Warlock

by Glen Cook

  A fifth vehicle descended the slope, and a sixth. And still those already on the river hovered, waiting.

  Marika ground her teeth. How much longer could fire discipline hold among huntresses already badly shaken by what faced them?

  Not long. As the eighth vehicle appeared, making four carrying meth and four carrying supplies, a rifle cracked.

  The huntress responsible was a competent sniper. Her bullet stabbed through a dome and killed an operator. The vehicle surged forward, gained speed rapidly, rose, and smashed into a bluff a third of a mile upriver. Its fuel exploded.

  Long before that happened Marika’s every weapon had begun thundering at the Serke. For a while the vehicles were hidden by smoke and flying snow.

  Two more vehicles came down into the storm of death.

  “Get that darkship up over the trail,” Marika snapped at the Mistress of the Ship. “Wait. I am going with you. I do not want you following Educan. Dorteka. Keep hitting them. Get the personnel carriers first.”

  A vehicle broke out of the fury and scooted away north, sideslipping around the burning vehicle upstream. “That was a transport. We will catch it later. Take it up.”

  The darkship rose. At a hundred feet Marika could see that the remaining craft had been disabled. Huntresses had come out of some and were returning fire.

  A fuel tank blew, spread fire to other crippled vehicles. The conflagration generated a battle between volatile fuel and melting snow. Burning fuel spread atop the running melt.

  Marika reached with her touch and found several silth minds among the survivors, all bewildered, shocked, unready to respond. She jerked back, ducked through her loophole, grabbed the first suitable ghost she found, and hurtled down there. Slap. Slap. Slap. She dispatched three silth.

  There were at least four more vehicles in the forest, all carrying silth and huntresses. They had halted. Marika flung herself that way, hammered at silth hearts and minds till she encountered one that hurled her back and nearly broke through her defenses.

  She ducked back into the world long enough to order the darkship forward. The bath carried automatic weapons and grenades. She would wrestle the Serke sisters while the darkship crew demolished them with mundane weapons.

  And so it went for a few minutes, the bath crippling two of the vehicles. Marika fenced the strong Serke sister, and ducked around her occasionally, discovered that hers was the only Serke silth mind still conscious.

  On the river the survivors of the ambush were getting organized. The Serke silth ducked away from Marika and went to prevent Dorteka and the novices from overwhelming her fighters.

  The huntresses on the mountainside headed down to help their sisters. They fired on the darkship as they went.

  You are a strong one, the Serke silth sent. But you will not survive this.

  I have survived the Serke before, Marika retorted. This is the end of the Serke game. Here, today, you will all die. And you will leave the Reugge the proof needed to call the wrath of all the Communities down upon the Serke. You have fallen into the trap.

  You are the one called Marika?

  Yes. Which great Serke am I about to destroy?

  None.

  The silth slammed at her. Marika barely turned the blow, interposing her ghost between herself and that ruled by the Serke. She had made a tactical error. She had issued too strong a challenge before fully assessing the strength of the other’s ghost. It was more powerful than hers.

  Bullets hummed around the darkship. One spanged off the metal framework. Marika wondered why the ship was not moving, making itself a more difficult target. She ducked into reality for a second, saw that one bath had been wounded and another had been knocked entirely off the darkship. The Mistress had only one bath to draw upon. She could do little but remain aloft, a target for rifle fire.

  Marika flung a hasty touch Dorteka’s way. Dorteka. Get some mortar fire into the woods up here. Under the darkship. Before they bring us down and we are all lost.

  The Serke attacked again. She wobbled under the blow, fought its effects, tried to locate a more powerful ghost. There was none to be reached quickly enough. There were some great ones high above that might have been drawn in had she had time, but the Serke would give her no time.

  She dodged another stroke, slipped back into reality. Bombs had begun to fall on the slope below. Had she had the moment, Marika would have been amused. Those mortars were all captured weapons, taken from slain nomads. The brethren were adamant in their refusal to sell such weapons to the Reugge.

