Blackhawk: Far Stars Legends I

by Jay Allan

  “Then perhaps you can enlighten me, Captain, as to why six prisoners were able to outfight and outwit my entire security force. A force you command, I might add.”

  “Sir, the one prisoner…the last one who was brought in. He is no normal vagrant, not even a soldier. He is extremely capable…like nothing I’ve ever seen before. He killed at least twenty of my men by himself.”

  “Because your men came at him in small groups, three and four at a time. You had over two hundred soldiers at your command. Are you suggesting this was an inadequate force to apprehend six escapees?”

  Sand struggled to stay at attention, to communicate as much respect as possible to Ghana. The general wasn’t a raving psychopath like some of the other Warlords, but he was prone to fits of anger…and even Sand had to acknowledge there was reason for rage over the escape.

  Ghana didn’t see that man…what he could do…

  “General, respectfully, while I understand it appears that way in retrospect, at the time I was trying to get any forces I could in position as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes,” Ghana said. “Well, in retrospect, that wasn’t a very good plan, was it?”

  “No, sir…” Sand shifted nervously on his feet. He knew he was a good soldier, a capable officer who had performed his duties with distinction in the past. But now he was at a loss, still trying to figure how a small group of escaped prisoners had gotten the better of him. “General, it wasn’t just the six of them. We were ambushed in the desert, just as we were about to catch up with the prisoners.” He paused then added, “I saw several of them, sir…it was the raiders, the comrades of the five we had in custody. Those damned Grays.”

  Ghana sighed hard. “That would be a valid explanation, Captain, for why you were beaten back in the desert. But I still have difficulty understanding how you allowed them to get out of the fortress. It reeks of a level of incompetence that makes a mockery of the term ‘security.’”

  “General, again, I cannot express to you how capable that last prisoner…”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure he was a virtual demigod, smiting your men with a giant hammer. Yet your guards were able to stop only one of the other escapees, the Grays. And that by killing him in a firefight where you lost half a dozen men. You do understand that we have missed our best opportunity to track down those infernal raiders, don’t you? I seriously doubt the dead man will tell us much…and the others are gone. And despite over a thousand men and fifty vehicles deployed in the search, we haven’t found a trace of the others. It appears they simply vanished.”

  Sand stood and looked back at Ghana. His throat was parched, his voice hoarse. Every word was a painful effort. “We know the raiders have some means of traversing the desert in secrecy. We must find how they escape detection as they move about, despite the best efforts of our scouts and aircraft to track them down.”

  “That is a wonderful idea, Captain.” Ghana’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I wonder why I never thought of that.” He turned a withering stare on Sand. “Now that you have lost our interrogation subjects, pray tell…how exactly would you go about discovering their location? Or their means of transit?”

  Sand was silent, struggling to meet the general’s gaze.

  “I should punish you for this incompetence, Captain. I should put you in private’s stripes, send you to dig holes in the desert.”

  Sand stood. He felt the full intensity of Ghana’s disapproval…but perhaps a spark of hope too. Did he say ‘I should?’

  Ghana held his gaze, staring at Sand for a few seconds before he continued. “But your past services has been spotless, Captain, and so I will give you a chance to redeem yourself. You will go, you will take a force with you…and by whatever means necessary you will find the refuge of these criminals who call themselves “Grays.” You will track down their mysterious means of transit, you will find their base…and you will destroy them utterly.”

  Sand felt a pit in his stomach. The army had been trying to track down the Grays for almost two years now, with little to show for the effort.

  “If you succeed we will forget this entire shameful episode. Indeed, I will reward you, and you will have your major’s cluster.”

  Sand could hear the flipside of that coin, even before Ghana continued.

  “But if you fail me again…”

  The general didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

  * * *

  Rhiombe was a bustling city, a trading center and the informal capital of the four rivers region. The half dozen cities situated along the banks of the great waterways formed a sort of loose federation, and they had managed to remain free of the control of any of the Warlords on the Northern Continent. Jellack knew they owed their relative freedom more to a strange power balance between the half dozen Warlords whose power bases surrounded them than to any real military strength of their own. But as long as any general who seized the cities could expect his rivals to band together against him, an uneasy independence continued.

  Jellack looked around at the crowds of people moving about their business. There were guards too, the green-uniformed members of the city watch in evidence in most of the public places. For the most part they walked around patrolling, giving a sense to the people that they were maintaining order…and discouraging crime.

  He’d also spotted a few members of the militia, the light-blue uniformed troops that were tasked with defense if one of the river cities was ever attacked. Jellack wasn’t a soldier himself, but he’d worked closely with them for a long time now, and he had to force back a callous laugh. The few troops he’d seen seemed to wear the same arrogant scowl, one he’d witnessed before in Carteria’s men, and those of the other Warlords. Celtiboria had seen constant war for three centuries, and the soldiers had risen to a place of prominence in the overall hierarchy. But Jellack could tell the uniformed fops walking around Rhiombe were mostly pretend soldiers. He doubted, if they were ever forced to fight against the veterans of one of the local Warlords, the battle would last more than an hour.

