“How could he procure such things?”
“Built clandestine factories and hired able technicians, perhaps. He may well have contrived the weapons himself. Your failure to consider this possibility, Mircalla, suggests you’ve become too accustomed to your own idleness.”
The bewitching beauty gnashed her teeth. Not out of self-reproach or regret. A look of hate had spread over her face, and she cast an upward glance at Greylancer. “If this is the best strategy, then what is next best?”
“I do not know,” grumbled Greylancer. “I leave now for my sister’s. You may call on me anytime.”
“With pleasure,” said Mircalla, bowing again.
Greylancer nodded and strode away.
When the sound of his footsteps faded, Duchess Mircalla dismissed the officers and gazed up at the moon in the window. “May you never learn, Lord Greylancer,” the supreme commander of the counterinsurgency force and overseer of the Southern Frontier sector intoned like a curse, “that our foe this time is not Mayerling alone. Dear friend Zeus—beloved Macula, pray that we will be able to achieve our purpose. Nay, we must seize victory with our own hands. And tear away their flesh and blood with these two hands.”
Her fists trembled with anger and hatred.
Shaahh! The duchess hissed, her right hand slashing down the front of her dress.
The fabric tore open and fell around her feet.
The moon gazed down at the woman’s naked body.
“Mayerling.”
Her right hand danced, its motion like an elegant dance.
A red line streaked from the left side of her neck and diagonally down her lustrous right breast, and quickly turned into a thick cascade of blood.
“Greylancer.”
Her left hand leapt.
A second blood streak ran down her other breast, forming a condemning cross.
“Watch me, dear Zeus. I shall send any enemy that stands in our way to their end. Like this!”
Whether driven to madness by the brilliant moon or having simply become too incensed, Mircalla smeared the dripping blood over her entire body.
Her breasts shook; her glistening stomach swayed.
The blood spread over her face.
And then, the duchess lifted a hand and suckled on her blood-stained finger.
In the dark where only the moonlight and the woman’s body glowed, the sound that would drive a Noble to rapture echoed across the stone room.
†
The coach, arranged for Greylancer by the central government, traveled thirty minutes west on the road and passed through the mansion gates of Greylancer’s childhood home.
Greylancer alighted from the coach in the courtyard, where the chief steward, house staff, and a young couple stood in a line before him.
Whereas the wife appeared to be in her early twenties, the husband was not much younger than Greylancer. However, he cut a diminutive figure that was a far cry from Greylancer’s stately mien.
This was Greylancer’s only family: younger sister Laria and her husband Count Brueghel. Though he himself was from a family of pedigree, having been stripped of his estate and rank from past failings, Brueghel now lived here, having essentially been taken in by the bride’s family.
“Seems you’re having a bit of a day.” Laria cast her stately brother a look filled with both sarcasm and unabated reverence.
After bowing and lightly kissing the palm of her outstretched hand, Greylancer muttered, “A day indeed,” and acknowledged his brother-in-law with a nod, failing, despite his best effort, to smile. He did not get along with Brueghel, who was an officer working in the Civil Administration Bureau.
Yet on this day, the oft-stolid Brueghel returned a cordial smile.
When Laria teased her husband later by asking “What got into you back there?” Brueghel replied, “It was your brother. He had an odd kindness in his eyes.”
The three went into the sitting room, where Brueghel said, “I beg your pardon, but I have some urgent business to attend to,” and excused himself.
“I’m sorry, Brother,” said Laria. “Something came up at work.”
“I thought civil servants were anything but busy.”
“He’s gone to give a poetry lecture to schoolkids,” Laria said with an air of indifference, expecting her brother to jeer.
Yet the answer she heard was Oh? Laria nearly threw her head back in amazement, detecting even a hint of respect in his voice. “That suits him. Brueghel must be very pleased.”
Greylancer was aware of Brueghel’s ambition to be a poet. She had expected her brother’s laughter to ring across the room. Yet his tone was nothing if not gentle. It was enough for Laria to suspect whether this man might not be an OSB impersonator.
2
“How is it working?” Laria filled Greylancer’s silver glass with the blood-wine brought to them by a steward, glancing expectedly for a favorable reply.
“It is a great help.” Greylancer raised his left hand and tilted the gold urn-shaped ring in her direction. There were three tiny holes on what appeared to be a lid. A good look revealed white plumes of smoke rising out of the ring. “Thanks to this time-deceiving incense you invented, I know now the reality of day.”
That Greylancer could scour the sector on his chariot to wipe out the OSB threat night and day was due to Laria’s invention. Anyone inhaling its scent experiences the illusion that night is day, and day is night. Thus when Greylancer walked in the light of day, his subjective experience was of being awake and active at night.
“The counterinsurgency force will be deployed to the Western Frontier sector tomorrow. Best you do not go out today.”
“Yes, I’ve heard what’s happened. But this is awfully sudden.”
“We are dealing with a ruler of his own sector. I fear we may even be too late, given our adversary. In many ways, Lord Vlijmen Mayerling is more formidable than any of the other overseers.”
