The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  Dante returned Cord's glare in kind. The Keeper stood to the side, observing in silence.

  He moved to stand before her. "Why didn't you try to stop them?"

  The wrinkles on her brow deepened. "That isn't my place."

  "That's the best you can do? You're a walking library. History. Philosophy. Right conduct. You should be a leading light for these people!"

  "Let the despots be their lights. My duty is to preserve. Without me, our culture would be ash on the wind."

  Dante clenched his teeth. "Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing."

  A hand grabbed his upper arm. He spun, but it was Blays.

  Blays smiled to the Keeper and dragged Dante away. Speaking softly, he said, "Will you quit arguing with them already?"

  "You're the one who's always trying to spare every life we can. Don't tell me you're all right with what we just saw."

  "I'm pretty damn far from all right. But they're not going to listen to a word we have to say. Not right now."

  Dante lowered his voice. "Do you think they ever will?"

  "I don't think we have half as much control over them as we thought. Maybe this was an isolated case—prisoners venting their spleens on the assholes who were trying to turn the basin into one giant sand dune—but maybe this is only the beginning. Do we want to be a part of that?"

  "Want isn't the right word. But it's going to be a lot easier for us to get to Gladdic if we've got an army backing us up. For the moment, our interests align with theirs."

  "What about after he's dead?"

  "We reassess."

  Blays scrunched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, laughing ruefully. "Until then, I suppose we'll have to try to lead by example. In the meantime, we've foiled Gladdic's evil scheme to starve the resistance out of the Collen Basin. What do we do now?"

  "Get these people out of here before I do something regrettable," Dante said. "Then tear down the dam."

  Settling on a new course of action had relieved Dante of most of his agitation. He regrouped with the Keeper and Cord.

  "I'll take care of the wounded," Dante said. "As soon as I'm done, take these people out of here and bring them back to Dog's Paw."

  The Keeper gestured toward the dam. "You will stay to destroy it?"

  "I don't think I'll have the strength until tomorrow. You need to get your people far away from here before Gladdic gets wind of his defeat."

  Dante burned through the rest of his nether patching up the wounds the Colleners had suffered in the fighting. As soon as he was done, Cord and the Keeper led the former prisoners south along the canal.

  The Colleners had gone through the dead soldiers' pockets, but had otherwise left the bodies where they'd fallen. Faced with the choice of cleaning up the grounds or relocating, Dante, Naran, and Blays headed a short way upriver, making camp behind a stand of trees sprouting from the bank.

  Before bedding down, Naran spent a long minute staring at the river. "Do you know any incantations against nightmares?"

  "Afraid not," Dante said. "Expecting them?"

  "I won't be the only one troubled tonight. Such things aren't seen lightly."

  "After everything the Colleners have been through, I should have been wary for something like this."

  Naran lifted an eyebrow. "You're not of the school that suffering creates virtue in the sufferer?"

  "People say suffering is noble to put a silver lining on the horrors they're going through. But how many people do you know who get nicer when they're in pain? Pain doesn't make you a better person. It makes you as hateful as the one who's hurting you."

  Dante slept surprisingly well. Morning came too soon. Once his mind was clear enough to work, he walked downstream to the site of the prior night's battle. Flies rippled on the bodies. He wrapped a cloth around his mouth, but it did little to keep out the stench.

  The water in the canal looked no higher or lower than the night before. Dante used his knife to trace a red line on his arm, then moved his mind into the jumble of rocks and earth. Gesturing through the air like he was smoothing a rumpled sheet, he turned stones and boulders to mud. Water rushed in from the river, dispersing the mud down the canal. Within three minutes, Dante had cleared the blockage completely. Water sped down the channel. By day's end, the canals would be filled again.

  Dante's spirits lifted with the rising water. The Colleners had been more vicious toward the Mallish than he'd envisioned they'd be. But it was the Mallish who had invaded Collen. Who'd tried to wring it dry. The basin's farmers and laborers had always been friendly enough. They were still worth saving.

