by Jane Baskin
Che: Like sheep.
Nayan: Good. Because I won’t burn men alive. In his mind, the image of his parents. With red spots on their foreheads. The image that he knew would be there in his mind’s eye forever. But they: not dead, this time. Smiling. Urging him toward calm.
Then Darleigh Castle: burned to the ground.
Northern soldiers: regrouping on what was left of the meadow. So many corpses: hard to find a place to plant your gantha. Defenders: scattered.
Nayan: did anyone find Darleigh?
No answer.
Recalling Zoren-te telling him: a tunnel under the castle. Trying to remember where she told him it came out. His brain so full of blood; so addled … drawing a blank. But suddenly a bolt inside his head a knowing: I need to remember. I need to find Darleigh. I’ll need him.
Huh? Why? How did he know he would need Darleigh alive? Just knowing … again. But oh, so strong, this knowing. Get Darleigh. You have to get the old man.
Found Darleigh with little trouble. What Zoren-te had told him, about the escape route ... suddenly blooming in his mind like a new flower. From her? Couldn’t tell. Then another knowing: Zoren-te: in trouble.
So – waiting for the lord, as he emerged from the tunnel. Had already overcome his lieutenants, waiting with fresh ganthas at the exit.
The look of fear on Darleigh’s face: made Nayan want to vomit.
“Mount your gantha. We’re going to Vel.”
At Vel: the commander had outridden even his elite teams. Rode his gantha half to death. Had to have that red braid.
Came up on her flank. One of the two men she rode with: had veered off to chase down a defender trying to flee the scene. Good. Opportunity. Just for a split second, the Commander: watching with satisfaction as the attacker cut the coward almost in half with a sword. Watched the escapee fall off his gantha in two pieces. The commander, smiling. Didn’t care that it was his own man. No use for cowards, him.
Now, only the one other rider, off to her other side. Waited. Waited until the tide of battle forced that one away. Just far enough away for the commander to spur his gantha up beside hers. Then: just a simple grab. The girl never knew what happened. Dragged her off her mount, onto the saddle in front of him. Gods alive, she weighed nothing. Vel’s finely built daughter. Who could move like the wind on the practice yard, could stick an opponent before he knew he’d been stuck … but so light. Easy to pull of a gantha, especially when she didn’t see you coming.
He had the dangerous – but clever – idea to ride right through her own forces. Counted on the melee to blend in. Just long enough to grab her, pull her across his own mount, and chop her at the base of the skull with a hard fist. By the time the other northern rider noticed, the commander: already galloping away, Zoren-te, flopping unconscious on the front of his saddle.
Chased by the other rider, of course. Those northern ganthas, tough beasts. But the commander, digging sharp spurs into his own gantha. Who cared if the beast dropped dead from the savage run? So long as it got him inside the courtyard.
Where the mob of fighters had thinned out. Defenders, lying dead everywhere. Attackers, back to the field. In the commander’s mind: good. Rode his gantha straight into the great hall. Where he jumped down, unloaded his captive, ripped off her helmet, pointed a sidearm to her head.
A bizarre scene. The commander, holding his groggy captive up by her leather tunic, jamming the weapon into the messy red hair. Turning her in a slow circle. Growling at the few attackers in the hall: “Breathe too hard and she dies.”
Attackers, becoming still.
Then a man, riding his own gantha right into the hall. Jumping off before it had stopped. Quickly followed by another. Noar, taking in the scene. Enraged. Silently thinking: You can’t have her. Nayan will burn the entire South.
And besides, she’s mine.
Behind him, Colwen. Putting out a hand to stop Noar’s advance.
Both men stopping. The commander: good. “This is the only survivor of the Lordship of Vel. And … ” Scanned the two men carefully. That one, the slightly taller, slightly broader one. “And … if I’m not mistaken, the contracted bride of your brother, Lord Noar.”
Noar, a low growl. “That is … as you say.”
“Do you think your brother will be happy if I blast her head to little pieces, right here, right now?”
No answer. Although the glare would have wilted any other man.