  She located the Serke silth visually. The female stood beside her disabled vehicle. Marika tried a new tack, hammering at the snow in the trees above the meth.

  A shower fell, distracting the silth. Marika used the moment won to stab at the huntresses firing on the darkship. She slew several. The others broke and ran.

  The silth regained her composure, punched back, adding, You do not play the game by the rules, pup.

  Marika dodged, sent, I play to win. I own no rules. She struck at a tree instead of the silth. The brittle trunk cracked. The giant toppled — in the wrong direction. She cracked another, then fended off the silth again.

  This was not going well. The Serke was wearing her down. And the darkship had begun to settle toward the surface. For the first time she felt uncertainty. The Serke sensed it, hurled mockeries her way.

  Angered, she cracked several more trees. This time the Serke was forced to spend time dodging the physical threat.

  Marika used the time to unsling her rifle and begin firing. Her bullets did not touch the silth, but they forced her to keep moving, ducking, too busy evading metal death to employ her talent.

  Marika hurled a pair of grenades. One fell close. Its blast threw the silth ten feet and left her stunned.

  Marika took careful aim, pumped three bullets into the sprawled form, the last through the brain.

  “That should do —”

  The darkship began to wobble, to slide sideways, to tilt.

  The Mistress of the Ship had been hit by a stray bullet.

  She had wanted to fly for so long. Marika’s thoughts were almost hysterical. She hadn’t wanted her first opportunity at flight to come at a time like this! She grabbed at the ship with her mind, trying to put into practice what she knew only as theory, while she edged out the long arm toward the wounded Mistress.

  Tree branches crackled as the darkship settled. Marika was afraid a giant would snap and in its fall sweep her and the darkship to the surface.

  Without her and the darkship, the Serke would win still.

  The darkship was low. She’d probably survive the fall. Still, she had to do more than survive. She had to save the darkship. She had to be available to support her huntresses, who were in a furious firefight with the Serke huntresses. She had to...

  She reached the Mistress of the Ship. Despite the meth’s salvageable condition, Marika pitched her off the position of power, ignored her cry of outrage as she fell. There was no time for niceties.

  Marika closed into herself, felt for those-who-dwell, who had begun scattering, summoned them, made them stabilize the craft before it fell any farther. She drew upon the bath and willed the ship to rise.

  It rose. Smoothly and easily, it rose, amazing her. This was easy! She turned it, drove it toward Critza, brought it down a little roughly just a few feet from its original hiding place.

  The wounded bath died moments later, drained of all her strength. The other passed out. Marika had drawn upon them too heavily.

  Marika had nothing left herself. Darkness swam before her eyes as she croaked, “Dorteka! What is the situation?”

  “They have gotten dug in. There are too many of them, and they still have a few silth left. Enough to block our dark-side attacks. We dare not assault them. They would cut us apart. I am hoping the mortars will give us the needed edge. You killed the leader?”

  “Yes. It was a close thing, too. I had to trick her, then shoot her. Keep using the mo
rtars to pin them down till I recover. No heroics. Hear?”

  Dorteka gave her a look that said she was a fool if she expected heroics from her teacher.

  Marika drained her canteen, ate ravenously, rested. Weapons continued to crackle and boom, but she noticed them not at all.

  The Serke huntresses had gotten out of their transport with nothing but small arms. Thank the All for that. Thank the All that she had been able to think quickly aboard the darkship. Else she would be dead now and the Serke would soon be victorious.

  The moment she felt sufficiently strong, she ducked through her loophole, found a monster of a ghost, flung it toward where the surviving Serke silth cowered, arguing about whether or not they should try to retreat to the two unharmed vehicles and flee.

  They were terrified. They were ready to abandon their followers to their fates. The one thing that held them in place was their certain knowledge of what defeat would mean to their Community.

