by Jane Baskin
Nayan, wanting at first to go with him. But Vel, looking at the young lord as if he were looking at one of his own sons. A sad smile. “No, Nayan. This, I must do alone. You understand, don’t you?”
Nayan, nodding. “I will do all I can, here.”
Vel, bringing his personal weapons out of the place he had stored them. Putting on his armored tunic, sleeves, boots. Feeling odd for a moment. Had thought, at the time, that he would never don such things again. But. I was drunk.
What have I done? The words like blades inside his head. Over and over. Even the question: how could I have been so wrong?
Riding out, now. Oddly, knew where he was going. Knew Gwildan would strike at Vel next. Knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Knew it.
Remembering: back at the great hall of Cha-ning. Staring the bastard down. And knowing, as he looked hard into those faraway eyes, that he faced a madman. That nothing in all heavens and all hells would stop such a man. Nothing would bring him to reason. How could I have forgotten?
Knew also, that his hope of appealing to other elements of leadership had been … yes, stupid. I was a fool. He is their only leader. They are fully controlled by him. If they act alone … they act as rabble.
Knowing also, in the pit of his stomach, that he and his, had made Gwildan so. Had made him exactly what he was. As surely as a sculptor carved a stone, had they made Gwildan. Had made … the whole thing.
Cha-ning had been right.
Now, hunting. A good hunter, him. One of the best. Could match wits with a Cha-ning lion, most likely. Thinking now, of that consummate predator. How the animal could hide so still a man could look straight at it and not know it was there. How it could wait with the patience of all eternity. How it could watch, could follow until it had its prey staked out perfectly. Close to the others but separate too. Just separate enough for the strike.
Vel knew: Gwildan would have to piss, sooner or later.
Also knew: every secret route from Darleigh to Vel. Every imaginable pathway a man – or an army – would use to cover, as best as possible, an approach to the keep. Haunted these routes. Took his time.
He will come to me. Like it was ordained. For he too, had the knowing. That Nayan found so weird. That his daughter found so ordinary.
Now: had been in sight of them for hours. Less than two hours’ ride between Darleigh and Vel. But so much longer, when one was trying to be stealthy. Vel, having had them in his sights for quite a while. Sticking to dense cover, him. Just watching.
Watching them ride. Watching them confer quietly, as if someone were listening. Watching them eat. Make camp. So close now. Camping in the dense wood not a mile from Castle Vel. By that fast running stream where Zoren-te had loved to play as a child.
Hiding their cook fires. Speaking – if at all – in hushed tones. Like he didn’t see them. Like no one knew they were coming.
Vel thinking: that’s the trouble with passion. It smells. Anyone can smell you coming, long before they see you or hear you.
And there, finally. Gwildan, having drunk heartily from an aleskin. Arrogant bastard. Getting up, heading into the brush.
Vel: moving so quietly he made no more identifiable sound than the evening breeze in the trees. Waiting until Gwildan opened his pants, reached for himself.
A huge arm around his throat, a giant hand over his mouth. The hand, releasing just for a moment. Just long enough for the fist to pull back, then shoot forward like a bullet. Straight to the victim’s brain stem. Gwildan, unconscious before he was aware of being attacked.
Vel, still taking his time. Moving slowly through the brush, timing his movements with the gusts of wind. Carrying his prisoner like a sleeping child. Moving forward in stages. Nothing to be heard but the breeze.
At last … back to where he had hidden his big gantha. Securing the prisoner to the saddle. Wrapping his mouth in a long scarf. Into the saddle behind the prisoner. Heading away at a walk, still quiet. When finally distant enough from the camp for hoofbeats not to be heard: goading the gantha into a hard gallop. Crossing the wooden moat bridge at Vel with a loud clatter of hooves.
Off the mount in a leap. Detaching the prisoner from the saddle. Dragging him into the great hall. Tossing him irreverently onto the stone floor.
Gwildan, still groggy from the punch to the place where his skull met his neck.
Vel, calling the other lords into the hall from the dining table.
