. Henry, for his part, remained as perfectly still as possible on the off chance the creature had poor eyesight and simply hadn’t noticed him. At the same time, music filled Henry’s ears although he had no idea where it was coming from. The giant, the head that appeared awake at least, was definitely not singing. The other head, a female with tangled red hair like a nest that had fallen from a tree, looked as if she were sleeping.

  At some point, the giant took notice of Henry who was covered in drying mud and dirt. The creature poured water from an animal bladder onto a piece of torn cloth and crouched beside him, wiping the fabric roughly over his hair and face. Henry nearly fell over under the strain but tried not to resist. Even so, it occurred to him that this giant was simply cleaning his food for a later snack. The thought of being eaten frightened him, but he was not entirely surprised that he would end up this way. On the top ten list of ways he thought he’d die, Henry had predicted being someone’s dinner as number five.

  Now relatively bathed, Henry waited to see what was on the menu. Much to his relief, the giant brought him a length of bone covered in meat and motioned for him to eat it. Henry gladly gnawed at the leg, having not eaten in at least a day. The food was a bit gamy and tasted, as far as Henry could tell, a bit like what a horse would taste like. He decided not to consider this too deeply, preferring ignorance and a full belly.

  Meanwhile, the music ebbed and flowed. Sometimes someone was singing and sometimes simply humming. Other times, Henry was sure there were words, but he couldn’t understand them. The melodies were simple but pleasing, and Henry felt strangely at ease wh
ile listening.

  The rest of the cavern was cluttered with skins and furs and bits of bone. Cooking pottery sat around the central fire as well as crude utensils. As a whole, the place reminded Henry of his apartment back in Regalis.

  Among the mess of miscellanea, one object caught Henry’s eye. Atop a pile of stones, almost like an altar, something like a crystal lantern glowed with a dim yellow light. Henry wondered if the giant had made it but decided against it. The shape and construction were unlike anything else in the cavern. Henry tried taking a closer look, but as he drew nearer, the giant flung a jawbone from across the cave, striking Henry in the head.

  “Ouch!” Henry yelped and went back to his original spot.

  Neither Henry nor the giant spoke the same language, but they were beginning to understand each other.

  After stumbling through the battlefield with Lord Maycare, Jessica Doric felt a deep relief at seeing the two robots, Benson and Squire, and the green knight. Squire had a large dent where the Feran warrior had bashed him in the head, but Benson, who seemed largely intact, helped him stand. With the Beastman gone, Sir Golan got to his feet by himself.

  “Are you hurt?” Doric asked the knight.

  “I’m alright,” he replied, but unconvincingly.

  Hands on his hips, Maycare puffed out his chest. “Well, at least we’re all back together again!”

  “What about Henry?” Doric said incredulously.

  With a quizzical look, Maycare glanced to either side of where Doric was standing.

  “You mean he hasn’t been with us this whole time?” he asked.

  Doric waved her hands wildly. “Have you seen him recently?”

  “Well, no, come to think of it,” Maycare said.

  “You’re the worst!” Doric shouted.

  “That seems a bit unfair, Jess. I mean, Henry’s usually hanging around. I guess I just assumed...”

  “We need to find him,” she replied. “He’s out there somewhere all alone!”

  “Of course,” Maycare nodded gravely. “We’ll start looking for him immediately.”

  “We’ve been looking for him!”

  Dumbfounded, Maycare shrugged. “I thought we were looking for Benson.”

  “Thank you,” the butlerbot said.

  Sir Golan, steadying himself, sheathed his sword. “I’m going after that Feran, Horngore.”

  “Why ever for?” Benson asked. “It seems lucky you weren’t killed.”

  “He murdered the Pellion Herd Father, a friend of mine,” Sir Golan replied. “It’s only right that I avenge his death.”

  Squire tottered across the muddy ground toward his master. His left eye was blinking randomly.

  “I’m not sure that’s the best course of action, sir,” the robot said.

  “Why?” Sir Golan asked.

  “You swore you’d protect these people,” the robot went on “and now that we’re reunited, perhaps you should honor your pledge.”

  “If I don’t go after Horngore now, he may not pay for killing Batuhan.”

  “The Herd Father is already dead,” Squire replied and motioned at the group standing in the rain, “but they’re still living. Would you risk that to satisfy your vengeance?”

  “Actually, revenge feels pretty sweet,” Maycare remarked.

  Doric slapped him across the arm.

  “No, you’re right,” Sir Golan said. “Keeping my word is more important. I may cross paths with Horngore again someday, but only fate can decide that.”

  “You’re taking a robot’s advice?” Benson asked.

  “Certainly,” Sir Golan replied. “Squire’s always been my trustworthy adviser.”

  “Interesting,” the butlerbot said and gazed over at Maycare.

  “What?” Maycare asked.

  “Nothing,” Benson replied.

  Long before becoming a Herd Father himself, Qadan listened as a yearling to the stories of Batuhan, the leader he would one day replace. Batuhan was the legend who walked among them. He was the great warrior who had killed a giant single-handedly and frightened off her mutated cubs. All of the Pellions, even those from other herds, revered him and sought his counsel and wisdom.