  Marika sent, Surrender and you shall live.

  One of them tried to strike at her. She brushed the thrust aside.

  She killed them. She touched their huntresses and told them to surrender, too, then slaughtered those who persevered till she had no more strength. She returned to flesh. “The day is yours, Dorteka. Finish it. Round up the survivors.”

  When it was all done neither Marika nor Dorteka had strength enough to touch Akard and let the garrison there know that the threat had been averted.

  Grauel started fires and began gathering the dead, injured, and prisoners inside the ruins of Critza. She came to Marika. “All rounded up now.”

  “Many surrender?”

  “Only a few huntresses.” Her expression was one of contempt for those. “And five males. Tradermales. They were operating those vehicles.”

  “Guard them well. They mean the end of the threat against the Reugge. I will examine them after I have rested.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I

  The moons were up, sprawling skeletal shadows upon the mountainsides. As Marika wakened, it seemed she could still hear the echoes of shots murmuring off the river valley walls. “What is it?” Barlog had shaken her gently. The huntress wore a grim expression.

  “Come. You will have to see. No explanation will do.” She offered a helping paw.

  Marika looked at Grauel, who shrugged. “I’ve been here watching over you.”

  Barlog said, “I moved the prisoners over here, where I thought we could control them better. I did not notice, though, till one of the males asked if they could have their own fire. I spotted him when the flames came up. Before that it was like he was somebody else.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marika demanded.

  “I want you to see. I want to know if I am wrong.”

  Mairka eased between fallen building stones, paused. “Well?”

  Barlog pointed. “There. Look closely.”

  Marika looked.

  The astonishment was more punishing than a physical blow. “Kublin!” she gasped.

  The tradermale jerked around, eyes widening for a moment.

  Kublin. But that was impossible. Her littermate had died eight years ago, during the nomad raid that destroyed the Degnan packstead.

  Grauel rested a paw upon Marika’s shoulder, squeezed till it hurt. “It is. Marika, it is. How could that be? Why did I not recognize him earlier?”

  “We do not look for ghosts among the living,” Marika murmured. She moved a couple of steps closer. All the prisoners watched, their sullenness and despair for a moment forgotten.

  The tradermale began shaking, terrified.

  “Kublin,” Marika murmured. “How?... Grauel. Barlog. Keep everybody away. Don’t say a word to anyone. On your lives.” Her tone brooked no argument. The huntresses moved.

  Marika stood there staring, remembering, for a long time. Then she moved nearer the fire. The prisoners crept back, away. They knew it was she who had brought them to this despair.

  She settled onto a stone vacated by a Serke huntress. “Kublin. Come here. Sit with me.”

  He came, sat on cold stone, facing away from the other prisoners, who pretended not to watch. Witnesses. Something would have to be done...

  Was she mad?

  She studied her littermate. He was small still, and appeared no stronger than he had been, physically or in his will. He would not meet her eye.

  Yet there was an odor here. A mystery more than that surrounding his survival. Something odd about him. Perhaps it was something in the way the other males eyed him beneath their lowered brows. Was he in command? That seemed so unlikely she discarded the notion immediately.

  “Tell me, Kublin. Why are you alive? I saw you cut down by the nomads. I killed them...” But when the fighting ended, she recalled, she had been unable to find his body. “Tell me what happened.”

  He said nothing. He turned slightly, stared into the fire. The other males came somewhat more alert.

  “You’d better talk to me, Kublin. I’m the only hope you have here.”

  He spat something derogatory about silth, using the dialect they had spoken in their packstead. He mumbled, and Marika no longer used the dialect even with Grauel and Barlog. She did not catch it all. But it was not flattering.

  She patted his arm. “Very brave, Kublin. But think. Many of my huntresses died here today. Those who survived are not in a good temper. They have designs on you prisoners. Especially you males. You have broken all the codes and covenants. So tell me.”

  He shrugged. “All right.”