  The sailboat had remained tied to the banks despite the battering of the reopened canal. As usual, the winds blew out of the southwest, the exact opposite direction they needed. If they followed the map, however, the renewed currents would deliver them directly to Dog's Paw. They searched the battlefield for the boat poles—some of the captives had been using them as quarterstaffs—then got on their way. The going was slower than the previous night, but required no physical effort except when they had to use the poles to steer themselves down a fork in the canals.

  Traveling at a steady two to three miles per hour, they overtook the liberated prisoners early the next morning. Dante didn't stop to parlay. After two and a half days of drifting downstream, they came to the canal that ran past the Twill residence. They poled the boat into the small canal Dante had built to bring the ship to the water, ending up within a bowshot of Boggs' house.

  As they climbed out and tied up the boat, Boggs ambled toward them, grinning broadly. "Guessin' by the fact you sailed back here that you whipped their mangy asses."

  "Mallish force nearly a hundred strong," Dante said. "We'll need another audience with the town senate."

  They traveled into Dog's Paw. There, Boggs learned the Small Senate was incapable of meeting on account of the fact that two of the senators were currently visiting Tanner. Expecting the pair to return by morning, the remainder of the senate agreed to meet at noon the next day.

  Before the slaughter at the river, Dante would have known exactly what he'd say to the senate. Now, he spent most of his waking minutes leading up to the meeting lost in thought.

  At dawn, the drums awoke him. Shortly before noon, he took Naran and Blays to meet Boggs in the plaza outside the shrine, entering together. A monk led them upstairs to the map room. The senate awaited them at the table.

  Serta stood and bowed his shaved head. "We meet again. Let me guess: you're here to tell us we must fight after all?"

  "I'm here to tell you the facts," Dante said. "What you choose to do with them is your own decision."

  The man smiled in surprise. "A welcome change from the tone of your last visit. Please, speak."

  "As we suspected, Mallish forces caused the canal to drop. They were trying to dam it up completely." Dante relayed a summary of their trip to the river and the ensuing battle. Including the massacre afterward. He imagined he kept his voice dispassionate. "I destroyed the dam. But there's nothing to stop them from rebuilding it."

  "The very attempt is a tacit declaration of war on the entire basin." Serta's words were little more than a whisper. He cleared his throat and raised his voice to a normal tone. "But only fools fight a war they can't win. You returned the water to the canal, but maybe we should leave regardless. It makes more sense to walk away than to die at the claws of the demons."

  "Our situation has changed. We still don't know how to destroy them. But we've learned how to banish them. I don't have the power to assault Gladdic's army singlehanded, but I've summoned a team of sorcerers from Narashtovik. They should be here within three weeks. At that time, if you want my help, I'll be happy to assist your army in retaking Collen."

  "Last time, our answer was simple. This time, I believe we have much to discuss."

  The senators began a conversation that swiftly morphed into a bitter argument. Three of them sounded angry enough with Gladdic to declare war on the spot, but the ot
hers remained fearful of provoking further aggression.

  As the debate wore on, someone whistled from one of the cliffs outside the shrine. The shutters were open, but the curtains were drawn, blocking out the sunlight, but not the sudden buzz of voices down in the plaza. Dozens of feet rasped across the stone.

  A senator named Nell sighed testily and gestured at her fellow senators. "I hear a lot of words. Do you know what words are made of? Air. Air can't kill demons."

  Blays motioned in a vaguely northern direction. "We've got a demon trapped at the Bloodlake right now. If you want, we could beat it up for you. Prove we know what we're doing. But honestly, I'm starting to feel bad for the little guy."

  Her brows bent. "Maybe you can and maybe you can't. But other than the story brought by these outsiders, how are we so sure the Mallish are to blame for the drying of the canals?"

  Serta gawked. "Who else would have done so?"

  "Maybe it was the Colleners attempting to get us to join their fight. Or maybe it was these men here. Why are they so eager to drive us to yet another war?"

  "You want proof the Mallish were involved?" Dante stood from his chair, crossed to the windows, and yanked back the curtains. "Feel free to ask one of the witnesses."