  Qadan, too, looked in awe at the hero. He trained to become a warrior himself, and he emulated the Herd Father as much as he could, or at least the ideals that he projected as the head of their tribe. Perhaps it was his own growing abilities that made Qadan begin to question Batuhan’s. With an eye of a warrior, he could recognize the failings of the now much older veteran. Batuhan spent more time in a tent drinking wine than out on the steppes fighting their enemies. While Qadan and the younger warriors patrolled the prairie, Batuhan grew fat with the stories of his own greatness. He sought to reap the rewards of his youth, satisfied that he had earned the right to justify his luxurious life as Herd Father.

  It made Qadan sick.

  Now Batuhan was dead and Qadan was the new Herd Father, leading his people into war against the Ferans.

  In the heavy rain, Qadan wrapped his fingers tightly around the shaft of his spear. Metal plates adorned his shoulders and torso while stiff leather hung from his horse-like body.

  The battle had been chaotic. Many from both sides lay motionless in the grass and mud. Qadan found himself alone, but this did not concern him. He was ready for whatever emerged from the fog.

  Up ahead, a Feran with dark fur lumbered clumsily between the corpses. With one hand, he held his wound and with the other, a mace. Qadan recognized the weapon.

  “You!” he shouted at the Beastman who turned, reluctantly, to face him.

  “What do you want?” he replied.

  “You’re the one they call Horngore?”

  “You have the honor of my presence, yes!” the Feran said.

  Qadan came closer but kept his distance. “You killed the Herd Father of my tribe.”

  “Probably.”

  “I am the new Herd Father,” Qadan said.

  “Congratulations.”

  “My people have lived on these plains for centuries, yet you thought you could drive us away?”

  “I don’t give a damn how long you’ve have been here!” the Feran warrior spat. “We’re here now and we plan on staying.”

  Holding the mace in both hands, Horngore twirled it like a pinwheel, the electrical arcs forming a circle of dancing light.

  Qadan, unimpressed, charged with his spear leading the way. The Feran pivoted, allowing the Pellion to gallop by. Qadan made a wide circle, dodging between the bodies like an agile colt as his armor clanked together with each stride. Lining up for another assault, he aimed the tip of the spear at the center of Horngore’s chest.

  With a shout, Qadan bounded forward but again the Feran sidestepped. This time, with a great upward motion, Horngore swung his mace, the head meeting the spear along its shaft, smashing it to splinters. Qadan’s front legs bent beneath him, sending him rolling head over tail across the muddy grass. When the Pellion regained his footing, he was holding nothing more than a shattered length of wood. Between him and Horngore, the rest of the spear was stuck into the ground.

  The two warriors moved simultaneously, both dashing toward the spear: one to arm himself and the other to deny it.

  With two extra legs, Qadan reached the spear first, but only just in time to parry a blow from Horngore’s mace.

  “The last Herd Father died by my hands,” the Feran snarled. “Now it’s your turn!”

  Horngore made two quick swings, but Qadan blocked each of them. The Centauri warrior also noticed blood pouring from his opponent’s wound.

  “Somebody’s gotten to you before me!” Qadan said, gasping for air.

  “Your green knight friend took a crack at me,” Horngore replied, eyeing the gash as well. “When I’ve healed properly, I’ll pay him another visit!”

  The Feran lifted the heavy mace once more but, perhaps feeling the weight after losing too much blood, hesitated and left an opening for the Pellion. Qadan thrust his shortened spear
, lodging the tip into Horngore’s chest. Gathering power in his rear haunches, he launched forward, driving the spear through to the other side.

  The Feran warrior, his mouth gaping, drew in a long breath, exhaling a long, tortured groan. The mace still in Horngore’s right hand fell dully to the ground, the energy sapped away into the wet earth.

  Qadan pulled the spear out, letting the dead Feran topple face-first.

  Snatching a hatchet from a dead Pellion, Qadan hacked at his prize until the head came loose. Jamming in the spear, he hoisted his trophy high above, the rain and blood mixing in the air before dripping across his flank. With his victory on full display, he trotted triumphantly back in the direction of his people’s camp.

  The storm broke with the coming of the dawn, the morning light falling through the clouds in a glow of orange and red. Sir Golan and the rest of the party trudged out of the mud and into a wide expanse of grass untouched by the battle from the night before. The stench of decay became less noticeable, the merciful wind having shifted.

  While Doric and Maycare, along with their butlerbot, remained several paces behind, the green knight and Squire took the lead. Although Sir Golan’s robot remained damaged, he tried his best to keep up.

  “Sorry to slow you down, Sir,” Squire said.

  “Not at all,” Sir Golan replied. “The others are far slower than you.”

  “I meant to thank you for saving us last night. That Feran warrior was a brute. He surely would’ve smashed me to bits if you hadn’t intervened.”

  “I only wish I could have finished him.”

  “You’re limping slightly,” Squire noted. “Are you injured?”

  Instinctively, Sir Golan quickened his stride. “I’m fine.”

  “Sure?”

  “That electrical mace of his...” the knight said. “It may have done some nerve damage.”

  The robot nodded, at which point his left eye dropped out of its socket, swinging loosely by a wire.

  “Good grief!” Sir Golan said.

  “What? Oh, sorry about that,” Squire replied, popping the eye back in. “I’ll be glad when we find this Henry fellow so we can return to civilization. We could both use some repair.”