by Bob Mayer
“There is,” Arcturus said. “You avoid the question.”
“Four,” Bren admitted. “You saw the culmination of the last one, at Wormehill.”
“All were crushed.”
“Overall, we are gaining against the Airlia.”
“You’ve spent most of your time since coming to this planet sleeping,” Arcturus said. “Stirring every so often to cause trouble, get many killed and then crawling back the tubes on your ship. How long have you been awake? The equivalent of a few lifetimes over millennia?”
“We are waiting,” Bren corrected, anger in her voice. “The weapons of this age are primitive. On our planet we were on the verge of splitting the atom. We had planes and submarines—vessels that travel under waves—and—”
“I know what a submarine is,” Arcturus snapped. “What good did your advanced weapons do against the Airlia? A nuclear blast cannot penetrate the shield wall, can it?” He indicated her sword. “It came down to chopping their heads off with their own weapons, didn’t it?”
“It is the only thing that keeps them dead,” she admitted. “They’ve partaken of the Grail.”
“What weapons does Cetic and his army have that will make this revolt any different?” Arcturus asked.
“We are wearing down the Airlia and their minions,” Bren argued. “They withdrew from Wormehill and other outposts and haven’t reoccupied them.”
“They’re holed up in Atlantis behind an impenetrable shield,” Arcturus said. “Has it occurred to you that your waiting might be in vain? That the Airlia are keeping the humans on this planet from advancing any further than they currently are? That any technological advance is crushed, whether overtly or covertly by the Airlia? Anubis has spread her spies far and wide and pays them well. They are not wargs or wedjat, but your fellow humans who prefer coin and exemption from the Tally over what you call freedom. How much technological advancement have you noted over the millennia?”
“Not much,” Bren admitted. “We’ve tried introducing innovations.”
“To no avail. There are different patterns to the Airlia plan when they seed a planet. Initially they rule, setting themselves up as gods, allowing the humanity they bring to get a foothold, believing they have a higher power looking over them. In the same manner that infants need parents. Build some civilization to some extent. Then on some worlds the Airlia begin to draw down, both from their interactions as gods but also in numbers, sending many of the initial contingent on to other plans. Eventually they let humans rule themselves, knowing that they will fight among themselves. Soon the Airlia become nothing but a legend as time goes on, perhaps even forgotten. This planet is in the early stages where they still rule as gods.”
“How do you know this about the Airlia and their plans? About other worlds?”
“I’ve read it.”
“Where?”
“That doesn’t matter at the moment. Tell me. How many Airlia did you kill on your world?”
“Thousands.”
“It must have been a dire situation,” Arcturus said, “and the Airlia reinforced. Do you wonder why there is only the two Airlia that appear at any one time?”
“How many are there?” Bren asked. “We know there are others.”
“Phh,” Arcturus shook his head in disgust. “They rotate their duty while the others sleep. And what if the Swarm comes? What good is your war against the Airlia then? In fact, is it not counter-productive? After all, the Airlia claim they protect this planet from the Swarm.”
“How many?” Bren wound the sling of the bota around her blanket roll in preparation for moving. She jerked it tight.
“Not many.” Arcturus took out his pipe and began packing the bowl. “You have traveled far across space, but learned little in the journey. And even that distance is but a pittance against the vastness of the universe.”
“What do you know beyond this world, old man?” Bren asked. “Something you’ve read?”
Arcturus tamped down the material in the bowl. “Enough.”
“If there are enemies about,” Bren pointed out as he lit the pipe, “they will smell that.”
“We are far above the valley,” Arcturus said. “No one can climb up here from below.”
“And Isengrim?” Bren asked. “Where is it?”
“She is out there, but you need not fear her. As long as you are with me, that is.” He took a deep inhale, let out a puff of smoke and watched it drift away. “Tell me, human from another world. What will you do if you win your battle on this planet?”
“We’ll be free.”
“To do what?”
Bren blinked in confusion at the question.
