Stealing Life

by Antony Johnston

  As the parachutists descended, firing on city hall to distract the Kurrethi, Nicco pulled a small blaster out from under his coat and raised it in the air. At that signal, the other ‘journalists’ pulled out their own assault rifles and blasters from their hiding places in coats, bags and even inside mockup vidrecorders. The press were in fact all Hurrundan police, every serving man and woman who’d managed to escape to a rendezvous with Sothus before the Kurrethi besieged the police stations. Nicco led them up the steps.

  When Ven Dazarus turned and saw him pointing a gun in his face, Nicco smiled.

  The rebel leader backed away slowly, his hands raised. Behind him the Kurrethi soldiers dropped their weapons at the urging of the Hurrundan officer. Ven Dazarus spat at Nicco and said something in Varnian. Nicco understood the basics, but he turned to Sothus anyway for a translation. The older man was standing beside him, expertly holding an assault rifle aimed squarely at Ven Dazarus.

  “What did he say?” Nicco asked.

  “He said you’re a fool, that they’ve already won, and now that Werrdun’s dead the people themselves will kill you. He says he won’t have to lift a finger.”

  Nicco laughed. “Oh, really? Well, we’ll see about that.” He pressed the earbud one last time and said, “Bring him in.”

  From the far side of the plaza came the sound of two groundcars carefully making their way through the crowd. The engine noise was punctuated by bursts from their horns, and slowly but surely the confused crowd moved back to let them pass.

  A minute later, the groundcars drew up to the bottom of the stone steps where the ‘press’ crowd had stood just a minute before. The rear door of the front car opened and Brinno emerged. The goon held the door open while Huwll emerged from the other side. On Brinno’s side a cane appeared, followed by its owner: a large, pale-skinned man with puffy cheeks, thick pink lips and one wonky eye.

  The crowd stared at Wallus Bazhanka, not recognising him. A murmur of confusion spread through the people.

  Then the front passenger door of the second groundcar opened and a large, dark-skinned Varnian man climbed out. He moved to the rear and held the door open. Bazhanka walked over and offered his hand to someone inside the car. A bony, long-fingered hand took hold of Bazhanka’s, and the mob boss straightened as his companion stepped out of the car.

  Governor Jarrand L. Werrdun stood up and waved to the gasping crowd. Around his neck hung a gaudy necklace of gold and jewels.

  His necklace of office.

  “YOU’RE... YOU’RE DEAD...” croaked Ven Dazarus, staring at the governor as he walked up the steps. Bazhanka walked beside Werrdun, and following them were Brinno, Huwll and four of the governor’s security team from his trip to Azbatha.

  Nicco laughed. “First rule of warfare, Ven Dazarus—don’t believe foreign propaganda.”

  Ven Dazarus turned to Gorrd. Like everyone else, the hapless wizard was staring at Governor Werrdun in shock. “Gorrd!” Ven Dazarus hissed. “Stop his heart! Take their guns away! Just… do something!”

  But Sothus stepped between the wizard and Ven Dazarus, and moved his aim to Gorrd’s forehead. “Hey, Nicco,” he called. “Can wizards outrun large-calibre bullets?”

  Nicco sucked air through his teeth and pretended to consider the question. “I don’t think so, but I’m no expert. Perhaps you should conduct an experiment and find out.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Sothus, pressing the barrel of the assault rifle against Gorrd’s skull, just above his eyes. “Well, wizard?”

  Gorrd stared down the rifle barrel and began to sweat. “N-No...”

  “Bah,” said Sothus with a sneer. “You’re no fun.”

  Nicco crouched to retrieve a handful of pieces of the shattered necklace. He held his hand out in front of Ven Dazarus, then let the fragments fall through his fingers like grains of sand. “Two hundred rakki from the city market. Pretty good likeness, though, eh?”

  The rebel leader turned on Nicco with a murderous glare. “I will kill you, imbecile thief!”

  Bazhanka took a step forward and scowled at Ven Dazarus. “Dear boy, the only execution around here will be yours...”

  “No,” said Werrdun, placing a hand on Bazhanka’s shoulder. “He’s going to live.” Werrdun turned to Ven Dazarus. “You’d like nothing more than to be a martyr, wouldn’t you? But you won’t get it. You’re going to rot in a cell for the rest of your miserable life, you crazy fanatic.”