  The senators got to their feet. Down in the plaza, close to a hundred armed men and women milled about, wearing the dust of a three-day trek through the desert. Cord moved among them, her laughter booming between the heights of the cliffs.

  "Well." Serta had the look of a man who didn't like what he saw for the future. "I think we have enough to vote. All those in favor of war on the Mallish invaders?"

  Two senators raised their hands. Then a third. Serta was the fourth. He was joined by a fifth. Nell was the only one who opposed.

  The troubled look on Serta's face only grew deeper. "Send out messengers to the other towns. Dog's Paw goes to war on the Mallish—and the Code of the Wasp demands the entire basin does the same."

  25

  In the dirt outside the shrine of Silidus, two warriors strived and fought, twirling and clacking the long, spear-like weapons they called "wheels." They did their best to ignore Gladdic's eyes, but for all their physical prowess, he could feel them waiting to flinch.

  One monk jabbed at the other. His opponent intercepted the attack, then thrust forward, driving the tip of the wheel toward the attacker's chest. Now on the defensive, the former attacker fell back a step, pivoting to remove himself from danger. At the same time, he used his momentum to swing the weighted end of the wheel toward the body of the other monk—who once again blocked and flowed seamlessly into the next attack.

  Beside him, Horstad laughed in delight. "Remarkable. It's as if every action they make serves two purposes."

  "They call such practice a 'martial art,'" Gladdic said. His voice may or may not have been loud enough for the two monks to hear. "Horstad, in your judgment, does this skill truly qualify as art?"

  Horstad thrust out his jaw, extending his chubby neck. "I believe that all skills, when sufficiently advanced, may qualify as art."

  "Is that so. Say a shoe-boy shines your shoes. His technique is without flaw. It is the fastest your shoes have ever been shined; never have they shined brighter. Is this art?"

  "Er. Perhaps not. Yet if the shoe-boy's motions are graceful enough, it might evoke the feelings one associates with experiencing art."

  "I see. Then is a master artist defined by how pleasantly he moves his brush? Or wields his chisel?"

  "Of course not. A master artist is defined by the quality of his product."

  "And some products, like the shininess of one's shoes, can never be art."

  Horstad sighed, deflating on himself. "I suppose you're right, Ordon. Some skills can't be art no matter how fine the practitioner."

  "Whereas some skills, such as sculpture, are recognized as art no matter how poor the practitioner. So we have determined that some skills are always art. Some are never art. And some, like pottery, may become art, if the practitioner is masterful enough. Then we return to the original question: is the martial art an art?"

  His secretary tucked his chin, watching the combatants leap, jab, thrust, and parry. "It's certainly pleasant to watch."

  "Is this pleasure that which one feels watching a dancer? Or is it the type experienced while watching a wolf's stride and muscles as it chases down a deer?"

  "Ordon," Horstad said hesitantly. "Is this the type of question where you're about to provide me with the answer yourself?"

  Gladdic smiled thinly. "I ask, Horstad, because I wish to know."

  The secretary nodded once and frowned at the fighting monks. Gladdic didn't expect the young man's answer to hold much wisdom, but other minds, including ones far duller than Horstad's, could be a whetstone on which you honed the knife of your intellect until it was sharp enough to cut through whatever confusion bedeviled you.

  Observing the monks spar, Gladdic was of two minds. He was not troubled by his mental schism. It was rare indeed when the mind was united in singular agreement. More often, it warred with itself, such as when it was faced with a new idea, or the temptation to sin.

  Yet at that moment, his mind was not split by the urge to sin. Rather, it was split by the urge to show mercy. To the Colleners, of all things. Had he been corrupted by the dust, sun, and sage? Or by the presence of the Colleners themselves? In that case, his internal corruption must be isolated, extracted, and eradicated before it could spread to those parts of his mind that weren't yet infected.

  It remained possible, however, that his urge was rational. Which wasn't to say it was correct: only that the process causing his mind to suggest it was sound, and capable of being explored logically. In that case, aided by the whetstone of Horstad, his skeptical mind would interrogate the proposition to within an inch of its life. If, at that point, his merciful mind held fast to its conviction, his skeptical mind would be convinced.