Arcturus waved it away. “There is still an Airlia Empire out there. And the Swarm. And other Scale species.”
Bren shook her head. “You’re all over the place, old man. What are you trying to uncover?”
Arcturus took a deep puff and released it. “Hmm. ‘Uncover’? Nothing. I am trying to clear away the fog of your confusion. To get you to grasp a larger picture.”
“I’m not confused.”
“That’s what confused people always say.” He took another puff.
“I think old age has addled you,” Bren said. She stood and walked a little way back on the path, to a spot where she could see the valley floor. There was no sign of the wargs or Shakur. She returned. “How far until Wormehill?”
“Not far. There will be more tunnels.” He tapped out the pipe, cleaned the bowl and put it back inside his cloak. “Stay close and be quiet. There are others in these hills.”
SOUTHREN, EARTH15
Steel clashed with steel as King Cetic blocked the usurper’s sword. Cetic took a step back, regaining his balance, breathing hard. The fight was taking place in the middle of the clearing next to the Lion’s Road. The army was camped in the trees on both sides of the road.
The chiefs, elders, lords and other leaders of those peoples whom the King had rallied to his cause stood in a circle around the two men. The usurper, Par-rom, was Cetic’s eldest son. This duel was the culmination of years of growing competition between father and son. It was the way of their people, a rough tribe which lived in the foothills of the Transverse hills in Southren, that once a son was strong enough to defeat the father, the crown passed on.
There was more to this battle though than just the crown. The future of the Great Alliance and the revolt rested on the result. At the advice of the witch Bren, Cetic had named his forces that lofty term, but it wasn’t very great at the moment and there were some, such as Par-rom, who were having second thoughts.
Cetic was old, in his fifties when few lived past sixty, while Par-rom was in his prime, his mid-twenties. The King already sported a slight wound on his upper right arm, blood seeping over one of the numerous tattoos that covered almost every inch of exposed skin. There were small red daggers tattooed on his forehead, each one indicating a man killed in duel. So many there wasn’t room for more. They were as much a warning as badges of honor among his people.
The two were fighting without armor, as was their tribe’s way, because armor could be purchased and more money meant better armor which gave an advantage to a richer man, not the better warrior. They wore leather pants, boots and jerkins. They wielded swords, but sported no shields. Shields were for the defense and Cetic’s people believed in the attack; always.
Par-rom feinted and jabbed, the point of his blade aimed for his father’s more than ample gut. What he lacked in youthful alacrity, Cetic more than made up for with experience. He parried the blow he’d been expecting because he’d seen his son perform it many times in training. With his free hand, he punched his son in the face. The stunning and unexpected blow had all the old man’s weight behind it and sent his son sprawling in the dirt.
Cetic raised his sword high and stepped toward his prostrate son when a woman came forward from the circle of onlookers.
“Hold please, King!”
Cetic straddled his son, stomping on the usurper’s
sword arm with one foot, pinning it to the ground. “What do you want, witch?”
“We need every warrior for the coming battle,” Drusa said. She wore the blue cloak of her order, the healers of All-Life. To those used to the old ways, like the king, they were still considered witches, not a derisive term as Cetic had been saved on more than one occasion by the ministrations of such witches, including Drusa. She was a big woman, broad-shouldered, with dark hair gathered in a pony-tail extending midway down her back. Her face was weathered and creased with lines. Her skin was dark as night.
“He challenged,” Cetic said. “He lost. I must give him a scar to remember his mistake. My father gave me several.” He smiled. “I learned quite a bit from them.”
“A scar I will have to spend time healing,” Drusa said, “and he will spend time recovering from.”
“A scar which will end this fight in a way my people understand.” He slashed with his sword, a veteran warrior’s surgery, slicing open a wound on Par-rom’s shoulder six inches long, bloody, but not deep. Cetic spit, narrowly missing his son’s face, unadorned with any daggers. He glanced at Drusa. “You should not get between men when their blood is up.”