  The parachutists were landing, hitting the ground and rolling with a practised ease. Some came to rest on rooftops around the plaza, others in the plaza itself. The crowd who’d watched Ven Dazarus declare victory over Werrdun’s men scattered as the governor’s forces returned with a vengeance. Most of the Kurrethi were still in city hall, which was now completely surrounded. Those outside with Ven Dazarus had already dropped their guns and surrendered. The rebel leader may have trained them as soldiers, but they weren’t suicidal. The remaining Kurrethi, occupying police stations across the city, would soon be dealt with and arrested.

  Nicco allowed himself a smile. The idea had come to him at his lowest ebb, when he was running out of time and options. After Brinno and Huwll’s last visit, he’d had the idea of using the thinman as a decoy while he stole the necklace; but he’d known that just stealing it would change nothing in the bigger picture. Werrdun would live, but Ven Dazarus would still be out there and the Kurrethi would still be active. And while that might have been fine for the governor and Bazhanka, Nicco wanted something more. He wanted revenge.

  It was while feeling sorry for himself that Nicco remembered his despair at the Jalakumi businessman’s fake gold bathroom ornaments, the despair that had left him with no option but to take the necklace job from ‘Xandus.’ Fake ornaments...

  Nicco had already confirmed that Ven Dazarus was no wizard. And he couldn’t be intimately familiar with the necklace, because Werrdun never removed it. So how would Ven Dazarus be able to tell a real from a fake sold in the marketplace?

  Apart from Nicco’s brush with death escaping from the rebel camp, it had worked like a charm. When he brought that hammer down, Ven Dazarus really believed he was destroying Werrdun’s necklace. And that made Nicco enjoy what followed all the more.

  Two of Werrdun’s bodyguards took Ven Dazarus by the arms and held him fast while Governor Werrdun turned to address the crowd. He held up his hands for quiet. Despite the chaos in the plaza, with police seeming to appear from everywhere and the civilians wondering what on earth was going on, they quickly fell silent when they saw him.

  “People of Hurrunda,” he said. “My people of Hurrunda. What you have just witnessed was a shabby attempt to reverse this great city’s progress to the dark days of an age whose time is passed, by an army of terrorists who would have removed the basic freedoms and rights which you have enjoyed for the past sixty years. Make no mistake, my ‘illness’ in Turith was no less than an attempt on my very life, carried out for the sake of one man’s greed.” Werrdun gestured at the rebel leader. “Ven Dazarus, mastermind of the Kurrethi, was willing to commit murder to style himself ‘emperor’ of your city. In that he failed, but he and his band of guerrillas are already responsible for the murder of many Hurrundan innocents. As we speak, the remainder of the terrorists are being placed under arrest. They will be tried within the week...”

  A sudden shout from one of Werrdun’s bodyguards interrupted his speech. “Suicide capsule! Stop him!”

  Nicco turned and saw the bodyguard, one of the men holding Ven Dazarus, grip the rebel leader’s jaw and try to force his mouth open. Everyone else had been so intent on Werrdun, they’d neglected to keep a careful eye on Ven Dazarus. Now the rebel leader was trying to outwit justice by killing himself.

  Nicco leapt forward to help, and the other bodyguard holding Ven Dazarus joined in the struggle. Nicco wasn’t going to let the rebel leader get away that easily, not if he could do something about it. He dropped his blaster, grabbed hold of Ven Dazarus’ shirt arm, swung
him round and slapped him hard on the back with his other hand. The bodyguard who’d noticed the suicide attempt still had the rebel leader’s jaw gripped between his fingers, but Ven Dazarus was thrashing his limbs—whether to escape or because the poison was taking effect, Nicco couldn’t tell—and the guard fell backwards.

  Time seemed to slow down. The bodyguard fell into the crowd of people rushing to help. Nicco slapped Ven Dazarus on the back again. Ven Dazarus seemed to be falling with the bodyguard, his arms wrapped around the man’s waist. Nicco lunged forward to catch Ven Dazarus. Then the rebel leader stood up straight and grabbed hold of Nicco’s arm. He had the bodyguard’s blaster in his hand.

  He pressed the barrel against Nicco’s forehead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “YOU WOULDN’T DARE,” said Nicco. “You wouldn’t make it two steps before someone gunned you down.” The pistol was a normal bullet-slinger, not an entropy gun. Evidently Werrdun had returned with no intention of taking prisoners.