  But if it turned out his merciful mind spoke delusions and falsehoods, then his skeptical mind would cleanse it.

  "I feel," Horstad answered at last, "that it is more like the dancer. Wolves don't train their skills; warriors do. Secondly, when a wolf hunts, its only purpose is to kill. Martial arts are practiced to teach one to kill, but as these monks before us prove, the arts can also be used to educate and entertain. Just like dance."

  There were several holes in this argument—not least the claim that entertainment was equivalent to art—yet Gladdic set the line of inquiry aside.

  "Let us accept, for now, that it is art," he said. "Clearly, it is art of the body. This is distinct from art of the mind, such as philosophy, and from art of the soul, such as theology. Surely, of all the arts, those of the body must come last." He lifted his palm, indicating the monks, who were now breathing hard, knuckles bleeding from the rap of their rival's weapon. "Yet in Collen, this is their primary method of worship."

  The secretary glanced at Gladdic from the corners of his eyes. "It's said that, through the art of the body, the monks' minds attain perfect clarity. Don't we teach that clarity of mind leads to purity of spirit?"

  Gladdic blinked. Anger rose in his gorge. The argument had the whiff of profundity. Clarity of mind did lead to purity of spirit. The only angle of attack, then, was whether the practice of martial arts did provide clarity.

  "Well stated." Gladdic kept his tone even. "But who claims physical action clears the mind?"

  "Why, it's self-evident, Ordon. When you chop wood, or dig a latrine, or go for a long walk, doesn't your mind feel as if it's awakened from a long nap?"

  Gladdic couldn't remember the last time he'd chopped wood or dug a pit. He did, however, enjoy his walks, for precisely the reason Horstad had stated. Gladdic could feel his mind spinning, groping about for wedges he could drive into Horstad's argument. There was no denying the premise. But perhaps he could prove that martial arts were an inefficient means of finding clarity? How? Compared to meditation? Or perhaps—

  A man jogged into t
he courtyard. He had the dark hair of a Mallish man, but wore the plain jacket of a Collener. A scout. Gladdic summoned the name: Dafid.

  "Ordon Gladdic." Dafid's eyes shifted to the dueling monks. "Please, pardon my interruption."

  "I assume," Gladdic said, "you wouldn't be making it unless it were of importance."

  "Just so, milord."

  "Then cease wasting time and explain what is so important that I must be interrupted."

  With infuriating deference, Dafid quietly explained that the dam had been destroyed. Along with every trace of Gladdic's forces, priests included. His strategy had been to claim the remainder of the basin without expending troops he didn't have. Instead, in one fell swoop, a tenth of his army had been annihilated.

  Gladdic's mind roared like wind through an empty room. Across from him, the monks' weapons clacked on.

  "Is it known…" Gladdic's mouth was too dry to speak. He moved his tongue until it moistened. "Is it known who's to blame for this crime?"

  Dafid lowered his gaze. "There were no survivors, milord. Most were killed by common arms. But some were burned like they'd been shot through with bolts of fire."

  "The dam was composed of boulders. Was there any indication how these were moved?"

  "There's no sign of…anything. It's like the entire dam was never there."

  "Thank you, Dafid. Now leave me."

  The scout bowed and turned to go. Gladdic flexed his hands. His fingers were long. Graceful. Like those of a harp player. He'd always been proud of them. With a thought, lines of light condensed from the air. The geometry was perfect, like the framework of the ideal cathedral. The light poured into a sphere.

  His mind felt as clear as windless winter air. He split the sphere in two and exhaled sharply. The two hemispheres swept forward, shifting on the fly into thin, shimmering disks.

  The disks swooped through the chests of the dueling monks. The two men flew back, landing in heaps. Blood showered the hard-packed dirt. One of the monks thrashed weakly; the other lay still.

  "Ordon!" Horstad blurted. He took a step toward the fallen monks, then stopped with a lurch, turning to gape at Gladdic. "Why..? Were they involved in the attack at the river?"