“Even you, Brother?” Laria’s eyes opened wide.
“He has won the support of his people. Something none of the other three overseers have been able to accomplish, including myself.”
“But what of it?” Noble that she was, the significance of this fact escaped her. “The humans will not make a bit of difference in a battle between Nobles, regardless of their adoration of Mayerling. Isn’t that so?”
Greylancer fell silent for a moment, and then answered, “Indeed, you’re right.”
“You’re not acting like yourself,” Laria asked. “Is something the matter?”
“No—has there been any discord between Chancellor Cornelius and Mayerling in the past?”
“Of course,” she said with a nod. “The government probably only gave you a formal briefing…” The brows knitted on her feline face as she began to explain. “Mayerling attacked Chancellor Cornelius after the chancellor had laughed off his protest of the operation to wipe out the OSB infiltrators—or so it’s been reported. But if Mayerling were so quick-tempered to reach for his weapon, the Western Frontier would have perished long ago. No, dear Brother—there is a plan to remove the overseers from power in the Frontier, and Chancellor Cornelius is its architect.”
“That’s absurd. Our absolute managerial rights were awarded directly by the Sacred Ancestor himself. Not even the government dares tamper with those rights.”
“It has been six thousand one hundred years since the Sacred Ancestor disappeared from sight. His influence was bound to fade.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Not I, no.”
“The chancellor must be in league with someone more powerful than the Sacred Ancestor. Neither he nor this unknown faction would attempt to rise up in defiance otherwise.”
“That’s for certain,” she said with a grim smile.
“Any idea whom it might be?”
“I haven’t a clue.” Her smile vanished.
It was an ironclad rule of Noble society—no one dared face down Greylancer’s grave expression wit
h anything but trepidation.
“No matter, all will be made plain in due time. Now then, I am in need of weapons.”
Her look darkening, Laria said, “Oh, yes…that’s right,” as if to remind herself. “Varossa has built many interesting…devices. You should try them out.”
“If they are Varossa’s, by all means. Can we go at once?”
“Of course.”
†
Several minutes later, Greylancer and Laria had made their way inside a marble dome towering over the courtyard.
A single moonbeam cascaded in like a waterfall from on high, a great distance away. There appeared to be a window somewhere.
Bathed in light, countless devices and vehicles of compelling shape and obscure function cast shadows dancing in the vast workspace below.
Elegantly designed stairs and slopes ran vertically and sideways with great mathematical accuracy, connecting various workspaces and gravity stabilizers suspended throughout the cavernous space.
“Varossa,” Laria called out. Before the echoes of the master weaponsmith’s name faded into silence, a figure wearing a turquoise cape and a ring-shaped antigrav belt around his waist swooped down from above.
“If it isn’t Lord Greylancer,” said the dour-faced man. Varossa was a few years younger than Greylancer, but older than Brueghel. But from his crest of silver hair alone, he might be mistaken for a man hundreds of years old. “Chatting with your long-neglected sister, were you? You are a warrior of the most regrettable kind. I dream of the days of our Sacred Ancestor, when a battle-weary warrior would have attended to repairing or exchanging their damaged shields, broken lances, and chipped swords before seeking rest or commiseration.”
Laria’s face turned pale, while a bitter smile came across Greylancer’s lips. “You’re exactly right, Varossa. But have you anything new to satisfy me?”
“Well, this is an odd question. If any of my creations have ever failed your standards, I shall cut off my head on this very spot. Of course, your eye for such things has always been a bit cloudy, unlike your father.” As he delivered his spittle-laden remark, Varossa’s eyes were fixed in a hard stare. Seeing the contented expression on Greylancer’s face, however, he came back into himself. “Forgive me, my lord. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a chariot.”
“As you wish. But first—” He pointed to the antigrav belts on hand.
Greylancer and Laria opened the rings and closed the belts around their waists. Then they needed only point the road reader toward their destination.
The three began to rise and soon hovered about a meter over the platform and, after flying on about two hundred meters, landed about five to six meters below.
They had descended to the Greylancer family’s weapons block. The entire arsenal had been designed and manufactured by Varossa himself.
Greylancer took in and marveled at the spectacle surrounding him.
Row upon row of chariots of every size; lances, long swords, and short swords hanging from racks; stockpiles of shields, cutting-edge power suits, and old-fashioned plate armor. This horrible scene stretched as far as the eye could see, past the horizon. This arsenal alone could arm a division of a thousand men for battle.
“You’ve added to your stock,” said Greylancer.
Varossa nodded quietly. “They’ve all been enhanced as well. Now, what manner of contraption are you in need of? If you can try to imagine it with that feeble head of yours.” The weaponsmith pressed an index finger to Greylancer’s temple.
Weapons and arms of every variety flashed across Greylancer’s vision. A data injection. Greylancer’s brain streamed the data for tens of thousands of items.
In a fraction of a second, an image of a particular chariot flashed to mind.
“Ah, yes, that’ll do.” With a nod of Varossa’s head, a thread of light fell from the ceiling.
Suddenly, a chariot materialized where the light landed on the floor.
