by Scott McKay
She wasn’t going to join the Peace Party if she did make it home and became a full citizen. That was for sure. In fact, she would make it her mission in life to see them permanently out of power.
The camp was a whirlwind of activity as the sun poked out of the horizon to the east. Tents were being broken down, packs being rigged to tent poles which were then attached to saddles to be dragged behind. Captured horses were being tied together, cattle herded, horses mounted and the prisoners made to get up.
Before the Anur broke camp, though, there was an item of business to take care of that Sarah had been warned about. A captive woman had attempted to flee overnight and had been caught by one of the Udars. She was brought to kneel by the large bonfire at the northern edge of the camp, with women holding ropes attached to either side of her collar. Rapan’na emerged and walked near to the fire.
“Abascat!” he called. “Abascat, Ur’akeen! Daheyu at’lo savalyay!”
A cascade of whoops came from the members of the Anur.
“Besoul, mavat at’lo savalyay!”
Louder, more intense whoops.
“Kaw’at besoul, mavat at’lo savalyay!”
“Aaaawhalat!” screamed the Udar.
“MAWANI MAVAT AT’LO SAVALYAY! UR’AKEEN, SO’AS AZMERI!” howled Rapan’na.
The two women began dragging the captive forward. She struggled, but it was clear she hadn’t the strength to resist them. Forward she went, into the fire.
And she was soon engulfed by the flames. Within seconds, she was dead.
Sarah looked around among her fellow captives and saw complete terror on every face. Many looked away; some couldn’t.
The captors then dragged their prisoners to their feet by raising the poles their collars were attached to. The Udar broke camp, and the procession headed southwest toward Strongstead. Scouts were sent in each direction.
…
TWENTY ONE
On the Small Rise – Noon (Second Day)
Once again Will and Robert were together in a small group of riders, this time as part of a detachment of seven sent as advance scouts. Their orders from Terhune were to make visual contact with the enemy, but not to close and destroy. They were to avoid notice if possible.
After three hours of nothing south of the rendezvous, though, it turned out that avoiding notice was not possible. The seven had come upon what had clearly been the enemy’s camp. Hoofprints were everywhere, as was refuse, and the remnants of small campfires and a very active bonfire were unmistakable.
“By the Saints!” said Will, in the first real show of any inflection in his voice since he’d heard about his parents. “That’s a dead body in the fire.”
“Human sacrifice,” Robert agreed. “It’s what they do. Wonder if it’s someone we know.”
“Really, Rob?” said Will.
“I’m just saying. This is personal. These are our friends, neighbors, relatives. We probably do know that poor woman. Or we did.”
“We’re close,” Will said. “It’s not a good idea to be here on our own. We should report back to the command line.”
But just then one of their number, an enlisted man from Barley Point named Athcart, grunted in pain. He was struck through the stomach by an arrow. “Shit!” Athcart said, and then he slumped off his horse.
“Scatter, men!” ordered Will. “Find that savage and mow him down!”
It was Robert who encountered the Udar first. He’d taken a sniping position behind a pile of rocks about fifty yards away from the bonfire, but the Udar was dismounted, and Robert spotted him as he rode past to the left. He wheeled his horse around and closed on the man, his Thurman at dead aim. And at fifteen yards Robert shot the Udar in the throat.
He dismounted, and approached the wounded sniper, slowly. The Udar attempted to crawl away on his back, clutching his hemorrhaging neck with one hand, an Izwei in the other.
“Oh, no,” Robert said. “Where are you going? You are not running away from me.”
Will and two other members of the team rode up from the man’s other side.
“You just shot my friend there,” Robert said. “Your people killed my parents and my sister. For all I know you might have gotten my brother and my other sister too.”
“Sausoway,” the Udar stammered. “Ibebleen.”
“Do you think I’m going to let you crawl away from me, you sodding animal? Do you think that?”
“Just finish him, Rob,” said Will.
“Not so fast,” Robert said, as the Udar feebly waved his Izwei in Robert’s direction.