“Here. I’ve brought you the head of the beast, as I said I would.”
Vel should have killed him.
For Gwildan, bound and desperate, was to exact his revenge. Before revenge was exacted upon him.
Darleigh, squatting down beside the peasant leader. Slapping him in the face to bring him around. “Not so proud now, eh, hero? Wake up and face your fate.”
Gwildan, finally sitting up. Shaking his head violently, to clear it. Looking around, getting his bearings. Finally, meeting Vel eye to eye.
“So. We meet again, Lord Vel.”
Oh.
Darleigh, on it right away. To Vel: “Again? What’s he saying? What does he mean by saying ‘we meet again?’”
Vel, running a hand over his chin. Silent.
Darleigh, becoming angrier by the second. “What does he mean, Vel? Do you know this man?”
“Not well.”
“Answer! Tell me what I want to know! Have you met this man before?”
A sigh. “Yes. I have.”
“Where!?”
“At Cha-ning Castle.”
One could have heard a fly cough in the great hall.
Then Darleigh: “What. What in the name of all hells … was … this man … doing … at Cha-ning Castle?!”
“They had taken him in. He came to them wounded. They thought he was just another refugee from the war. After they healed him, they found out who he was.”
“And they just kept him there? They gave him comfort?”
“They did. It was the dead of winter. I suppose they didn’t know what else to do with him.”
“What else – what else? Are you mad, Vel? Are you insane? Why didn’t they just kill him?”
“It’s the North.”
Downhill from there. A clamor of voices. Calling for Gwildan’s death, of course. But many, calling for Vel’s death, as well.
“You sat with him! You ate with him! You failed to tell us of his whereabouts.”
The fact that Vel had no idea of Gwildan’s whereabouts after he left Cha-ning: irrelevant. When the blood is up …
Gwildan, left bound so tight his fingers turned blue. Lying in the middle of the great hall floor. Guarded – as if it were necessary – by a small armed force.
And Vel, quietly remanded to his rooms. Alone.
As he peered through the balcony doors while being escorted to his rooms: Vel, watching Darleigh. Watching him confer with his leading soldiers. Watching him make some sort of plan, to which he, Vel, Lord of this keep, was not privy.
No peasant army, the next day. Maybe routed; Darleigh’s keep: quickly retaken. The peasant army: certainly wondering where their esteemed leader was. Now Nayan, watching from his window. Had seen, earlier, a contingent of Darleigh’s soldiers arriving from his keep. Regrouping at Vel. Just watching, as a the entire company headed off.
But not west, in the direction of the peasant encampment. Northward, in the direction of the village, in fact. Huh?
Nayan, wondering where they had gone. At breakfast, spoke to Zoren-te in their secret way. Told her of what he had seen. Where do you suppose they were going?
Zoren-te, growing pale. You’re certain?
Her consternation, noticed by an officer, ostensibly guarding the room. “Are you well, My Lady?”
“Yes, of course.” Snappish.
Nayan: I’m sure. What is it?
That’s the way to the train station.
Nayan had heard ... of the South’s use of trains in warfare. Of the big trains made out of boxcars, strung together like beads on an endl
ess necklace. Carrying freight, supplies.
And troops.
In fact, the way southern raiders had been avoiding the misery of equatorial crossings for years.
Trying to doubt himself. Too awful to let the knowing in. But Zoren-te: where else would they be going? The remaining peasant encampments: all to the west and south.
No. Too wild an idea. But. Where else?
But the knowing: impossible to stop.
Zoren, where’s your line message room?
Both, rising from table. The officer, curious. “You haven’t finished your breakfast, My Lady.”
“I’d have more appetite if my father were here.” A withering look, a wave of the hand to force the nosy officer back. Then leaving the room. Showing Nayan the way to the line message room.Through the hall, toward the back of the castle, through the kitchens, down some back stairs.
Where they encountered an armed force of guards. “State your pupose.”
Zoren-te: “We need to send a message.”
“To whom?”