“Because that’s what I will do, if you or any of your men take one step closer to me. I will blast her head right off her shoulders.”
Zoren-te, struggling to fully awaken. Wanting to shake her head, but held fast in the vise of the commander’s grip and the hand rifle barrel. Not able to move her head; but managed to move her eyes. Looked down. No gloves on the hand that held her: good. Worked her head slowly, in minute stages. Distracted her captor by pushing against his torso. Just enough to get him to move. Tightened his grip, but moved it as well. Moved one hand … closer to her face.
In a move too fast to be seen, bit his thumb almost off.
A spray of blood. Curses, screams from the commander. But amazingly, did not lose his grip. Twirling her around in a circle from which he could tighten his grip further; from which she could not escape. Zoren-te, starting to choke. The commander, wanting to choke her unconscious, but thinking better of it. If she falls, I may not be able to hold her for long. And then those two will move in on me. All gods, I will not lose my prize.
Jammed the rifle barrel so hard into her head blood oozed from the spot; ran in a red line down her cheek. Meeting the blood running from her mouth – his blood. Finally, she stopped struggling.
The commander, wincing, choking against the pain in his thumb. But holding on. Choking out: “I will kill her. I may just do it for fun.”
Noar, intensifying his glare. I will not lose my prize.
One hour. The time it took for the battle at Vel to settle. Attackers, victorious. But down there in the great hall, one defender – just one – holding them all hostage. Like he was making time stand still. The last surviving commander, holding Zoren-te in a death grip, with a hand rifle jammed into her head.
Chairs had been brought. Zoren-te in one, tied according to the commander’s instructions. She can move fast. No chances. The commander in the other, just behind her. The sidearm, supported by her chair back, at the base of her skull. In such a position that if she tried to jerk her head back, he could pull the trigger before she moved an inch.
Just waiting, now. For Nayan.
The commander: knew he would come. Knew he would probably be attacking Darleigh. Probably winning, as they had won here. Would be coming over to celebrate, soon. Where he would find his beloved (everyone knew it was a love match) about to die.
Noar, leaning against a wall. His gaze, not averted for longer than it took him to spit on the fine floors. Then back again to the commander. His dark blue eyes, radiating cold fire. Making the commander think. Frightening him, a little bit. But exciting him at the same time. I’d like to try the young lord on the field.
But not now. For now, just wait. Wait for his brother, the young Lord of Cha-ning, to walk through that door victorious … until he saw … this. What I have. I can wait forever.
Then, just at the start of the second hour, the sound of hoofbeats outside. Over the bridges, into the courtyard. The sound of boots in the vestibule. Then … here. A voice, yelling in that peculiar northern twang: “Why isn’t this place burning?”
Nayan, striding into the hall, stopping dead. Noar, finally taking his eyes off the commander. Crossing to Nayan. “He rode right in among us. He has some stones, I’ll give him that. Got between her and Colwen. Dragged her off her gantha. I chased him, but I was too late.”
Nayan, pushing his brother aside. Not even meeting his eye. Crossing over to the commander. Not even looking at Zoren-te, only at the man’s eyes. His dark eyes, growing darker with every step. Even the proud commander, murderer of many, fee
ling a little snake of fear in his gut.
Nayan, stopping his approach way too close, leaning over the commander. “Are you sure you want to do this? What happens after you pull the trigger? Do you know how painfully and slowly I’ll kill you?”
“You won’t go there.”
“Try me.”
Zoren-te: looking up at him. A flash across her face: who is this? This blood spattered man, who had made love to her just the night before, who had held her safe against the sea … was he trying to get her killed? “Nayan … ”
Never moved those terrible dark eyes from the commander. To Zoren-te: Shh. I’ve got this. Don’t move. Then his eyes, oh. Becoming darker and darker; now almost black. Holding the commander in thrall. More in thrall than the commander understood. More even than Nayan himself understood.
Look! See what he’s doing!
I see.
He’s mind piercing!
(sigh) I think … he won’t need our help much longer.
Are you sorry we interfered?
Of course I am.
