by Lou Hoffmann
After a while Lucky was feeling kind of beaten up, so he was all too happy to move on to daggers.
“The big difference here, Luccan. If you’ve got a dagger in your hand—or two—you might be in the fight because you need to defend yourself, but the only thing that weapon can do to defend you is hurt the person you’re fighting with. It’s good to know where you can cut without killing, if that’s your aim, but you can’t be afraid to draw blood. If you are, don’t pick up the knife.”
“Well… honestly I’d rather not.” As much as he tried not to, he thought of the Echo’s vision, of blood in the street, soldiers sliced open, children screaming. He thought of himself standing on the mountain, sword in hand.
“But can you if you have to?”
With effort he pushed away the unwanted thoughts and replaced them with the most practical thinking he could muster. “I think so. But I hope I won’t have to. I uh… know that might be kind of naive. I mean, are we going to have a war?”
“I don’t know, Luccan, though it’s looking more likely. Thurlock told me about what the being showed you last night—about the battles. It seems like prophecy, but that would mean those aliens have the gift of foretelling. It could very well be, and as a country, I think the Sunlands will have to look on it as such. But for you and me, for today, let’s agree that the creature just didn’t like our world much and had a very vivid imagination.”
Lucky returned Han’s sudden smile. “Agreed.”
They started in with the daggers, and as usual Lucky found all the dancing around that a knife fight required to be less bruising than hand-to-hand, but more tiring.
After a while Han called for a break. As they sat on the log to breathe and slake their thirst, Han said, “I’ve been thinking. You’ve got the Black Blade. She’s more than a dagger. I’ve taught you a few sword moves, but I can’t really teach you how to use her. After we rest for a few minutes, we’ll go through some sword practice before I need to get to my work for the day, but you need to spend some time with your weapon. She can teach you, I think.”
ALONE IN the little yard, Lucky started up a conversation with Ciarrah. “Can you, C? Can you show me how to fight with you?”
“Blade-keeper, of course I cannot teach you to fight. I’m a rock.”
“A very smart rock.”
“This cannot be denied. But a rock is not a teacher.”
Lucky said nothing in response. Sitting around arguing with an object made of stone seemed like the most ridiculous thing possible, even if the object did respond. He sat with Ciarrah, inspecting her carved hilt. The twelve-rayed sun had become such a familiar symbol, he’d begun taking it for granted, but it had meaning, he knew that, and for the first time he truly wondered what it meant. “Ciarrah, can you tell me about the twelve-rayed sun?”
“No, but if you’ll open my light, I can show you.”
“Oh. Uh… beam, then?”
The sharp ray of light beamed forth from her hilt, with a sharp-pitched ringing as accompaniment.
“Not like that,” she said.
“All right, then….” Lucky thought about what Han had said about her being a sword. He didn’t think the sword would be the light she meant, but if he could simply say “beam,” in his mind, and the ray sprouted from her handle, maybe he could just say… “Sword, Ciarrah.”
Instantly he held a sword in his hands, the like of which he’d never imagined. Her hilt was solid stone to look at, but had the feel of roughened leather, giving him a solid grip as he stood and experimentally moved through some practice positions and strokes. The guard gleamed black, three prongs curved perfectly to protect his hand and wrist, but then curled back in sharp points aimed toward an imaginary opponent. If they managed to slip past his blade, possibly they’d impale themselves there. The weapon was long and the blade wide—what Lucky thought of as hand-and-a-half size, judging from fantasy books he’d read in Earth where great warriors carried heavy broadswords and wielded them with muscles of steel. And the blade of the weapon Lucky now held looked like steel—or some kind of metal—yet if he looked closely he could see that it was made of Ciarrah’s light, and at the root of the blade, if he squinted and peered at just the right angle, he could see the stone that held its magic. Experimentally, he dragged a thumb over the edge ever so lightly. Pain followed instantly, but the skin had been cut so fine it didn’t bleed for nearly half a minute.