He glared down at the Udar. “My name is Robert Stuart. Son of George Stuart, hero of Dunnan’s War. He took twelve of you bastards with him when he died. And I’m going to send you with them.”
Slowly, Robert drew his sword. The Udar attempted to stand, but lacked the strength.
“This is going to hurt,” Robert said, as he slashed at the Udar’s right leg. A wound opened with a torrent of blood.
“Rob, finish him,” Will said. “You can’t torture him all day. We have work to do. We have to report back to command.”
“I’m not done. He’s going to feel it before he goes.”
“Do it, Rob,” said another of the riders. “Finish him.”
“You want me to finish him? I’ll finish him.” And Rob then drove the tip of his sword into the man’s crotch, ripping to his stomach.
The Udar went limp almost immediately.
“Go to hell, you fucker,” Rob said.
The riders returned at speed to the command line to make their report. Athcart attempted to ride with the team, but fell off his horse within half a mile. When Will doubled back to assist him, he was dead.
…
TWENTY TWO
Principia – Afternoon (Second Day)
Cross had spent a busy day at the headquarters of the Airbound Corporation, with personnel interviews, papers to sign, follow-up meetings and letters and memoranda shuttling back and forth via courier. All the while, though, he was frankly amazed at the speed and smoothness of the transition of his company from a small passenger airship line to…whatever it was that Airbound was becoming. It felt as though some invisible arm was moving pieces around to clear his path. Of course, he was unspooling in a day what should have taken three months.
Around lunchtime Gresham came back to the office after his meeting with Pleasance, the man from Foreman Technologies, who was supervising the corporate merger. He plopped down in one of Cross’ visitor chairs. “You interested in going somewhere for a tipple and a luncheon?” he asked in a friendlier voice than he’d offered Cross at any time in the past three months.
“I can’t,” came the response. “I need to get through this stack before I get out of here tonight. My train’s leaving for the sunny south and a hail of arrows and spears from half-naked savages in the morning. If you’re thirsty, by all means help yourself.”
Gresham did, and then returned to his seat.
“Well,” he said, “I can’t really say all this worked out like I would have wanted. But what I can say is I can live with Foreman.”
“Good,” Cross said, scribbling his signature on yet another document. “I’m coming across a new regret every five minutes as I go through all this, but at the end of the day I think this is a good outcome.”
“The things we coulda done,” Gresham held up his glass, and then took a sip of his whisky.
“I think you’re going to do all right in Belgarden,” Cross said, giving Gresham a friendly look. “It’s a nice town. The west side is a little like the Elkstrand.”
“I love the possibilities with these engines,” Gresham said. “You’re going to see–the whole concept of how we’re going to do the burners is going to change. Essentially what Foreman’s going to do is run a liquid fuel they’re going to refine from coal through one engine that will make four blast furnaces to inflate the envelopes with hot air, so the altitude will double. And the propellers are going to be a lot bigger an
d turn three times as fast with these new engines. The ships are going to do 80 or 90 miles an hour when they’re refitted.”
“Makes you wish we’d pursued this tech earlier,” Cross said wistfully.
“I know,” Gresham said. He took another swallow of the whisky.
“Anyway, it’s exciting stuff. And the work was always what turned my crank.”
“Yeah it did, buddy,” Cross said. “I’m happy you’re happy.”
“So what about you, huh?” Gresham changed the subject. “Gonna be a big Army hero?”
“You know me,” Cross said. “Born glory hound. I can’t help myself.”
“I would think an airship would be a pretty safe place in a war against the Udar,” Gresham assured him. “I mean, what are they gonna do, shoot an arrow at you when you’re a thousand feet up?”
“I’m a little more worried about what happens when I’m on the ground,” Cross said, “but that was more or less my thinking. We go down there, kick some savage asses and make Ardenia safe for civilization again, and then I get to go back to being Sebastian Cross, The Great National Hero. Who knows what happens from there.”