“Someone has to,” Drusa said.
“It is more than his attempt to take my position,” Cetic said, pressing his foot harder on his son’s sword arm, eliciting a grunt of pain. “He represents those who wish to go home. To forget our grievances against the Airlia. To cower in our homes.”
“We will all be killed,” Par-rom said.
Cetic looked down. “Silence or I will quiet you for eternity, boy.” Cetic swung his leg over and walked away from his son. “Drusa, you are always a burr.” He snatched a bota of wine from a chieftain and took a long, deep, drink. He tossed it back to the man.
“I am always the voice of reason to cool the heart when men get their blood up.” Drusa put a hand out to help Par-rom get to his feet. He spurned her offer, rolling away and standing on his own.
Cetic slowly turned in a circle, meeting the eyes of his subordinate leaders. “How many are as Par-rom? That we march to our deaths? That we should go home?”
Many avoided the king’s glance, but one man stepped forward. He bore no tattoos but several visible scars. He had a long grey beard and carried a large, two-headed axe. “I am not as Par-rom because he is wet behind the ears. But to your other questions, I say yes and no. It is most likely we march to our deaths, Cetic. I have spoken with traders who’ve been to Atlantis. They say it has seven great walls. And then a wall that cannot be seen but through which no man or weapon can pass unless granted passage by the Airlia.”
“Do you wish to go back to your islands off the coast, then, SeaLord?” Cetic asked.
SeaLord shrugged, his given name no longer spoken among his people once he assumed the position of leadership. “You asked. I answered with the truth as I see it. I said nothing about going back to the water and my home. Besides, our fleets have sailed. They will not turn back. I must go north to meet them. If, perchance, I do not die, then I prefer to sail home. This walking is not fit for me. I need a deck under my feet.”
“Retreat would be the prudent thing,” another leader said. “But I did not become chief of my people to do the prudent thing. I became chief to protect them.” He pointed with his spear at Drusa. “Your witch has spoken with wise words around the fires in the evening. She says the future is uncertain. That war is not the answer but that the questions lie to the north. Of course, All-Lifers always say war is not the answer. I don’t pretend to understand, but she says we must go north to find these true questions.” He laughed. “She makes little sense to me, but somehow I believe her words. We must go north and face our fate, whatever that might be.”
Cetic pointed his sword at Drusa. “Her words have carried wisdom over the years, but often it takes time to understand. I would not be here if not for her words and that of the Walkers, Bren and Markus. They are to the north, seeking a way for us to gain an advantage in the fight against the Airlia and their minions.” He lowered the sword. “But I am not holding any man or woman here against their will. Each chooses for themselves.”
Cetic slowly turned, waiting for each leader to meet his gaze. Last, he looked at his son. “Are you satisfied your time is not yet?”
Par-rom nodded. “Yes, king.” Blood dripped steadily down his arm to his hand and into the mud.
“Good.” Cetic raised his voice. “We march. Now.”
The leaders dispersed to gather their troops.
Cetic walked next to Drusa. “What do you mean the questions lie to the north? The enemy is there. The wargs and the wedjats and the Airlia. And the mercenaries. They are not the question.”
“You know we cannot defeat them with our swords and spears?” Drusa asked.
Cetic made sure no one was within earshot. “Most likely, although the battle will be glorious.”
“You also know that the Walkers, Bren and Markus, are just using you?”
“Yes. They have their own agenda.” Cetic jerked a thumb to the south. “But we’ve sat like cattle for so long. Sending our best off for the Tally, along with food and other supplies we can ill afford to surrender. We’ve been living the slow death. I believe the Walkers that the Airlia are not gods. Gods would not do what they do. Gods would not rule with fear and death. Gods would give of the Grail; instead they take with the Tally.” He gave her a sharp glance. “Do you still mourn after fifteen years?”
“I will always cherish my memories of Kray,” Drusa said. “But he is the reason I am here and march with you to the north. His fate is just one of the many questions that I believe will be answered.”