“You only needed to feed me blood once, Luccan Elieth. No more!”
He thought an apology to Ciarrah but went on inspecting his weapon. The most marvelous thing of all was her weight—or lack of it. As impressive as the size of the sword was, it weighed no more than the dagger-sized blade it emanated from.
Excited by the wonder of it, Lucky stood and began a slow dance through the moves Lem and Han had taught him, imagining an opponent, fighting off his attacks and felling him every time. Amazingly, none of his imaginings involved the horrors of the Terrathian’s vision; rather, he fought stormtroopers alongside Luke and Princess Leia, Orcs with Gimli and Legolas, and cursed pirates with Johnny Depp… or rather Captain Jack Sparrow. He played, and it felt good. He wove through the moves faster and faster, his sword strokes wild and hard, and soon he was spinning and leaping through a hero’s conquest, one evil opponent after another going down, until—
Oh crap.
He’d sliced right through the trunk of a smallish tree so cleanly that it wobbled for several parts of a long minute before it began to fall.
“Move, Luccan,” Ciarrah said calmly.
Lucky did, and he thanked Ciarrah for the advice, because if he had not stepped back, the tree would have fallen on him. He stood staring at what he’d done for some time, wondering if there was any way he could magically fix it. He’d probably only make matters worse.
“I’m not a toy, Blade-keeper.”
Which, of course, Lucky knew. What was I thinking? He hadn’t been thinking, that was the whole problem.
“Although I am happy you found a moment of joy.”
Lucky was winded from his wild pretend fights, and when he noticed it, he thought that at least he’d managed to get a feel for Ciarrah as a sword, so all was not lost. And he was hungry.
“I need to put you away, now, Ciarrah.”
“Just think of me as a knife, Luccan. I’ll change.”
She sounded a little annoyed, but he figured she’d get over it. Once he’d put her securely back in her sheath at his hip, he let any concern about it go. He briefly considered getting Ciarrah out again so she could show him the story he’d asked about before getting distracted by sword games. For the moment, though, he was more interested in food, so he walked back to the manor in search of lunch. If anybody asked about the tree, he’d tell them, but he didn’t plan to bring it up. And anyway, it’s good to know C can do that. He couldn’t think why he’d ever need the knowledge, but… well, you never know….
And then he smiled again, suddenly happy as he thought of the one person he would tell. The next time he saw Rio, he’d have a brand-new crazy story for him. When Maizie came bounding up to join him a moment later, he went down on one knee to hug her, running his hands through the soft fur around her neck and putting up with a bunch of sloppy kisses.
He knew better than to question his moments of happiness. Any time he could snatch a moment of “normal” in his unpredictable life—especially since he was convinced war was waiting for him around some hidden corner—the best thing to do was simply enjoy it.
Chapter Twenty-Four: Missions—Reconnaissance and Rescue
HAN HAD crossed paths with Thurlock as he walked across the green after leaving Lucky to practice on his own. Glad of the chance meeting because he wouldn’t have to spend time looking for the wizard, Han greeted his boss and asked if he was needed for anything.
“Nothing at the moment, Han. I’m just getting ready for a trip to Nedhra City and the university. I’ve been doing the scholarly thing, trying to find answers in history for w
hat’s going on now. I’ll pursue that there and… some other matters.”
They’d begun walking together, ambling across the lawn in the general direction that would take Thurlock to his tower and Han to the military installation. It felt companionable, which was a nice change from the tension that had hung between them recently. “How has that been going, sir? The research, I mean.”
“Not well. Not well at all. But tell me, what’s on your agenda today?”
Han let out a sharp laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “Gods, I have so much to do. I’m worried about the potential for some kind of surprise attack, given what Luccan saw, so I’ll work on getting some troops ready to mount a defense on short notice. I’ll put the nearby communities on alert too. I’ve got to work out a plan for a wider, overall defense plan for the country, and then start things in motion to call up reserves, and so forth. I need to set up observation posts over and above those we always have working—just to watch for signs of these aliens, or the shadows—”
“Mist-shadows, Luccan has dubbed them. I think it’s a good name.”
