Archeologist Warlord: Book 3

by E. M. Hardy

  The vast majority of these ‘rogues’ were four-legged like his own cow-boxes, except leaner and sleeker in appearance. They also possessed necks that led up to bird-like heads, with long and sharp beaks that curved downwards—perfect for rending flesh.

  Then there were the giant constructs. These were also four-legged, but stood tall as a tree and wide as a small house. These ones had long necks leading up to human-like faces.

  “Wait a minute,” Martin said to no one in particular. “These look… yeah, they look a lot like sphinxes,” he declared out loud, suddenly recalling the mythological figures back on Earth. “The big ones with human-looking heads are androsphinxes. The smaller ones with the bird-like heads are… hieracosphinxes, I think.”

  “Androsphinxes? Hieracosphinxes?” interrupted Emir Rifaah, unable to contain his curiosity. The rest of the Emir’s family leaned in closer, eager to learn more about the situation. His wives Leyla and Latifa sat rigidly straight, though they clutched the hem of Rifaah’s robes so hard their knuckles turned white.

  First Prince Mufeed, general of Ma’an’s army, glared as he quietly cracked his knuckles. Third Princess Gurhan nodded solemnly as Martin’s report perfectly matched with the report of the scouts under her command. Second Princess Najeema held the hand of her husband, trademaster Torcan, while Fourth Prince Mustaba crinkled his brows in worry. Sixth Prince Suhaib nodded grimly with Martin, understanding the gravity of the situation.

  Only the Fifth Princess Azeema failed to focus completely on Martin’s briefing as she was too busy flipping through food reports, checking how much food and water the emirate could stockpile before it came under siege by these constructs.

  “Yes,” Martin said, nodding with his walker even as he sent more eyeballs to get a better angle on the rogue army. “Mythical beasts from one of the cultures in my home world. Or they might just have been designed by the Builders, the people who originally created constructs. I don’t really know.”

  The emir huffed out, shaking his head in disbelief. Mufeed, however, snorted and crossed his arms in dissatisfaction. “Right, so you know what they are. The question is, why are these constructs marching here, toward our emirate?” The man glared at Martin’s walker, waiting for answers.

  “As I said, I don’t know,” responded Martin, refusing to rise up to the prince’s provocations. “Give me a week, and I should be able to build another obelisk. That’ll bring my network close enough for my walkers and eyeballs to make direct contact with these constructs.”

  Martin shrugged at that before another idea popped up in his head—one that would probably help allay the fears and doubts of the people in this room.

  “Princess Gurhan, would you mind if I pulled some of your scouts, to bring them with my walkers as I make first contact? Best case scenario is that I convince these constructs to be diplomatic. If they do, they can explain to your scouts why they’ve been ignoring all peaceful overtures. Worst case scenario is they attack my constructs. If that happens, your scouts can assess things with their own eyes, ride back to the emirate, and hand in their own reports on what went down.”

  The muscular princess studied Martin’s walker from the top of its painted face to the tips of its plain, toeless feet and nodded. “That will suffice. I will send a pigeon to my people, give them my orders to follow this plan of yours.” Martin nodded, satisfied. This gesture ought to appease the princess-slash-scoutmaster, who lay squarely in the we-do-not-trust-Martin camp.

  The princess, however, narrowed her eyes at Martin’s apparent satisfaction. “No, on second thought, I will personally lead a contingent of scouts. If needed, Father can grant me the authority to parley in the name of Ma’an.”

  She glanced at her father, Emir Rifaah, who nodded his consent. She nodded her thanks as she swiveled her head back to Martin’s walker. “And besides, I want to see this approaching army of rogue constructs for myself.”

  Martin could only nod at the princess’ declaration. It would appear that she distrusted Martin more than he expected.

  Martin froze up his walker for a moment, cocking its head in thought. Only Prince Suhaib understood that signal, having been around Martin’s walkers for far longer than anyone else in the room.