The chariot was the same size and shape as the one Greylancer had lost in the moon battle.
“The force field is twice as powerful as the previous model’s. You should be able to penetrate any of the OSB’s defense fields and charge into enemy territory.”
“Should is unacceptable.”
“Then by all means, see for yourself.” Varossa gestured toward the chariot with an unshakeable smile.
“Very well.” Greylancer climbed onto Varossa’s beloved invention.
Stepping onto the platform, he felt the force field envelop the vehicle.
“See how you fare against the weakest foe.” Varossa tapped his thigh with his index finger.
Another thread of light dropped from the sky—
Which was no doubt connected to a multitude of God-given items.
An OSB ground vehicle the Nobles had begun calling a thunder tank materialized before Greylancer, several meters away.
The tank, easily three times larger than Greylancer’s chariot, hulked over the Noble, looking as if it might crush him at any moment.
Looking around the stockpile of weapons and machinery surrounding them, Varossa grunted, “Out of the way,” and putting a foot on one of the chariots nearby, pushed it sideways.
The chariot and the rest of the weapons and arms in view slid back till they vanished completely out of sight.
Inside the cavernous hall, only Laria, Varossa, the thunder tank, Greylancer, and the chariot remained. And murderous intent.
3
The massive stockpile cramming the floor had all been a 3D hologram.
Greylancer nodded at Varossa, unflinching.
“The thunder tank will act and react exactly as if the OSB were operating it. It will shoot to kill. If you lose, you will also perish, Lord Greylancer. Is that understood?”
“I expect nothing less.”
“Good.” No sooner had he said it than the OSB tank rumbled toward Greylancer.
The Noble felt the platform shake underfoot as the chariot hummed to life.
Just as the enormous tank rolled within a meter of Greylancer’s chariot, it crashed into the force field, flipping head over end in the air.
Landing on its side, the tank spun around in a circle like a helpless insect until it righted itself and retreated without a sound.
One silver ball, a second, and then a third shot out from the three barrels extending from the tank’s gun turret.
Greylancer swung the chariot right and evaded the first two shots, but the third hit the force field.
The silver projectile was an artillery shell measuring thirty centimeters.
The outer shell splintered away, while its contents grazed Greylancer’s head and disappeared behind him.
Within the shells were steel spikes about five centimeters thick.
“Now let’s double the force field.” Greylancer closed in on the tank, evading the incoming cannon fire.
The enemy circled right and fired more shells.
When one shell smashed through the floor near her feet, Laria let out a shriek.
Suddenly, Greylancer’s chariot took to the air and cut a diagonal path toward the tank. The Noble had switched to gravitational propulsion.
The OSB computer faltered for a split second. Unable to calculate an evasive maneuver, the computer rotated the tank’s turret and fired a random shot.
Though the shell hit the chariot head-on, both the casing and spikes were deflected from the armor.
Switching off the force-field generator, Greylancer whirled atop the enemy’s gun turret.
His right arm rose skyward.
The silver lance in his hand came down like a lightning bolt.
As soon as the blade slashed through the thunder from top to bottom, Greylancer jumped back onto his chariot.
A red streak tore across the contours of the tank, growing thicker and thicker until the armor ruptured and exploded. A massive fireball swallowed Greylancer and swept across the ground and sky.
The scene was stra
ngely quiet.
Nearly ten seconds passed before the fire consumed the tank and went out.
Greylancer and the chariot appeared above the black ruins like a dream.
Laria ran to her brother. “Why must you be so reckless?”
“Well, is the chariot to your liking?” Varossa asked politely.
“It is a fine chariot.”
“Naturally,” said the weaponsmith, cocking his head with a self-satisfied smile.
“Why didn’t you equip every chariot with the superior force field to begin with?” Laria asked, an edge in her voice.
“There was no predicting what the enemy was capable of.”
“But we have engaged this type of OSB tank in battle more than once.”
An indescribable look of horror came over Varossa’s face. “Are you perhaps suggesting that I might be lying?”
“I’m sold,” said Greylancer, electing not to answer. “I shall ride this chariot tomorrow morning. See that you get it ready.” After handing down this order like only a Noble could, Greylancer switched on the antigrav belt and floated away, his sister following in his wake.
†
Watching Greylancer and Laria leave, Varossa grumbled quietly to himself at the door, “He distrusts even this weaponsmith, who has served House Greylancer for five thousand years. Such banality. A worthless master.” And then a broad smile came across Varossa’s face as he continued. “I would have expected nothing less from my master—Lord Greylancer. A mere grub of a son that you are compared to your father, you shall have my grudging support and these skills honed over five millennia. Long life and well-being, my lord.”
The next day, the counterinsurgency forces departed for the deadly battleground.
Since the troops couldn’t very well proceed down the road in a convoy, the army boarded a cargo vessel and within three hours arrived in the Western Frontier sector—Mayerling’s dominion.
In a siege such as this one, a gravitational barrier typically shielded the castle, Nobles’ residences, and the strategic headquarters. The initial attack necessarily involved attempting to destroy the barrier.
Noble V: Greylancer Page 12