“Okay. Mist-shadows then, and… well, you get the idea. But—urgently—I’ve also got the two expeditions we’ve already planned to arrange—the one to see if we can do something about the captive children, and the Fallows. So, personnel, provisioning issues, things like that. Related question: do you think this battle Luccan saw will actually happen?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps,” Thurlock said, scratching his beard.
“If it does, do you think it will be soon?”
“I can’t tell. I hope not.”
Han snorted. “Me too. Understatement. I have a feeling, though, that if there is a war coming, the Fallows is going to be at the center of it. I mean, think about it. What’s been happening recently…. As you said, it’s all connected to what we started seeing last year, and the Fallows is where it all seemed to get rolling.”
“Makes some sense,” Thurlock said, but he clearly wasn’t committed to the conclusion Han had drawn.
“Well, it’s the best figuring I have at the moment. I’ve just about decided I’m going with the new Fallows expedition—”
Thurlock stopped walking, so Han stopped speaking and turned to meet his eyes. The wizard’s face was screwed up in an expression Han wasn’t quite certain he could interpret. He looked uncomfortable, almost sick, and when he spoke it was with a note of regret.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to pull rank for the second time in two days. No, Han, you won’t be going south with the troops. I need you to tend to matters here while I’m gone.”
Thurlock broke eye contact and turned to greet Henry, who’d just walked up. Han smiled his greeting too, and then the three of them started walking again, Thurlock dismissing the subject of Han going to the Fallows as if there couldn’t possibly be more to say. Han followed, flushed with ire, but he breathed it down before he spoke.
“All due respect, Thurlock, sir. I’m looking at what we know about the situation down there, and what we’re faced with for possibilities. My professional assessment is that I need to get my own eyes, ears, and mind on it. Please, assign someone else in your stead here—any number of office holders are more capable than I am, anyway. I’ll be back within a couple weeks—”
“No, Han. As I said, I need you here.” He blew out an annoyed-sounding breath and went on the offensive. “What? Did you all of a sudden stop trusting your officers? Gerania’s already there at the Fallows. Sergeant Koehl knows the terrain and knows his business, right? Choose a lieutenant to supervise the detachment on the way down. Picket messenger relays along the way this time so you’ll be in the know.”
“Messengers are all well and good—and already planned—but in a situation like this—”
Henry spoke up. “You know, Han. I might be able to help with that. I mean, it’s already decided I’m going, but there’s something more I can do, if you think it would be helpful.”
Han stopped, turned, and looked at Henry—keeping his face carefully blank. “Yes?”
“Uh, yes,” Henry said, venturing a smile but quickly letting it drop. “When I’m a condor, I could fly messages back and forth pretty quick, and also, if I’m not mistaken, you can read me when I’m shifted, right? My thoughts, I’m talking about. From a distance, even?”
Han held on to a safe silence until he could speak without letting it show that he felt betrayed. He accomplished that—or hoped he did, by remembering that he was not only a soldier, but a commander and a lifelong professional. As such, he would always put the greater good of the Sunlands first. He had to at least listen to other ideas—or in this case act as if he was listening. Finally he said, “That’s true, but bird minds are pretty erratic—even yours.”
Henry said, “Not anymore! See this?” He lifted the amulet from under his shirt. “Thurlock made it for me. My thoughts stay pretty human now when I fly.”
Han knew he was beat, and he wondered if somehow Thurlock had made that amulet knowing this moment would come. That was obviously nonsense, but he darted an accusing glance at the wizard anyway, then turned to Henry, locked an iron-hard gaze on Henry’s, and then gave him a slow, deliberate nod. “Okay, then,” he said, allowing his voice to carry a casual tone that was almost ridiculous coupled with his glare. “That’s settled. I’d better get to work. I’ll see you all this evening.”