“Maybe politics,” Gresham said, taking another pull from his glass.
Cross glanced at him. Then he shrugged.
“Vote Peace Party, one and all,” Gresham said, giving the two-fingered victory sign as he finished his drink. Then he stood, and extended his hand. “Seriously, though, it has been a pleasure working with you. Ups, downs and everything else. You’re a gentleman and an aviator, sir.”
Cross stood and returned the handshake. “You take care of yourself, Winford. And if you need anything, ever, you just say so.”
Cross’ inner self felt a good deal less warmly toward Gresham than he let on, but that’s the way he wanted it. At some point he’ll do me a favor, Cross thought. And I bet I’ll need it, no matter what I think of him.
Never burn a bridge. Burned bridges are useless, even if the people they lead to are also useless. Which Winford, despite some of his questionable choices, was not.
A bit later, he’d finally plowed through his stack of documents, and said goodbye to some of the employees and “See you down south” to others. His last day as CEO of Airbound Corporation had come to a close. Cross hadn’t had the slightest opportunity to let his “wolfpack,” as he called them–the cadre of boozehounds, party girls and other assorted swells he usually made the rounds of the Elkstrand playpens with in his off-hours–know of his circumstances and that this was his last night in town for the foreseeable future, and he was about to summon a courier to deliver a message or two to circulate that word.
He never got the chance, though, because as he was tidying his desk and stacking his papers for what remained of the secretarial staff to process the next morning as Foreman’s wrap-up team came in to assume control, he heard a rap on his office door.
“We don’t seem quite so busy in here,” a voice Cross recognized said.
And when he looked up, he saw he was in the presence of the mighty Preston Cross VII, the very man he’d been avoiding for the past three months. His father was resplendent in a gray felt derby hat and had a fur jacket draped over an arm, his gray woolen suit immaculately tailored from his collar down to his oxford shoes – an appearance nearly the opposite of Sebastian’s rumpled collarless shirt with no tie under a pair of suspenders.
“Hello, Papa,” he sighed. “What brings you down from paradise?”
“You do, boy,” said the old man. “Are you out of business yet?”
Sebastian gave his father an ugly look.
“Relax,” Preston said. “I’m just giving you the rear. Gregg has told me all about your troubles, and I want you to know that I understand what you’ve done and I respect it. You are a man of honor, and for that I’m proud of you.”
That earned his father a different reaction. “I appreciate that, Papa. I really do.”
“Are you occupied at present?” Preston asked. “Care to take a walk?”
That stopped him in his tracks a bit, as Sebastian couldn’t remember the last time he and his father had a low-key interpersonal encounter. It would have had to have been before Mother died, he thought, and that was when he was still playing for the Elks. Back then his father had been his biggest fan and his worst critic, and rugby was all the old man would talk about.
But then came Airbound, and Preston Cross VII was a lot more critic than fan of that enterprise. The effect therein was a downward spiral in their relationship, and most of the communication between the two generally came via Sebastian’s older brother Preston VI, who ran a brokerage firm that traded on the Havener exchange a few blocks away from Airbound’s offices. Press, as everybody called him, was the family workaholic and infinitely more successful than his younger brother, and he was also married to a plain, and dull, mega-wealthy heiress from Winterstead he’d met in business school. Press had supplied his father with four grandchildren and a fifth on the way, which solidified the old man’s disapproval of Sebastian’s more hedonistic and less family-oriented social life.
For someone who had so prized his ability to keep his interpersonal relationships on a friendly level, the estrangement with his father had been a source of deep angst for Sebastian. And yet here was all that strife, that stress, melting away before his eyes.
“A walk sounds all right, Papa,” Sebastian said, fighting back a bout of emotion. “I’ll get my coat.”
…
TWENTY THREE
Watkins Gulf – Noon (Second Day)
Patrick ran into an excellent stroke of luck just after dawn as Adelaide surged ahead of the cavalry’s sweep west in search of the Udar camp. Namely, his crew spotted a pair of telltale sails only a couple of miles off the coast as Adelaide steamed west. He ordered a detour to the port side to investigate and shortly came within sight of an Udar raiding sloop.