But maybe it was necessary … to get to this point.
Yes, dear Leader. Maybe it was.
(smile)
Into this silence: Che. Dragging behind him the bound and rumpled Darleigh. Who had soiled himself.
Darleigh, as if waking up. Taking in the scene. Then, a strangled voice: “Commander Selgan! What are you doing?”
The commander, so startled by the voice of his Lord, and the sight and smell of him … shifted his eyes to look over at him. Just for an instant.
That: all it took.
Time enough – especially when Nayan stopped time for two whole seconds – time enough for Nayan’s hand to shoot out, break the commander’s wrist … at the same time that he knocked Zoren-te over with his foot, getting her out of any line of fire. The commander, having almost enough time to think, Gods alive what just happened? Just before the sidearm was caught by Nayan in its fall, was pressed against his own head.
Colwen, rushing over to Zoren-te, picking her up, releasing her. She, turning to the commander, drawing her leg back so quickly he never saw it coming. A terrible kick to his middle. All her strength into the blow. A loud gasp as the man fell from his chair, curled up like a shrimp. Zoren-te backing up, coming to stand beside Nayan.
While Darleigh shouted from Che’s grasp: “Selgan, you almighty fool. What were you thinking? This house is full of enemies!”
Selgan, choking out the words: “I had them, you old idiot. I held them off completely! Just holding a gun to a girl’s head.”
“It’s over, Selgan, don’t you see? They’ve burned my house, and unless I’m a mad fool, they’ll burn this one too.”
Selgan, a wry smile. “We should have burned theirs.”
Nayan and Noar, getting it at the same moment. Noar, crossing the room in two huge strides. “Were you at Cha-ning, you bastard?”
Selgan, looking up at him. A hideous expression of revenge – for what he knew would surely come – on his face. “I shot the lords, both of them, and the kitchen maid. I shot them right in the head.”
How could things go so wrong? Selgan, all the pride flushed out of him. Now languishing back in his chair, bound hand and foot so tightly he could barely breathe. Next to him, Darleigh. The young lords, gone from the room. Elder lords, too. Had arrived in time to view the prisoners, look at them with disgust. The scorn flowing from the Lord of Aurast … enough to poison the autumn air. (As if it weren’t poisoned enough by the smell of blood) All the lords gone, now. Time for the prisoners to sit. Think. Suffer. Anticipation: worse than the sharpest knife.
Selgan: a single obsession. Not supposed to happen like this.
Not supposed to lose a battle to groups of bumpkin northerners. Highly trained southern armies, falling before rag-tag raiders. Unthinkable. Supposed to have been a great moment, Darleigh riding over the hill victorious, striding into the hall where he, Selgan, would offer up the greatest prize: the chance to finish off the line of Vel forever. For which he would be rewarded. Fabulously rewarded. With wealth enough to retire to his own small home, with enough land to till and a few peasants to till it for him. Now … everything, so cocked up.
Wondered idly what would happen. He would be killed, of course. But how?
Soldiers sometimes muse upon their own deaths. Just part of the job. But Selgan: could hardly figure what would befall him at the hands of that black eyed beast. A weird one, the new Lord of Cha-ning.
While Darleigh farted and moaned in his chair. A rising stench: had fouled himself again. Selgan, shaking his head. The Lords. What morons. Maybe Gwildan had been right (blistered be the thought!). Although the old lion of Vel … there was a man.
Suddenly Nayan, Noar and the brothers, coming into the room. Nayan, stopping before Darleigh. Behind him, Noar. With a crossbow.
To Darleigh: “Was it you who held the knife, or just directed the knife, that killed Lord Vel?”
Darleigh, knowing he was about to die. Perhaps finding the last mote of courage in his soul. Looked up at Nayan. Almost a snarl: “I killed him myself. He died by my hand.”
“Was he armed?”
“No. He held his hands at his side.”
Nayan stepped aside. Darleigh: surprised. What was going on? Just time enough to fall back into the despair grinding through his bowels.
From behind Nayan, Noar raised the crossbow. Darleigh: an instinctive cringe. But the bow, not for him.