  The young prince nodded at his father, at Emir Rifaah, who was busy whispering reassurances to his wife Latifa even as his wife Leyla was busy nagging him about one thing or another. His attention caught, the Emir turned to his son who nodded his chin at Martin’s walker, which coughed gently into a fist.

  “Emir Ma’an, I have received a response from Isin Safak, the League Executive that accompanied Prince Suhaib.”

  “Yes,” the Emir said. “I remember her. And what is the League’s stance on this approaching army?”

  Martin would have smiled if he could. “She says the League stands ready to provide whatever aid Ma’an needs.”

  That little bit of information caught everyone by surprise. “They would truly stand by the terms of the treaty?” the Emir ventured, his eyes sparkling with hope before clouding over with suspicion. “And what does the League ask in return? What do they want for their aid?”

  “One second,” Martin said, posing the question to Isin who was currently sipping coffee in one of the cafes around al-Taheri. A full minute passed before Martin responded.

  “Isin says that while the League is willing to simply fulfill its treaty obligations to defend Ma’an should it come under attack, the League would greatly appreciate it if Ma’an would lower the tariff on imports by, say, two percent over the next twenty years.”

  The emir snorted through his nose in disdain, though Trademaster Torcan nodded in thought. “That will lower our tariffs down from five to three percent. Considering the number of goods that the League passes through us to reach the Ren Empire and beyond… that amounts to a loss of almost two hundred thousand gold a month.”

  “Two hundred thousand gold a month… that’s nearly two million, four hundred thousand gold a year!?” gasped Prince Mufeed and Princess Gurhan.

  Princess Najeema, Torcan’s wife, nodded her head. “It is substantial, yes, considering that trade worth more than a hundred million gold passes through our borders into the northern lands.”

  Both Mufeed and Gurhan sat slack-jawed at the amount of money they heard. Suhaib chuckled at their expressions. “Perhaps it might be worth your time, brother and sister, to actually join us when we talk about money matters. Our new partnership with the League and the other independent emirates has opened up a lot of new markets, and—”

  Mufeed stood up and slammed his palms on the table, practically snarling at his younger brother all the while.

  “Bought out by the cartels now, Suhaib? Have they thrown enough gold in your face for you to forget how they’ve sent assassins into the palace on more than one occasion? How they’ve cornered us, blocked us from the rest of the Bashri, even as they sent their spies to undermine our rule all these years? Did that League whore wrap her poisoned tongue around your—”

  “Enough!” barked a sharp, commanding voice. It did not come from Emir Rifaah, however, but from Leyla—First Wife and matriarch of the Ma’an clan. “Control your tongue, Mufeed. You are in the presence of family, not troops that you can berate in whatever way you wish.”

  She turned sharply toward Suhaib then, punishing him with her own glare. “The same goes for you, Suhaib. Cease your petty sarcasm and leave it for another time. As for these new demands, the League and your father have already negotiated terms at length. If the League does not uphold its end of the treaty, then your father will be forced to nullify the treaty while informing all the other emirates of why we will choose to do so.”

  Emir Rifaah sighed and rolled his eyes. “What your mother said. Now Mufeed, Suhaib, shut up and let me think.”

  Martin went quiet for a few more moments. The partition of his consciousness facing Isin chuckled darkly as the woman more or less predicted this exact scenario unfoldi
ng out. The partition in front of the Ma’an family, however, simply took advantage of the lull to insert himself into the discussion.

  “Isin would like to clarify that the League is in no way demanding that Ma’an lower its tariffs in exchange for military aid. She says that the League will uphold its obligations regardless of the Emir’s decision, but it would greatly appreciate it if Ma’an would reconsider the rate of taxation.” Martin shrugged the shoulders of his walker at that. “A goodwill gesture of sorts, not a demand or condition for aid.”

  Emir Rifaah snorted at that. “Right. Of course. Like the League won’t use an outright refusal as an excuse to withhold future aid. Thoughts, anyone?”

