New Shores: The Eden Chronicles - Book Three

by S. M. Anderson

  Tur’ma watched with well-earned pride the pace of his men, still running for the eastern shore across the sloping grassland. His pride was personal; there was not one warrior among them who could keep up with him over distance. He had set a grueling pace since exiting the fort, and led them through the forest that dominated the western half of Ran’dor. Now, as they ran the final two kamarks across the flat, windblown pastureland, he enjoyed the privilege of command and watched their performance from the only lump of local terrain on this side of the wind-blasted island that could be called a hill.

  Rested, he would rejoin their column for the return and push the pace until an unlucky few fell out. Those poor bastards would wish they had pushed through their own pain before the day was over. As a Teark, he was only as strong as the weakest man in his finger. He would not suffer weakness, in himself or in those under him. Those above him, he had no control over. There was a reason Bastelta Fas’toal had been guarding sheep for ten years, just as he knew this island was not going to be his future. He noticed his warriors’ column slow and then falter. A couple of them ran into the backs of others who had pulled up; several were pointing up at the clouds.

  This was the kind of behavior that Fas’toal would have ignored. He was too far away to determine the individual warriors who had managed to bring the column to a halt, but he would remedy that. He took a few steps starting down from the crown of his hill as movement drew his eyes upward. He saw it and drew up short. It was growing closer, a giant white bird gliding without the flapping of wings. It overflew his hill, the noise from it startling him. It was a machine! He watched as the airboat, far too small to carry a man, circled his hill and then dove back towards his men.

  What in the name of ancient Kaerus was it? He had started back down towards his men at a slower pace, keeping one eye on the strange craft, when the noise it was making ceased. The craft continued to make tight circles over his warriors out on the plain, coming closer to the ground with each orbit. He could see several of his men with their rifles to their shoulders. He tried yelling down to them not to shoot; who else could this strange thing belong to if not the Kaerin Gemendi? The distance was too great, and the ever-present wind ripped his shout away the second he yelled.

  The small airboat’s nose tipped over and dove the last several hundred feet. Many rifles fired, but he could see no effect any of them had on the mechanical beast. He pulled up short to watch as the strange machine plowed into the ground in the midst of his warriors. Several were knocked down, and more rifle fire exploded. He could see the puffs of rifle smoke torn away by the wind, seconds before he heard the distant reports.

  His men were surrounding the largest pieces of the thing that had shattered on impact. Most had their swords drawn and were either beating on the pieces or delicately probing at them. Some had eyes drawn upward, looking for additional threats. He made a quick scan of the sky as well and saw nothing. When he looked back to the plains, he spotted the heads of figures making an effort to stay below the shallow line of grassy dunes that marked the far edge of the flatland. They were coming from the beach. There had been a strong storm last night; perhaps they were stranded sailors drawn by the fire of his men’s rifles—or they could be a Creight raiding party looking to steal some sheep.

  He was halfway down his hill, shouting for all he was worth, when one of his warriors noticed him at last and focused the attention of the others on him, just as he saw a line of Creight warriors appear in the tall grass on the far side of his warriors. They all had rifles, strange short-barreled things. There was no rifle smoke. . . the first indication he had that they were firing was the sound of hummingbird guns, yet each of them carried only an individual shoulder-mounted rifle. The volume of fire was like nothing he had ever heard from a group as small as the one he could see. He watched, frozen in shock as perhaps as few as twenty Creight slew his entire finger in the space of a few heartbeats.

  What manner of Creight was this? Those honorless nomads subsisted in the forests and mountains of the far north, digging an existence out of the dirt or harvesting seals off the ice pack. They did not attack Kaerin—ever. A second group of the enemy popped out of the dune grass north of the bodies of his men, some of whom were still moving, wounded, on the ground, trying to locate the enemy that had killed them.

  The second, smaller group moved in quickly, taking individual killing shots whose reports reached him a moment later. His men had not been able to return more than a handful of shots in defense. Whoever these warriors were, they had skill to match their miraculous weapons. He was torn between the desire to avenge his men or to carry a warning to Sy’rane. The warriors of Sy’rane were not under a war writ. Their standing orders were to guard the western approach to Lord Madral’s estate and to control the sea from this island.

  If what he had just seen was not a threat, nothing was. He took a knee and took a careful count of the two groups of enemy warriors he could see. He stopped at twenty-five, thinking he was seeing things. Many of the enemy looked and carried themselves like women. No one but Creight asked their women to fight; by definition, their limited numbers required everyone to carry a blade or a stick or whatever they could scrounge together within the caves where they lived. The only other women warriors he could recall hearing of were Jema, and those traitorous scum were dead and gone.

  The ground to his right erupted with a thud, as if someone had just thrown an unseen rock at him. He stared for just a moment until another “rock” went by the side of his head sounded like a hornet and impacted the hill above him, even as the deep, rolling report of the first shot reached him. He grabbed up his rifle and sprinted around the edge of the hill. How? How could they have even seen him, let alone almost kill him from that distance? Who were these people? His mind made up; he ran for all he was worth. Magic weapons or not, they weren’t going to get close enough to shoot at him again.