He had perfectly good ears, and he didn’t need magic to hear the words exchanged as he strode away.
“He’s angry at me?” Henry asked.
“Possibly,” Thurlock said. “But he’s also busy.”
“I’d… rather he wasn’t. Angry, that is.”
“I know,” Thurlock said. “I’m certain he’ll get over it. You are at least half the reason he wanted to go.”
WITHIN TWO hours after their conversation on the green, Han stood in his office at the garrison headquarters before a wall map of the Karrighan continent. He was talking with—or mostly to—Thurlock, Link, a Behlishan’s Guard lieutenant named Rahzi, and—most importantly—Henry.
Given his particular talents, he’d learned early in life to blanket his thoughts, hiding them from prying minds. Right then, he found it imperative to be sure the only thoughts of his anybody in the room heard were the ones he spoke out loud. He was worried, and he was angry, and he was dead sure it was best if no one knew what he thought about Thurlock’s insistence that Henry should not only go south to the Fallows, but go ahead of the main body of soldiers without any protection or even weapons, and that he, Han Shieth, should stay home.
He didn’t like the wizard “pulling rank,” as he’d called it. Military operations had been solely Han’s purview for a very long time, and even when Thurlock’s help was needed with a specific problem, he’d let Han call the shots. Han was supremely qualified for the job and he’d proven his worth in the role hundreds of times over.
As far as Han wanting to go to the Fallows himself, it wasn’t a matter of trusting or not trusting his officers, as Thurlock had suggested. Plain and simple, Han felt certain lives were being lost or were at least threatened—the lives of his soldiers. He was responsible for them, and now he was sending more soldiers in, alerted to danger but blind as to its nature. And what of the Droghona? From what little he’d gathered from reports and from the visiting elders, they were innocent of aggression against the Sunlands and in danger themselves. They lived the rough lives of a seminomadic people in less than truly friendly terrain; children were a rare and treasured beauty in their lives. And of course children also meant their survival. Now, someone was taking their young ones and killing the adults who tried to protect them.
Perhaps things would have been different if Han had been able to contact Gerania, but for some reason she hadn’t contacted him, and she hadn’t responded to his calls. For the future, Han made a mental note to be sure to establish the rapport needed for long-distance mental communication with more of his officers. Either that or figure out how those cell phone
s in Earth work…. But for now, no such solution existed, and he desperately wanted to assess the situation at the Fallows border himself, and craft a plan to deal with it.
And about Henry—well, his concern there was more personal, and the damnable wizard knew it, whether Han let the old man in on his thoughts or not.
But Han was nothing if not professional, and like every good officer, he’d learned to take orders before he’d learned to give them. Thurlock had said, “Prepare Henry and send him on his way. Organize the main force to follow,” so that’s what Han would do, and he would do it as well and thoroughly as he could.
Because it’s my job.
Because it will make a difference.
Because if I do it well, Henry might survive to come back to me.
“Here,” he said to Henry, pointing at a location on the map almost exactly midway along the Sunlands border with the Fallows, “is where the main existing encampment of Behlishan’s Guard is located, under the command of a woman named Gerania. She’s a brilliant soldier, and if you need help, she will know how to provide it in my absence.” He chewed his lip for a moment, gazing at the map but deep in thought.
“I have to say, I’m uncertain of conditions on the ground there. As you already know, we’ve had no direct contact, and what information we do have suggests that what’s happening there is not at all what we expected. Nevertheless, logic dictates this is where your ground escort—two pairs of fast riders who will take different routes to help ensure at least one of them gets through—will report immediately when they arrive. Of course the main body of reinforcements will also be headed there under Lieutenant Rahzi, and it’s where you’re heading too, Henry, but not directly.”
Han felt his irritation with the wizard begin to surface, and in order to quash it he turned around and reached for the glass of water he had sitting on his desk. He took a long swallow, telling himself to let the emotion go, and do his job. You can talk to Henry about how you feel later, he told himself, and hoped it would prove to be true.