“Sons of bitches out looking for a coastal packet to or from Strongstead,” said Rawer at Patrick’s side on the bridge. “We know what to do.”
“We do,” said Patrick, “but I think we want some prisoners here. Let’s not just stand off and sink this one–we’ll see if we can get in close and grab a few of the bastards.”
Rawer scowled – to the Adelaide’s First Mate there was only one good kind of Udar, and that was the dead kind, but he knew an order when he heard one.
“Aye, commander.”
Adelaide left the coast for the bluer water of Watkins Gulf, and in under an hour was bearing down on the fleeing Udar. The frigate hailed the sloop by way of its steam whistle, but the hail was ignored.
“Put a shot across the bow,” Patrick ordered. The pivot gun on the port side carried out that directive in short order.
The sloop continued its course, heading south away from the coastline. Adelaide quickly closed the distance between the two vessels.
“Commander, should we just steam over the top?” asked Rawer.
“Yes. Make it so,” said Patrick. “They’ve had their opportunities, and I’d just as soon not show the enemy a fireball on the horizon.”
A few seconds later, the Adelaide’s crew could feel the crunch of the larger ship’s iron hull shattering the Udar vessel’s wooden frame. Some two dozen Udar sailors jettisoned haphazardly away from their wrecked sloop, splashing into Watkins Gulf and furiously attempting to swim away from Adelaide.
“Lasso a few of ‘em!” Rawer ordered to the Adelaide’s crew. “Might as well go fishin’ this mornin’.”
What followed was a facsimile of sport, as the Ardenian sailors took their turns attempting to loop their hemp ropes over the escaping Udar swimmers – the ropes commonly landed in position to find purchase, but mostly the Udar in their clutches craftily made escapes before those ropes could be pulled taut.
As the sportfishing commenced, Patrick nodded to Ensign Joseph Broadham, who had joined the command team on the bridge. Though fresh out of the naval academy at Wellhurst, Broadham was a great catch as the Adel
aide’s Udar translator. His mother had been captured by the Udar at the beginning of Dunnan’s War and spent six months as a prisoner of a particularly nasty Anur who made their Afan’di, or home-grounds, along the Watkins Gulf coast to the south of where Strongstead currently stood. She was rescued when a naval armada, plying the coast, put ashore a thousand Marines for an amphibious assault. That was the Battle of Bak Jayen, and it was one of the bloodier encounters of Dunnan’s War. Only half the Marines made it back to the landing ships, but some 20,000 Udar lay dead under their withering cannon, chain gun and rifle fire. Bak Jayen was heralded as a grand victory despite its cost – especially given the rescue of forty-three Ardenian women held captive in that tent city.
That included Broadham’s mother, a professor at the women’s finishing school in Newmarket who’d been captured in a pirate raid befalling a ship she’d been on as it traveled to Port William. An expert linguist, in her six months of captivity she’d mastered the Udar language. It took several months of mental and emotional recovery after her rescue, as the shame of her having objected to being taken away from the Anur left a deep psychological scar, but once she’d regained her faculties Georgia Broadham wrote the definitive treatise on spoken Udar. She then took a position at the Admiralty in Principia as an instructor to naval officers as to the enemy’s language and customs. Her book describing her experiences as a captive of the Udar and her rescue and road to recovery was considered one of Ardenia’s greatest literary masterpieces.
Having the son of the great linguist as his ship’s translator was a significant asset in Patrick’s mind. From having served several years in Watkins Gulf, though, his own knowledge of the enemy was considerable. So far, the opportunity to interrogate Udar aboard Adelaide had yet to yield much intelligence value; the pirates they’d captured rarely knew anything interesting outside of the typical “see prize, take prize” directives. In Patrick’s experience these people weren’t very complicated.