“He is long gone to wherever the Tally is taken.”
Drusa halted and looked up. Isis, the major moon, was ascending, pale and faint in the daylight. “He is not gone. He is out there in the heavens. I feel him. There are forces at work greater than any of us. Greater than the Airlia.”
“Are those forces on our side?”
“I don’t think they take any side. They are part of the All-Life.”
“If you are so against fighting, why do you travel with an army?” Cetic asked.
“To keep hot heads cool. And to heal. And to find these questions that are to the north.” She lowered her voice. “You know, of course, that many join you in hopes of getting to the grail?”
“Of course,” Cetic said. “If the grail exists. It could be nothing but a lying legend. No one has claimed to have actually seen it except wedjat, and their tongues are twisted by their warped brains. We only know of it through the Airlia and stories passed down.”
“It could be a lie,” Drusa agreed. She pointed up. “Day-shade approaches. We must hurry. I fear there is trouble in the North and things are moving faster than expected. Bren should have been back by now with Markus. Now, I must bind Par-rom’s wound before it becomes infected.”
“What of my wound?” Cetic indicated the scratch on his shoulder.
Drusa smiled at him. “As your people say: pain is weakness leaving the body. Pour some wine on it.”
“I’ll pour some wine inside me,” Cetic said. “That works as well.”
SWARM BATTLE CORE, INTERSTELLAR, FASTER THAN LIGHT TRANSIT
Kray sensed the presence of the Swarm in his mind, relayed through the parasite wrapped around his spinal column. He walked among thousands of other humans, all enthralled in the same manner. He had freedom of thought, but no control over his body. He had sensation, dulled a bit. He felt others bump against him.
For almost all humans his situation would be a horror, akin to being in a nightmare where the body wouldn’t respond to the mind’s desires, but that wasn’t what Kray felt. He’d been hurt. He could feel blood pooling in the legs of the suit. The parasite had not been subtle forcing its way into his body.
But it had not killed him or the others.
There were badly injured humans, limbs broken, bodies maimed, also trying to keep up. The power of the Swa
rm directive through the parasite was so strong, they crawled, even squirmed along like a snake, in the same direction.
Kray saw a woman, both legs broken, scrambling with her gloved hands on the floor. She removed them and used her nails to try to get a grip. Fingernails broke, but she inched forward.
Kray silently prayed to All-Life for her and the others. Then with all his will, he tried to reach down to her, to help her. For a few moments the Swarm blocked the impulse, as it blocked all other commands his mind tried to send to his muscles. But then it ascertained his intent and allowed some movement.
Kray lifted her, cradling her in his muscular arms.
The column trudged on.
NAGIL
WORMEHILL TOWER, EARTH15
Wormehill tower was a broken shaft pointing skyward. It had once towered six hundred feet, but was two-thirds of the original height. There was a jagged break in the pure white stone as if some mighty force had smashed off the top. Strangely, there was no sign of the debris from that part.
“Did you ever wonder what happened to the tower?” Arcturus asked as he stopped running at a spot in the trail where they could see their objective, a half mile away, through a narrow opening the path woven through the rock. “It was like that when you took it from the wargs.”
“I assumed some battle long in the past,” Bren said.
“You assumed nothing,” Arcturus said as he took his pack off. “You didn’t think about it. Only what was needed to conquer it. You viewed your target as it was.”
“If you know the answer, why do you ask?” Bren unwound the bota from her blanket and took a deep drink. They’d refilled their water holders from a spring seeping out from a crack in the rocks along the trail after exiting the last tunnel. She was facing south looking over the chest high rock along the edge of the trail. Peering at the Lion’s Road, which was wider and better maintained this close to Atlantis and clearly visible between the trees of the valley, which, in turn, was much narrower. The ridge across the way was only five miles distant. The slopes on both sides were extreme, over seventy degrees, and unpassable. Atlantis was thirty miles to the north, where West Ridge met the other ridges to form Lion’s Head.