  He was never strong with her, Marika reflected. Only that time he tried to murder Pohsit.

  “I crawled into Gerrien’s loghouse after dark. There was still a fire going in the male end. I tried to get to it, but I fell into the cellar. I passed out. I do not remember very much after that. I kept trying to get out again, I think. I hurt a lot. There was a fever. The Laspe found me several days later. I was out of my mind, they said. Fever and hunger.”

  Marika drew one long, slow, deep breath, exhaled as slowly. Behind closed eyes she slowly played back the nightmare that had haunted her for so long. Being trapped in a dank, dark place, badly hurt, trying to climb a stair that would not permit climbing...

  “The Laspe nursed me back to health, out of obligation. I must have been out of my head a long time. My first clear memories are of the Laspe three or four weeks after the nomads came. They were not pleased to have me around. Next summer, when tradermales came through, I went away with Khronen. He took me to Critza. I lived there till the nomads came and breached the walls. When it became obvious help from Akard would not arrive in time, the master put all the pups aboard the escape vehicles and helped us shoot our way out. We were sent someplace in the south. When I became old enough, I was given a job as a driver. My orders eventually brought me here.”

  A true story, Marika thought. With all the flesh left off the bones. “That’s it? That’s all you can tell me about eight years of your life?”

  “Can you say much more about yours?”

  “What were you doing here, Kublin?”

  “Driving. That is my job.”

  A truth that was at least partly a lie, Marika suspected. He was hiding something. And he persisted in using the formal mode with her. Her. When they had been pups, they had used only the informal mode with one another.

  “Driving. But driving Serke making an illegal incursion into Reugge territory, Kublin. You and your brethren knowingly violated age-old conventions by becoming directly involved in a silth dispute. Why did you do that?”

  “I was told to drive. Those were my orders.”

  “They were very stupid orders. Weren’t they?”

  He would not answer.

  “This mess could destroy the brethren, Kublin.”

  He showed a little spirit in answering, “I doubt that. I doubt it very seriously.”

  “How do you expect the Communities to respond when they hear what brethren have done?”

  Kub
lin shrugged.

  “What’s so important about the Ponath, that so many must die and so much be risked, Kublin?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t know.”

  That had the ring of truth. And he had given in just enough to have lapsed into the informal mode momentarily.

  “Maybe you don’t.” She was growing a little angry. “I’ll tell you this. I’m going to find out.”

  He shrugged a third time, as though he did not care.

  “You put me in a quandary, Kublin. I’m going to go away for a little while. I have to think. Will you be a witness for me? Before the Reugge council?”

  “No. I will do nothing for you, silth. Nothing but die.”

  Marika went away, amazed to find that much spirit in him. And that much hatred of silth. So much that he would not accept her as the littermate he had shared so much with.

  Marika squatted beside Grauel. She nodded toward the prisoners. “I don’t want anyone else getting near them,” she whispered. “Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Marika found herself a place beside the main fire, crowding in among her surviving novices. She did not pay them any heed.

  Kublin! What was she to do? All they had shared as pups...

  She fell asleep squatting there. Despite the emotional storm, she was too exhausted to remain awake.

  Marika wakened to the sting of cold-blown snow upon her muzzle and the crackle of small-arms fire. She staggered up, her whole body aching. “What now?”

  Snow was falling, a powder driven by the wind. A vague bit of light said it was near sunrise. She could see just well and far enough to discover that yesterday’s bodies and wreckage already wore a coat of white. “Dorteka! What is happening?”

  “Nomads. There was a band following the Serke force. They stumbled onto the voctors I had going through the vehicles on the far slope.”

  “How many are there?”

  “I do not yet know. Quite a few from the sound of it.”

  Marika moved out into the open to look across the valley. She was surprised at the effort it took to make her muscles carry out her will. She could see nothing through the falling snow. “I am still worn out. I used up far more of me than I thought yesterday.”