  “Shit!” Hyrika grounded her .308 hunting rifle. The range, with a steady crosswind had been too much. But she’d had to try.

  “He’s gone, running for the fort.” Et’ama had been acting as her spotter and still had his binoculars up to his face.

  She cursed her missed shots; the Kaerin fort would have warning they were coming. She toggled her radio and reported as much to Audy who stood with his team a couple of hundred paces distant.

  “You know what to do,” Audy answered. “Stop him if you can. If not, find a good hide to observe the fort and wait for us.”

  She hit the squelch button once in reply and looked around at her team of six scouts. “Ready to run down a Kaerin Teark?”

  Six smiles greeted her. “Let’s go.” She started off, thinking that it was strange how a single year could turn hunted into hunter.

  It was almost two hours later before they caught sight of the Kaerin Teark again, just entering the forest of stunted pine at the western edge of the pastureland. If anything, their quarry had widened the gulf between them during the chase. She saw him before the others of her team. The Kaerin was stopped, waiting to see if he was being followed. She imagined it was with nothing but derision that he turned his back on them and disappeared into the shadows of the trees.

  She signaled her team to stop, and they all pulled up, breathing hard. “Did you think this another Strema?” she asked, shaking her head, knowing that the taxing run had disabused her of the very same thought. “This is a Kaerin. We’ll wait for dark before we continue through the woods.”

  “He will make the fort.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged, even though it pained her to admit it. She pointed off to her left, where a thin profile of open sea was shining with the later afternoon sun further west, almost to the horizon. “We are almost at the coast.”

  *

  Chapter 25

  Gotland, Chandra

  “I’ll ask you one last time.” Fas’toal stood flanked by a pair of his fellow Tearks, who knew his worth far more than the bastelta who commanded them.

  “I
’ve told it true.” Tur’ma kept his temper in check. Failing in that effort, would only give Fas’toal the excuse he needed to throw him in chains.

  “Creight? With magic weapons? Killed your entire finger, and spared you?”

  Tur’ma glanced at his two peers, angry and ashamed at how this looked. He had returned without his command. He’d known how his story was going to sound, and it did not matter. He just needed Fas’toal to heed his warning, to do the right thing.

  Teark Sak’il, the eldest of the Tearks at Sy’rane, had a lifetime of experience. If Tur’ma trusted any of them, it was the wise old veteran who had been a Teark longer than he’d been alive. On Fas’toal’s other flank was Bet’aska, just a few years older than himself, and not someone who would risk anything on the word of another.

  “They could not have been Creight,” he spoke at first to Sak’il, before turning to face his bastelta. “I know not who they are, only that they slaughtered my entire finger in the time it takes to form up for a march. I was on the hill, too far away . . . a small group of them pursued me here.”

  “You did not turn and fight?” Perhaps to his credit, even Fas’toal seemed incredulous as he asked the question.

  “They nearly killed me from half a kamark away, with a single shot. I would not have gotten within range.” He stood a little straighter. “I chose to return and report a threat to this post. Bastelta Fas’toal, we are obligated to protect this post. We must prepare and report.”

  “Do not quote my standing orders!” Fas’toal took half a step away, and then turned back to address Sak’il and Bet’aska. “We will prepare. Recall Teark Lom’ata from the harbor. Double the watch on the walls, and see to it that this one is confined to his quarters. He’s lost his entire finger in a single engagement and returned to us with nothing but stories. I’ll decide his fate later.”

  His trip across the gravel of the parade ground to the Teark quarters was a long one. He had never been in a position to owe anyone, but he found himself thankful that Sak’il and Bet’aska did nothing but escort him. They allowed him to retain his sword and rifle. It was a small thing, weighed against the fact that the entire post knew he had returned without his finger. The cause of that was not yet known, and the question of whether Fas’toal would share his incredible story would go a long way in determining what happened to him. He thought he knew Fas’toal well enough to wager the bastelta would not condemn him, at least not yet. The man would leave open every option he had for as long as he could. He doubted if his bastelta had ever acted on any instinct beyond self-preservation.

  Could he say he had acted any differently? He’d chosen to flee rather than die with his men. This mark against his honor was not one he would recover from, not unless he was proven right. The proof, he knew, would in all likelihood see him and the entire post dead. He had to make them understand.

  “Hear me, brothers.” He kept his head down and did not turn to either of them; he knew Fas’toal would be watching. “Their attack started with the appearance of a flying machine. Keep your eyes to the clouds as well.”

  “You’re not making this easy, Tur’ma,” Sak’il replied, and he sensed the older man looking at him.

  “I swear on holy Kaerus itself,” he replied. “If I speak false, let me be drained of my High Blood and my ashes mixed with those of subjects. We are in danger. At the very least, Fas’toal should send a long message or have the packet ship ready to sail if we fall under attack.”

  The door to his quarters was opened for him. Bet’aska pointed to the interior with his chin. “You’d do well to let Bastelta Fas’toal deal with this.”