  Rhiombe, like the other river cities, was far from a democracy, but the Council of Elders ruled with a light hand, one that allowed trade to flow…and to bring wealth and prosperity in its wake. Jellack had been a trader himself, before he’d been forced into Carteria’s service, and he appreciated the value in allowing private businesses to flourish. Carteria had assumed total control over the regions his armies had conquered, and the Marshal had howled in anger and frustration as output and standards of living plummeted under the commissars he appointed to keep a heavy boot on his new subjects. Jellack had tried to explain how the heavy-handed policies drove away commerce and diminished wealth, but Carteria had refused to loosen his iron control.

  There was poverty in Rhiombe, certainly, as there was everywhere in war torn Celtiboria. But there were jobs in the city for those willing to work, and that offered the Riverlanders opportunities that were only dreams to many elsewhere.

  He glanced down at the small tablet in his hand, his fingers moving across the map that was displayed, zooming in on one area. He nodded to himself and turned right, down the Place D’Alhas…toward the Piazza Dromonde, where the main mercenary markets operated out of a cluster of taverns and inns.

  It was technically illegal for mercenary companies to sell their services in Rhiombe or any of the other river cities. Indeed, even discussing possible terms of service was forbidden, at least in the written books of laws. But the reality was far different. As the closest thing to neutral ground on the Northern Continent, the river cities were an ideal location for conducting such discussions. The officers and men of the merc forces brought a steady stream of revenue into the cities, bolstering their economies, and the agents who negotiated with the representatives of the Warlords kept the city officials satisfied and well-greased with bribes.

  The nature of the business conducted in the taverns surrounding the Dromonde was an open secret, one ignored by the city watch and the militia. For almost a centur
y, the river cities had been the center of the market for mercenary forces on a continent constantly at war, and much of their wealth was built upon that blood trade.

  But the D’Alhas was almost empty as Jellack walked along the wide pedestrian promenade. He’d expected to find a bustling avenue, but now as he walked he noticed boarded up storefronts and other signs of economic distress…including a number of beggars wearing tattered uniforms in a variety of colors and styles. The mercenaries of the Northern Continent were well known for providing for their disabled veterans, at least more than many other forces did, but even here, the signs of economic distress were clearly in evidence.

  Jellack reached into his purse and pulled out a handful of ten ducat coins, handing them out to the veterans. “Where would I go,” he asked them, “if I was interested in hiring a mercenary company?”

  “To Tigranes’ Tavern,” one said.

  “At the Endless Bottle,” said another.

  He held out a coin to the last soldier in the line. The man reached leaned forward, bringing a small pouch around his neck toward Jellack. He had no arms.

  Jellack was no stranger to wounded soldiers, and he was ashamed to admit, Carteria tended to be callous with his troopers when they became useless to him. But it was still a shock to see men in such condition, unattended, uncared for. It was the true face of war, the reality the Warlords hid behind parades and banners and bands playing raucous marches. Jellack was a trader at heart, and even after years in Carteria’s service, the harsher side of war was still a shock to him.

  “You want to go to The Raven Inn,” the man said. “Turn left at the Dromonde, down the Rue Malazar. Ask for Dolakov. He books for the Red Wolves. Best mercenary company on Celtiboria.”

  Jellack nodded, noticing the worn wolf’s head patch on the soldier’s tattered uniform and wondering how impartial the advice was. “Thank you,” he said softly, leaning forward and dropping a second coin in the soldier’s pouch.

  He turned and walked into the piazza and stopped, looking up at the fountain, with its sculpture of a dozen mythical warriors fighting a dragon. It had been a gift from some of the mercenary companies over a century before, he’d heard, a blatant attempt to quell the populace’s opposition to the mercs’ use of the area to conduct their business. The true powers, the politicians and ministers in positions of power, were won over by more discrete—and expensive—means. But it was worth a sculpture or the occasional sponsorship of a festival day to keep the masses content.

  He scanned the area. He’d heard the Piazza was one of the busiest areas of the city, filled with agents from the Warlords seeking to hire soldiers, and with the troops themselves, spending their coin in the gambling halls and brothels that lined the side streets all around. But it was quiet now, almost dead. Jellack could tell immediately the rumors were true. The companies had fallen on hard times. The wars along the Northern Continent’s west coast had raged for almost a decade, providing a steady source of employment and an uninterrupted flow of coin to the combatants. But the battling Warlords were bankrupt now, their subjects bled dry of everything they had to support war.

  He shook his head, a frown on his face. Jellack was good with money…very good. But he knew soldiers well enough to realize they quickly squandered whatever came into their hands.

  I will get a good deal here, he thought. They are all desperate for work.

  He looked around off to the left, his eyes fixing on a sign reading, Rue Malazar. He turned and walked toward it. The Malazar wasn’t a broad avenue like the Place D’Alhas, but it wasn’t one of the crooked little alleys that had little to offer save dive bars and affordable sex for sale.

  He walked down the street, his head panning back and forth until he saw what he was looking for…a small wooden sign with the image of a black raven. He stepped up to the door, pausing for an instant and assessing his surroundings. It wasn’t the plushest—or the safest looking—establishment, but it wasn’t the filthy deathtrap some of the other places appeared to be. He walked through the door.