  “Tell them to go bake in the sands,” grunted Mufeed, still scowling at Suhaib who matched his older brother’s angry glare.

  Trademaster Torcan, however, simply shook his head at that. “The losses would be substantial, your graces, but not when compared to a souring relationship with the League. Please do not take my words as offensive or treasonous, but I do believe that the Emirate would prosper more with the League of Merchants as a friend than an enemy.

  “While I would not advocate complete trust, the League is operating less like a gang of criminals and more like a true organization of merchants this time around. Strictly business and profit, if you will.”

  Martin studied the unassuming, bespectacled man sitting at the table—the only human unrelated to the royal family by blood on this table. He glanced down, seeing the man’s wife grasp his hand in silent support as he asserted his claims. Something within Martin’s consciousness tightened at the gesture, of two people coming together and giving one another their absolute support.

  He suddenly found himself thinking of his old life, of Marissa. Did she ever get around to getting that internship she wanted? Was his old friend Jake still as hotheaded as ever, getting all up in the grill of anyone who gave him flak? And Tim… did Tim get around to snacking on more protein and hitting the gym like he promised a dozen times before?

  Martin forced his gaze away from the couple holding hands, refocused his partition’s attention, and looked instead for a solution to the problem at hand.

  “Trademaster Torcan, I think that Isin knows Ma’an will never settle for two percent. It’s simply too much to ask for. However, I believe that the League is actually fishing for a much lower, more realistic amount. They didn’t make demands, just a friendly request, so maybe a complete rebuff would be too much. So how about making a smaller counter-offer instead?”

  That got the Trademaster thinking, then nodding softly to himself. “That could work. Point-five percent… that should come out to fifty thousand gold a month. Yes, that wouldn’t hurt as much as two hundred thousand. Then we set a hard limit… say, a year or so? Or if these constructs are hostile, then at least until hostilities cease. Slap on an extra six months as a goodwill gesture… hm. Yes… yes, that can work.”

  Torcan turned toward the Emir with a nod. “We can definitely come up with something fairer, your majesty.”

  The Emir of Ma’an narrowed his eyes at Torcan, but the trademaster simply averted his gaze by lowering his face. Rifaah eyed the man for a few moments longer before grunting his consent. “Fine,” he said as he turned toward Martin. “Tell your League contact that two percent is too much, but we are willing to consider granting a point-five percent reduction in tariffs for the next two years or until this threat is averted, whichever comes first. We do this out of a desire for long-lasting friendship with the League, of course.”

  Emir Rifaah harrumphed as he said the last part, clearly meaning it to be sarcastic instead of genuine. His first wife Leyla scowled at her husband’s childish reaction while his second wife Latifa pursed her lips and gently shook her head, mimicking Leyla’s disapproval.

  Martin nodded and transmitted this information to Isin. A few moments later, Martin couldn’t help but shake the head of the walker facing the Ma’an royal family—even as another walker laughed out loud in a nondescript café within the city of Al-Taheri.

  “Isin thanks the Emir for his kind gesture, and that the League will soon send a messenger bearing the necessary forms.”

  Martin wisely decided to avoid mentioning how Isin would have readily accepted any kind of reduction at all—especially since she had been expecting the Emir to outright refuse any request for reduction. Point-five percent was just enough for Isin to grease a few more palms, buy favorable dispositions among the other executives, without the Emir of Ma’an appearing to be a gullible mark.

  Martin didn’t care much. To him, the only thing that mattered was for the League to send reinforcements to Ma’an. If his last encounter with rogue constructs was any indication—the suicidal detonation of power generators in the underground facility—then things were probably going to end up dicey in the long run.

  Doubly so if these particular rogues built pyramids came with generators and production vats, churning out more and more constructs with each passing day.

  ***

  A week passed, and Martin managed to assemble an army of ten thousand walkers to meet the approaching rogues. Seventy thousand more were on the way, in other words all the free walkers that he could spare. He even added five thousand scarabs that would hopefully provide some extra firepower as needed.