  He’d never liked Bet’aska, but he knew him to be a man of honor. “Convince Fas’toal to put a patrol out to the edge of the forest. If you have no warning, we’ll all be dead before we know it has begun.”

  Bet’aska’s face was a mask. “Teark Tur’ma.” The man saluted once and walked away.

  “Convince him, Sak’il.”

  Sak’il gave the slightest of nods. “I’ve never credited you with imagination, Tur’ma. Ambition, you have. You must know your future will be destroyed if you are mistaken.”

  “I’m not mistaken, Sak’il. I know you think I am blinded by ambition. Yet you once told me that I was a fine Teark. Do you think I would speak falsely? How would this help me or my career?”

  “That is the question I have been asking myself since hearing your report.”

  “Keep asking that question.” He did his best not to shout. “Whatever you think of me, you know the worth of my warriors . . .”

  “I do,” Sak’il answered after a long moment, in which the veteran watched him as if weighing his story. “Teark Lom’ata does as well.” The Teark saluted him before pulling the door shut on his way out.

  Tur’ma was left with more hope than he’d had a moment ago. Sak’il would share his story with Lom’ata, who might be swayed. The three of them together should be able to convince Bet’aska. At that point, if Fas’toal lost the confidence of all his Tearks, he could not remain bastelta. It was an ancient law, but one even Fas’toal would have to honor. Tur’ma could not recall hearing of the law ever being enforced, not since the early days of his people’s wars of conquest on this world. He and Sak’il had once joked that the law had bastelta like Fas’toal in mind when it had been written. If he was wrong, he and any of the others who sided with him would be scourged in Kaerus’s central square. If he was right, they would be lucky to survive.

  Left with his own thoughts, Tur’ma kept coming back to the one question he had no answer for. Who would have dared attack a Kaerin column? Who could have?

  *

  “Anything?” Hyrika breathed into her radio. With nightfall, her most experienced scout, Stant’ala, had climbed a tree inside the forest opposite the north wall of the stone-and-timber fort. From there, he overlooked the heavy gate and the approach road that snaked its way north along the coast.

  “More eyes on the walls . . .” the scout came back after just a few seconds. He knew his business—they all did—and they’d learned a great deal from the Terrans while fighting the Strema. During that war, Stant’ala had managed to get inside Strema camps on two different occasions without raising an alarm. He’d mapped out their camp, located their ammunition stores, and been able to draw the layout from memory after making his way back through the defensive lines. There was no Jema alive who was more skilled in spotting for mortar fire. Which meant nothing at this moment; they didn’t have any mortars, and wouldn’t be getting any until Arsolis showed up with their supplies and Audrin’ochal could get here with the rest of their people.

  “A small boat rowed out to a ship anchored in the harbor,” Stant’ala continued. “Estimate one seven-five enemy, all Kaerin. Nothing else.”

  It made little sense to her. They knew the Kaerin from the ambush had returned to the fort. She’d expected a reaction of some sort. How could they think they were so safe? She knew the answer; because they were Kaerin. For centuries, they’d been unchallenged. Still, come morning, they would sally a unit to investigate. They would have to. They were missing forty plus warriors who were not going to return.

  “Copy all. Are you secure? Can you stay in place?”

  “Good to go,” her scout replied. His use of the Terran phrase made her smile. For a people that still confused her to no end, she had to admit, they had a way with words.

  *

  Teark Tur’ma’s quarters had a small window that overlooked the marshaling yard in the center of the fort. He had watched Bastelta Fas’toal pace back and forth in front of Bet’aska’s finger’s worth of warriors since the sun had come up. Tur’ma couldn’t hear what was being said, but he didn’t need to. The warriors were loaded down with packs; Fas’toal was sending Bet’aska and his warriors away from the fort. He was of two minds; it would leave only one half of Sy’rane’s original contingent inside the walls—but even Fas’toal would be unable to ignore his warning if Bet’aska met the same enemy
his men had.

  *

  Hyrika heard the massive gate opening. Stant’ala had warned her they were preparing to sally. Her people were ready to move; they were well hidden, but if the woods surrounding the fort were combed, they’d be discovered. It was a tense few minutes as the Kaerin column left the main coastal road and went east along a well-worn path that led across the island towards Audrin’ochal. She didn’t need Stant’ala’s eyes; she could see from her own position that they stayed in a loose column, moving at a quick march. This group wasn’t out for a run, what had become known as PT—it was a patrol. They weren’t going to be ambushed as easily as the first group had. The Kaerin ignored the woods to either side of the trail, stayed in a loose column, and headed east at a fast walking march.

  “Understood,” Audrin’ochal responded when she reported the force headed his way. “Let them come; we are ready for them. Stay in place, and keep eyes on the fort. We’ll be coming tonight.”

  “Copy all.” She clicked the radio off. Arsolis must have arrived during the night with the rest of their people and supplies. She glanced back towards the one quarter of the harbor that she could see from her position. There was a stone tower at the end of the quay, jutting out into the sea. “Lighthouse” was the Terran word for it, but it looked to her more like a watchtower. It was the wire antenna stretching from its midpoint to another pole along the quay that she focused on.