Zoren-te, taken aback only for a moment. Then standing very tall. “You do not need to know the content, nor the recipient, of my message. I am a Lady of Vel. Stand aside.”
The guard who had questioned her: looking nervous for a moment. Not meeting her fierce stare. “We have orders, My Lady.”
“From whom?”
“From Lord Darleigh.”
“Lord Darleigh is not the master of this house. He is no more than a guest. My father is the master here, and in his absence, I am mistress.”
“My Lady.”
“What? Stand aside.”
“We cannot do that, My Lady.”
“You will do as I command!
Nayan, touching her shoulder. Knowing how immovable soldiers can be. Especially when frightened. “We should go, Zoren.”
“But – ”
“Come.” Led her back along the circuitous route by which they had come. Tried to ignore the hostile stares of the southern soldiers, bleaching his back.
Upstairs, in a corridor: Listen to me, Zoren. As you say, those troops are headed for the North. I can feel it. I know it. Do you understand?
Opened her mouth to speak; closed it quickly. Her eyes, questioning. Nayan, do you think – ?
I don’t think. I know. They know Gwildan was at Cha-ning.
All the gods. But … Nayan, we can go by train.
The same train the raiders are using? Are you kidding?
It’s too late for that. And no, I’m not kidding. I’d do it if we could. But there’s another train, that goes to Sauran City. If we hurry, we can make it. Then we can take a train to the end of the line at Cha-ning. Somewhere along the way, there’ll be a line message center we can use. All the train stations have them.
A quick hug. A hearty thanks to all heavens that she was so smart.
And such an excellent partner.
Who didn’t think he was at all weird.
There. You see? It comes to war.
Yes, with Class 2 civ’s, it usually does.
Then how can you be so sure the gene will prove itself?
I think this war … will do exactly that.
How silly! War proves nothing. That’s how it is, always.
This time, it’s I who disagrees, my old friend. War decides things … in the worst of ways, yes, but … it makes the decisions the individuals cannot make on their own. By themselves. Alone.
But the gene is not alone.
Oh my friend, it’s always alone. Until it blooms.
If it blooms.
Yes, of course.
19.Disaster
As fate would have it: the line message machine at the nearest train station: out of order. Zoren, ever hopeful: We can send from Sauran City. It’s not a long ride. We can still beat them there.
Seemed to take forever, boarding that train. Nayan, not used to trains. Had never ridden one in his life, apart from the journey to Vel. Added to that, the difficulty persuading his and Zoren-te’s ganthas to enter the boxcars of the iron beast … difficult. Eating up precious time. And patience that he did not have. His anxiety, eclipsing parts of his mind. The parts that soothed, that controlled ganthas. Had been doing it since childhood. But now – incredibly – just forgot.
Only aware of the growing dread, in the pit of his stomach; inside his head. Threatening to overwhelm him.
The dark thing. The thing he saw … felt like an eternity ago … when he and his brother planned a crazy escapade. The thing he kept pushing away. The thing that would not go.
Now, a long stop. Drumming his fingers on the seat rail, as they made the slow passage over the border north of the equator. As inspectors examined everyone’s documents, made maddenly slow notes.
Finally: Sauran City. The station: huge, bustling with people and ganthas. Pack animals. Freight loaders, wagons. Automobiles. That – at another time – might have fascinated them. But. Focused only on off-loading their ganthas, then getting them onto another train … the animals, hysterical amid all the noise. Nayan, working up a sweat. Almost losing his patience with his own gantha, a son of Mother’s stubborn beast and now, much like his sire.
Common wisdom: animals, sensitive to the anxiety of the humans around them. In this case … very true.
Finally … remembering. When Zoren-te told him quietly: “Trance them, Nayan.”
How did I forget? What’s the matter with me? Understanding: had never felt like this before. The anxiety before battle … not like this. This, like worms in his belly, his throat, his lungs. Like he couldn’t breathe.