  He wanted to build more scarabs, but five thousand was the most scarabs he could field in a practical sense. The draw on his generators was simply too great to fire with them all at once. Too many and he’d end up losing control over the rest of his constructs.

  And besides, personal experience taught him that their lasers simply weren’t as effective against ceramic-based constructs.

  He could, in theory, concentrate the energy of his scarabs down on a few targets. He’d focus on his marks, and burn them down one by one. The problem here, however, was the amount of power required to pull off such an attack. It would simply take too much thermal energy to disable constructs, much less blast them to oblivion.

  He could achieve the same results by dedicating that power to field more walkers, have them attack the rogue constructs with weapons. This was why he continued churning out more walkers until he could confirm the efficiency of scarab lasers against these particular constructs.

  His dolls hooked up the last obelisk to the network, activating it and extending the range of his eyeballs and walkers far enough to approach the rogues. Princess Gurhan and a hundred of her scouts assembled on a nearby dune, ready to either step in and negotiate or stand back and bear witness to the first attack.

  Martin used an eyeball’s lens to examine the half-built pyramid being swarmed by dolls a few hundred feet beyond the line of hieracosphinxes. Martin’s non-existent heart sank as he saw generators and production vats being assembled via layers of mud, rock, and metals.

  These constructs weren’t just scavenging, transporting, and repairing broken facilities. No, they were actively creating their industrial base from the ground up. This meant that Martin could assume every other pyramid off in the distance would hold vats and generators of their own.

  This confirmed his worst fears.

  These rogues indeed possessed the capacity to grow their numbers with each finished pyramid. Not only could they build more, but each pyramid also served as a power hub that increased their total construct count. Snaking lines of rogue dolls fueled this construction, marching across the hot sands of the Wastes to ferry precious resources from sources over the horizon.

  Martin calmed his core consciousness with an imaginary breath. His myriad partitions did the same, each doing so with breaths of their own. One walker walked steadily toward the mass of rogues, eyeing the hieracosphinxes that stood stoically against the beating sun and wind of the desert.

  The unarmed walker approached the rogues slowly, without the slightest hint of aggression. He did not even draw chi into the mandala patterns carved into its ceramic skin. He did everything he could to prevent a conflict;
he did not want to repeat the fiasco in the underground facility.

  He just walked slowly until he reached the very limit of the rogues and stood there.

  His only hope was that the Custodian controlling these constructs would see his new purified core instead of the old one tainted by trapped, tormented souls. Maybe things would turn out much better this time around now that he wasn’t a roiling ball of concentrated pain and suffering.

  The hieracosphinxes at the front stared at Martin’s walker, their faces as blank and featureless as his own constructs. They held their ground in a perfect circle around the obelisk that determined their effective control radius.

  Martin used his eyeballs to look further behind the lines and saw pyramids alternating with obelisks. One pyramid for a dozen miles, followed by an obelisk for another dozen miles, then another pyramid for a dozen miles. A pattern worth noting, especially if things didn’t turn out well.

  The walker approached the line of hieracosphinxes with its hands lowered. It got closer and closer to the line of constructs, one careful step at a time, as the constructs stared emptily at it. The walker closed in… and promptly jumped back as the closest hieracosphinx reached out and snapped at it with its beak.

  “Damn,” muttered Martin through a walker standing beside Princess Gurhan and her mount.

  “I take it those bird-things aren’t taking kindly to your walker?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” grumbled Martin as he sent the lone walker to other sections of the line. The results were the same whenever his walker approached: every single one of the hieracosphinxes attempted to either snap the walker’s head off or swipe at it with their clawed talons.

  “Yeah,” he finally said in defeat as he finally pulled back with his walker. “They don’t look like they’re willing to talk.”

  “Definitely an enemy then,” the princess-warrior declared with finality as she straightened her back. “Better we start harassing them now, thin out their numbers before they complete that pyramid of theirs.”