  “I think no,” said Ven Dazarus in broken Turithian. “Werrdun say he will have me alive, exactly. Move!” He pushed the blaster barrel at Nicco’s head, forcing him to step backwards.

  The rebel leader was right. Governor Werrdun motioned for his men to stand back and let Ven Dazarus through. Nobody doubted that he had the guts to kill.

  Nicco took slow steps back, down the stone steps toward the crowd. “What are you going to do, walk all the way back to the Hurrun Peaks with your gun pointed at me?”

  “Maybe, exactly,” said the rebel leader.

  “Well, you’ll be out of luck.” Nicco looked over to Bazhanka. “When does the bombing start? Any time now?”

  The mob boss nodded.

  “You lie,” hissed Ven Dazarus. “We are hidden well!”

  Nicco held up his hand and showed the rebel leader the following gem embedded in his palm. “I’m guessing it was your pet wizard that got this tingling when I was in your tent,” he said. “But you weren’t the only ones following me.”

  Ven Dazarus’ face darkened. “Then you are the fool.”

  He pushed Nicco back with the blaster again, and Nicco heard a deep-throated hum from close behind. The groaks.

  “Get on,” said the rebel leader. He turned Nicco round by the shoulder and pushed him toward the nearest of the beasts. “You can groak ride, I know this. Move!”

  The animals were already agitated, snorting and milling around restlessly; Nicco figured it wouldn’t help. He just hoped they didn’t all stampede again. He’d only been in Hurrunda two days, and he’d had enough of groaks.

  Ven Dazarus pressed the blaster further into the small of Nicco’s back. “On,” he hissed in his ear.

  Nicco grabbed hold of the animal’s harness, slipped his boot into a stirrup and hauled himself up into the saddle. He turned and offered his hand to Ven Dazarus, hoping to pull him off-balance and make him drop the gun.

  Ven Dazarus wasn’t fooled. “Put your hands on saddle and keep there,” he growled. “Foot out.” When Nicco had removed his foot from the stirrup, the rebel leader used his free hand to pull himself up behind Nicco. He kept the blaster aimed at Nicco the whole time, even as he swung his legs over the groak’s back, and settled in on the back edge of the saddle. “Walk!” he barked in Nicco’s ear.

  Nicco took hold of the reins, snapped them hard and hummed. The groak stiffened, lurched to one side, then shot forward into the crowd. The people scattered, running and diving out of the beast’s way. Nicco did his best to direct it, trying to avoid innocent bystanders, but the groak paid him no attention and just kept going forward.

  Nicco glanced back over his shoulder. Werrdun’s men were running down the steps of City Hall. Were they going to try and follow him? Had they forgotten Ven Dazarus had a blaster pressed to his back? With a sinking in his stomach, he wondered if Werrdun had decided it would be worth Nicco’s life to make sure the rebel leader didn’t escape.

  Ven Dazarus had seen it, too, and wondered the same thing. He turned in the saddle and raised his blaster.

  Great, thought Nicco. It’s going to turn into a shootout, and I’m the only one without a gun.

  But the rebel leader didn’t shoot at his pursuers. Instead he aimed for the already restless groak pack and shot three rounds.

  Nicco didn’t see exactly where they hit, but he heard the shrieking of wounded animals. Ven Dazarus was trying to start a stampede! With the groaks in a frenzy, getting through the crowd to follow Ven Dazarus—or save Nicco—would be impossible for Werrdun’s men. Once again, he was on his own. You want a job done right... Nicco dropped the reins and turned in the saddle. Ven Dazarus was still aiming at the groak pack, preparing to fire another volley of rounds. It was now or never.

  Nicco put one arm around Ven Dazarus’ body and pulled him back, reaching for the gun with his other hand. Ven Dazarus shouted in protest and twisted his body away, pulling the gun free of Nicco’s clutches.

  Behind them the groak pack roared, broke ranks and stampeded into the crowd. By now many observers had already left, perhaps deciding that even an event so momentous just wasn’t worth the risk. The crowd surged backward, scattering out of the rampaging beast’s path.