Get hold of yourself. Finally, going still. Letting his eyes focus on the air just before his face. Where he could see – incredibly – whirls and whorls of energy, spinning about. Joined by Zoren-te.
And then the ganthas, quietly boarding the train.
But … too late? Not enough time to get to the line message center. A long line of people, snaking out from it anyway. Might have taken an hour, just to get a message away. Get on the train, before it leaves without you.
At last, away. The ride to the end of the line, not too long. Three hours, barring obstacles. Nayan, trying to calm himself. Getting more nervous the closer they got to Cha-ning. Knowing … something. Whenever he closed his eyes: seeing that dark thing. The unnameable, unknowable blackness that had formed before his eyes a year before.
Zoren-te, putting her hand over his. Her mind, in his. What is it?
Shaking his head. I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right.
It’ll be all right. We probably dreamed the whole thing up.
I wish … you were right.
Zoren-te, her look darkening. Knowing she was not right. Knowing what he was feeling; feeling it herself. Nayan. Let’s try something.
What?
Combine our thoughts. Try to reach Cha-ning.
What? That’s impossible.
Are you certain? We can transfer thoughts to each other. Why not?
We’re so far away …
Try!
So. For the three full hours of the ride, plus the half hour delay getting a herd of wild dereks off the tracks, Nayan and Zoren-te, combining their thoughts. Drawing Cha-ning in their heads, wandering the halls. At first, tried the line message room, realized that was foolish (or so they thought) – or at least, too difficult. Quickly abandoned the effort, went searching for family, friends. Drew faces in their minds, shared the pictures. Saw Dar-agan, his bear-like breadth, his gentle smile through his reddish beard. Saw Ilia-te, her lovely face smiling. Then: saw Che. Nayan: I can reach him.
Redoubled their efforts. Concentrated so deeply they fell into trance, causing fellow passengers to wonder if they were all right. Che. Listen to us. Che.
No peasant attack at Vel the next day, either. Or the next. Finally, on the fourth day, a large group.
No shouting or waving of rifles, their usual approach. Something almost hesitant about the advance. Coming at a walk. Silent.
Then:
can it be? The entire peasant army, coming to a full stop way before the moat bridge. Most of it, still at the edge of the tree line, in the brush.
Staring. Just staring.
See? There. At the end of the bridge. High on a pike.
The already-starting-to-rot head, of Gwildan.
Then a terrible rush toward them, of Vel’s armies. And Darleigh’s. Out of the courtyard in a wave, from the sides of the castle, from the brush at the edges of the front meadow. Surrounding them. Smashing into the stopped peasant forces like a wild sea. Shooters on the turrets, sweeping the forward troops. Toppling riders and ganthas alike.
Even out of the old dry moat itself. Sharpshooters leaping from below. From the trees and brush to the sides of the keep – parallel to the place from where they had come – Darleigh’s restored armies. Flanking the peasant armies, closing in on them from the sides.
And then, from behind. The side pincers extending through the wood, meeting another lord’s army behind the rebels, enclosing them in a deadly circle.
Then: just the killing. This time, the numbers more than even. Every lord’s army within a day’s distance, summoned by line message to the event. Murder, revenge. For all the lost friends, relatives, innocents. Now give up more friends, relatives and innocents … for the cause. Justified, yes. Had to be done, right?
This battle: a long one. At least to Vel: watching from his bedroom window. Disarmed, imprisoned. At least for the time being.
Just standing. Watching. Oh, carnage. From his perch, rivers of blood. Mountains of guts, piling up and tripping men and beasts. All, falling in the muck. Hysterical ganthas sliding over men, falling upon them. Hysterical men, butchering other hysterical men. Shooting at close range; bursting heads like summer melons. Grabbing, tossing corpses. Like they could make them live again so they could kill them again. The piece of the dry moat Vel could see from his window: filling with red ooze, ghastly chunks.
And the noise: making him deaf.
The dust: blocking out all heaven.
Vel, just watching. Gave up trying to tell one side from the other. Too much gore. Watching all the little red men.
Would I have fought, if they had let me?