Selgan, looking up. Straight at Noar. “You mean that for me, don’t you?”
“The same for you as for my parents.”
Che and Colwen, coming to stand beside Noar. Che: “And for our mother, you stinking coward.”
Selgan, the proud warrior, suddenly crumbling within. I am going to die. No little farm with my own peasants. Just a bolt to the brain. I am going to die.
Feeling the warm piss running down his leg. Huh? Suddenly not proud at all. Suddenly feeling like a fool. I should have let the girl go. I knew it was a planned attack. I should have passed her up. I could have just run away like all the other cowards. Wondering where such men were now. Feeling himself duck his head, as if he could.
The last thing he heard in this world: the clunk of the crossbow release as Noar fired. At this close range … Selgan’s head split in half like a melon.
Zoren-te, coming into the room. Handing the long knife to Nayan. “I’d do it myself, but I don’t know that I’m strong enough to get through all that fat.”
Nayan, now releasing Darleigh from his bonds. Motioning for him to stand. Darleigh, his roiling bowels releasing a powerful noise, followed by an unmistakable stench. Nayan, pausing a moment, just looking at him. “Gods alive, you stink. Can you not be a man, even for your last moment?”
“What are you going to do, young Lord?”
“Did Vel shit himself before you killed him?”
Darleigh, trembling. No answer.
“Hold your hands at your sides, like he did.”
In the end, Darleigh held his hands up to defend himself. Nayan, moving under his paltry defense like a lion, sticking the knife deep into his middle, drawing it up to Darleigh’s heart, driving it home. Strange sounds coming out of the lord as he died. A scream, a groan, a sigh, a final fart.
Not at all like the lion of Vel.
At last. It’s over.
At last. The seed is safe.
For now. But … at what cost? I hate war.
As do we all, as do we all.
Is it really necessary?
(Sigh) That’s the tragedy, isn’t it, old friend? It usually is ... a critical step.
Why can’t civilizations just be born mature?
Because they can’t. (smile)
23.Ghosts Are With You Forever
Zoren-te, a spark igniter in her hand. Walking. Just cruising the wide hallways of Vel. Passing second floor rooms she had known so well … in another life. There, her parents’ suite of rooms. There, at the end of the hall, her bro
ther’s apartment. From where she remembered hearing the wail of a newborn, his firstborn child. Her first nephew. What a cheerful sound that had been! Not at all like the silence that greeted her now; the smell of smoke. The iron stink of blood. A metallic taste, permeating everything. Entering her mouth. She, taking long, raw breaths; feeling like she couldn’t get enough air.
Her own rooms; on the floor above. Paused by the stair, considered going up. Decided against it. Descended to the first floor.
All of it trailed by Nayan, at a slight distance behind her. Just letting her be. Wondering what it would be like if he were the silent walker in the corridors of Cha-ning, carrying an ignition torch.
Zoren-te, passing through the vestibule. Silent as a kitten. Then pausing at the dining room arch. Were the ghosts calling to her? Turned, went into the room.
All cleaned up now. No bloodstains on the table. In fact, the table: gone. Some unidentifiable blotches on the stone floor. Zoren-te, noting almost idly how hard it was to get bloodstains out of stone. Standing silent in the middle of the opulent room. Hearing – what? Her mother’s cries? Her sisters’ complaints?
Or her father’s breathing, calm and strong until the last bit of air emerged from his lungs, staining the air permanently with memory?
To Nayan, standing silent by her side. This is where he died. Where Darleigh murdered him. My mother and sisters, too. I can feel it.
I know.
Can you feel it?
Yes.
He gathered them here. I think my mother and sisters were shot. They’d have been noisy. But Father … Her thoughts, trailing away. In her mind’s eye, the father she had adored, meeting his death with honor. The honor he had taught her. The honor she would never forget. “Here. Put it right here. Please.”
Nayan, bringing up the bottle of flammable liquid he had been carrying behind her. Opening it, scattering the contents on the floor, the remaining chairs, the curtains. Then turning to face her.