  The tavern was almost empty, perhaps half a dozen soldiers sitting at the tables…and a few more along the edge of the bar. There had been several conversations going on, but they stopped the instant he walked in.

  He stepped up to the bar. “Black Hills,” he said to the bartender, referring to one of the local whiskies he’d seen the soldiers in the area drinking. “A double.”

  In truth, Jellack wasn’t much of a drinker…and when he did partake, it was usually one of the Gold Valley reds, and he was picky about vintage. The thought of guzzling soldiers’ rot gut was less than appealing. But he knew he already looked more like an accountant than a warrior, and there was no sense feeding that image.

  The bartender dropped a glass in front of Jellack and filled it from a smoky-colored glass bottle. “Half a deci,” he said, his voice gruff, disinterested.

  Jellack pulled out another ten ducat coin—two hundred times what the bartender had asked him for—and he threw it on the bar. “I’m looking for Dolokov,” he said, trying to sound as tough as he could. He glanced down at the yellowish liquid in the glass, hiding his hesitancy. Then he took a quick breath and raised it to his lips, slugging is down in one gulp.

  The whiskey was harsh, perhaps not quite a bathtub brew distilled in the back of the bar, but not far from it either. Jellack’s stomach rebelled, but he didn’t let it show as he stared at the bartender, his expression demanding, impatient.

  The bartender was a large man, a good bit taller than Jellack and a lot heavier. He stared at Jellack, his eyes dropping down to the coin and back to the stranger in the non-descript, but clearly expensive suit.

  He raised a thick, hairy arm, pointing across the room to one of the tables. “That’s Dolokov over there.”

  Jellack turned toward the table. There were three men sitting there, all wearing what were clearly officer’s uniforms. He pointed toward the empty glass, without looking back at the bartender. Then he scooped up the refilled drink and tossed a second coin on the bar.

  He walked over, not reacting as the men at the table watched his every move. “I’m looking for Dolokov,” he said.

  The three men exchanged glances. Then the one in the center said, “You are, are you? And who might you be?” His tone wasn’t exactly hostile, but it wasn’t inviting either.

  “My name is Jellack. I represent a party interested in retaining a force of mercenaries.”

  The man looked back, not speaking for a few seconds. Jellack could see skepticism in his eyes, but also interest.

  They really do need work…

  “And who exactly is this…party?”

  Jellack paused. It was his turn to play for effect. “We’re not there yet. There is a lot to discuss before we start talking names.”

  The man stared back, his expression turning to a scowl. “Well, we’re not going to get there unless I know who I’m dealing with.”

  Jellack stared at the man, struggling to keep his cool. “You’re dealing with me,” he said coldly. Then he reached out and pulled a chair from the table, sitting down and staring across at his counterpart. “Now, shall we talk details?”

  The mercenary officer stared back, clearly trying to maintain his cold demeanor, but Jellack caught a flash of surprise on the man’s face.

  “Or am I wasting my time here?” Jellack added before the man spoke. “Because there are plenty of other places I can go to hire…”

  “No, we’re not wasting time,” Dolokov said, a hint of respect creeping into his voice. “What do you have in mind?”

  “A long term contract…three years with an option to extend.”

  “For how many troops?”

  Jellack didn’t flinch. “All of them, of course.”

  “Look, Mr. Jellack, I’m sure you think you need a lot of men, but the Wolves are the biggest mercenary company on the Northern Continent. We can put ten thousand men into the field almost immediately…and another ten thousand on six weeks’
notice.” The man paused. “So, let me ask you again, how many men do you need?”

  “Twenty thousand,” Jellack said. “That’s a good start.” He stared right at Dolokov. “And I trust you can assist me in reaching out to some of the other companies.”

  “Other companies?” Dolokov stared back, no longer able to hide the surprise in his face. “How many soldiers are you looking to hire?”

  “That depends on what is available,” Jellack said, reaching down to his side and pulling a small purse from his belt. “Perhaps one hundred thousand, if that many are available.” He paused, savoring the look of shock in Dolokov’s face. He dumped the purse over, and a pile of gold hundred ducat coins spilled out. “And we will pay in good coin, none of the debased garbage that passes for money on the Northern Continent. Six months in advance for any company signing a three year contract.” He stared at Dolokov. “So, Colonel,” he said, dropping the subtle fact that he could read the Wolves’ rank insignia, “do we have a deal?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Just Outside Ghana’s Base

  “The Badlands”

  Northern Celtiboria

  Blackhawk crawled through the conduit, biting down hard trying to ignore the pain in his leg. It was far from an ideal way to travel, and they been moving for hours now, but he was wise enough to realize the raiders had saved his life. He’d have fought to the death, and surprisingly, he believed his comrades would have done the same, but he didn’t have any doubt death would have come. There had just been too many of Ghana’s soldiers.

  The raiders had led the escapees across a section of open desert, skillfully using the slight changes in elevation to provide as much cover as possible against any pursuers equipped with infrared scanners. They’d heard an airship overhead, and the leader ordered them all to hit the sand and lie perfectly still. Blackhawk knew that had been a desperate attempt to avoid detection, but he also had to admit it had worked.