  Ven Dazarus threw a punch at Nicco’s head. Nicco ducked and let go of Ven Dazarus’ body, instead grabbing his arm as it swung. The two men half-faced one another, arms locked and straining. Nicco didn’t stand a chance against the ex-soldier; he felt his arms begin to give way and the rebel leader smiled, confident of his victory. But when Ven Dazarus came within six inches from his face, Nicco snapped his head forward and headbutted the rebel leader on the nose.

  Ven Dazarus cried out and jerked back, wrenching his arms from Nicco’s grip and bringing his gun arm down. Nicco made a dive for the blaster but he overshot, slipping sideways in the saddle. Ven Dazarus fired and missed, hitting the groak in the neck.

  The beast reared up on its back four legs. Nicco lost his balance completely and fell to the ground. He landed flat on his back, winded and immobile.

  The groak reared again, twisting and bucking in pain. Ven Dazarus lunged forward, grasping for the harness, but missed. He slipped off the back of the saddle onto the groak’s spines and yelled in pain.

  Nicco gasped for air and looked up. The stampeding groaks were almost upon them. He struggled to his feet, trying to stagger away, but he was all out of strength.

  Then, suddenly, the herd turned. As one, they swept round and headed for the groak he and Ven Dazarus had been riding. The rebel leader was slipping, one hand gripping the harness as his body slid down the beast’s flanks. Nicco saw blood at the small of his back, spreading fast over Ven Dazarus’ coat and trousers. The herd was heading straight for him.

  Straight for the blood.

  Nicco looked over at the wizard, Gorrd, on the steps of City Hall. Sothus still had the man at gunpoint, and the wizard was watching helplessly, horrified. He hadn’t been able to fully control just one of the beasts when it went berserk back at the camp; there was no way he could calm an entire frenzied pack.

  The groak herd crashed into their lone brother, bowling the beast over onto its side. Ven Dazarus went down with it, crushed under the weight of a hundred groak legs as the herd trampled over him, then stopped and circled round his limp and bleeding body. Nicco’s blood ran cold at the roars, hums and shrieks from the pack as they fought over feeding rights.

  The plaza was now empty but for the rebels, Werrdun and his men, and the feeding groaks. Nicco limped around the pack and made his way back to the steps. He heard one of the Hurrundan cops shout into a radio for animal handlers to come and subdue the groaks.

  Nicco headed for Werrdun. The governor’s face was black as thunder, robbed of his vengeance. Nicco wasn’t sorry. Ven Dazarus had been scum, but everything he’d learned over the past two weeks told him Werrdun was no saint either. Nicco could imagine the torture he’d have put the Kurrethi leader through, and it turned his stomach.

  “Looks like you
won’t be getting your pound of flesh,” said Nicco to Werrdun. “Unless you fancy sifting through a ton of groak shit.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE MOON SHONE high and bright through the clear night sky. Ribbons of silver played on the water of the Nissal Straits like thousands of tiny fish darting in and out of the sea. A midsummer breeze blew across the mouth of the Nissal River, giving some relief from the balmy, humid night air.

  Nicco stood on the observation platform of the small funeral skiff as it moved out from the mouth of the river into the Straits. Behind him, on the main deck, three men in all-white suits stood guard over a body draped in a white cloth. Each wore a cutlass, fixed to his waist and hanging down by his thigh.

  Not that there was any need to guard the body these days, but it was a tradition dating back to the days before airships, when Turith was a nation of warring island states and warriors were buried with their valuable possessions and weapons beside them. The desecration of a corpse, or theft of the valuables, was a terrible affront. Not to the gods—Turithians had never had much time for religion—but to the warrior’s reputation and respect, and the honour of the men who buried him. Failing to defend the body of a fallen comrade was the ultimate black mark on a warrior’s record.

  Nicco had been very clear that there would be no religious or spiritual element to this burial, but he had no problem with tradition. Lilla herself had asked him to bury her at midnight, which had been traditional for unmarried women for thousands of years. Legend had it that Babbola, the ‘mother of Turith,’ refused to marry any of the fathers to her children—of which there were twenty, fifty or hundreds, depending on which version of the legend you subscribed to. Babbola travelled from island to island, mothering a child on each one before moving on, in order to spread her family and genes among the nation. When her time finally came, at seventy years of age (or a hundred, or three hundred) her children all came to Turilum. Then, in silent agreement, they led a procession of her cloth-draped body to the shore at midnight. They set her adrift on the sea and returned to their separate islands without a word spoken.