by S. L. Viehl
“You sleep with the wounded.” Hasal gestured abruptly toward the unit. “Would you deny him the comfort you give to the infantry, or the pilots, or the other women?”
“I would deny him nothing.” Jarn meant that, too. She had not trusted the Raktar when she and Resa had joined the rebel army, but as the war raged she had grown to know him. He led countless charges into battle. He fought through until the last of the enemy fell. He never asked any of the troops to do that which he would not do himself. “But he has never asked—”
“He cannot. He believes his heart is dead.” Hasal placed the strap in her hand and closed her fingers over it. “It lives at night, Jarn. It screams in the night.”
She tucked the strap into her robe and went into the shelter.
“Follow my movements,” the Raktar was saying out loud. “Up, then down. Side to side. Slowly, now.”
Resa and the general were standing beside each other. Both were armed with Toskald ceremonial swords, which they were moving in tandem. Behind them, forty newly arrived skela were following their movements.
The integration of the skela into the army had been inevitable, had anyone truly thought about it. At first Jarn and Resa had used their skela sisters only to transport the wounded and, once they had discovered that the blobs they used for their vral masks were replicating themselves, made them into a small army of vral. Everyone on the battlefield was at risk, however, and the skela turned vral had been repeatedly forced to defend themselves. That was when Teulon saw, as every man did, that the dead handlers were faster and more experienced with hand blades than most men.
Teulon ordered the vral armed. Jarn and Resa had argued against it, of course.
“They were not brought here to engage in combat,” Resa had told him when he proposed enabling the skela to fight as well as carry out the wounded. “They came to help us, not to kill for you.”
“Only the Death Bringers can do that,” Jarn added, “and only when commanded to do so.”
“Skela know how to kill game that are brought to them still alive.” Teulon looked at both of them. “You command the vral.”
“No.” Jarn had walked out, and after a moment, Resa had followed her.
It had been Daneeb who had settled the matter. She had engaged the first Toskald in battle when an infantryman ran at one of the wounded she had been carrying off the ice. She had killed him with her first blow. That night she had come to the Raktar and asked that the skela be issued long blades. When Jarn and Resa had opposed it, she had turned on them.
“They attack us as if we were rebels,” the headwoman told Resa. “We must defend the injured.”
“You are talking about killing, not saving.”
“This is our world, too. We wish to fight for it.” Daneeb turned to Teulon. “We can be held in reserve. We can continue to mask ourselves as vral. Only arm us.”
Now Jarn waited, not understanding why she had been summoned to the training session, but sensing it would be several minutes before it was complete and the Raktar dismissed the skela. She found a curious joy in observing, as well. Watching Resa and Teulon practice together was like seeing jlorra move.
“Halt and lower blades. Jarn.” Teulon gestured for her to come forward, and took another sword from the pile that had been cleaned and repaired by one of the armorers. “Take it.”
Jarn folded her arms. On this subject she had been adamant. “I will not use weapons.”
“I have need of the men who have been guarding you on the battlefields.” He extended the sword to her. “Take it.”
“Am I to understand,” she said, making no move to touch the weapon, “that you have acquired a case of amnesia? Perhaps that is why you forget what I told you when I joined this rebellion.”
“I do not expect you to kill for me. I expect you to live.” He did not lower the sword. “The Toskald are learning to leave their energy weapons on their ships. At Bjola they carried nothing but swords. You can no longer go onto the ice unarmed, Jarn.”
He was right. He was right and she hated him for it. Jarn heaved out some air and took the weapon. “I will likely stab myself with this thing rather than defend myself.”
Teulon gave her a shrewd look. “You have better defenses than half my battalions.”
He was obviously in the grip of some bizarre whim, so Jarn indulged it and practiced the sword movements with him and Resa and the other skela. The weapon was heavier than it looked, and reproducing the simple strokes he showed them more difficult than she imagined.
“You should spar with Resa,” Teulon said after dismissing the other women. “She is your match with a blade.”
Jarn was sweating and her arm felt as if it were made of stone. “It is one thing to wave a blade in the air,” she said, feeling guilty for enjoying it as she had. “Another to skewer someone’s body with it.”
“When someone tries to skewer you,” the Raktar said mildly, “I hope you will not wave yours in the air.” He shrugged into his outfurs. “We are prepared to move into the third phase. It is only a matter of days now. I thought you should both know, since we will be leaving you here.”
“The rumors are true, then,” Jarn said. “You have found a way to reach the skim cities.”
He did not respond, but covered his face and left the shelter.
At first everyone thought the Raktar meant to deplete the Toskald troops by battling them on the surface. But two battalions of rebels had been sent to places unknown to the rest of the army, and it was presumed the weaponry liberated from the armory trenches had gone with them.
Jarn did not see how they could fly to the skim cities. The few operational ships and pilots capable of traversing the kvinka could still not carry enough troops to take over one of the flying cities. Skimmers could, but they were too flimsy and their engines stalled if they flew too high. They could never cross the zone of violent wind keeping the surface dwellers from their former masters.
“I need to bathe, and sleep,” Resa complained. “So do you. Let us worry about ourselves tonight.”
“We cannot.” Jarn took out the silencer strap, holding it tightly in her hand for a moment before offering it to Resa. “We must decide what to do about this.”
“You have not eaten this day,” Hasal said as Teulon stripped out of his sparring garments.
“I had a session with the vral,” Teulon said.
“That should not have taken long.” His second brought him a bowl of stew and a server of water. Teulon had issued the last of the tea to be distributed among the men. “They saved the men at Bjola, it is said.”
“Jarn took up the blade tonight.” Teulon drank some of the watery stew. “I gave her no choice, I suppose.”
“That one will not suffer,” Hasal told him. “Her tongue alone could slice through a hull. She should spar with her twin. There is no one faster with a blade.”
Hasal always referred to Jarn and Resa as twins. There was something faintly eerie about how alike they were, too. They moved like mirrors of each other, or parts of the same person. They finished each other’s sentences. They were rarely seen apart.
Teulon saw their differences more clearly. Resa gave him companionship, loyalty, and understanding, and she did so without reserve. Jarn did the same, but there was a wall between her and the rest of the world, and she would not permit him to see over it. Sometimes she would not allow him within sight of it.
Jarn, he suspected, knew who Resa was. Just as he did.
“Do you have any final orders for me?” Hasal asked after Teulon had finished his meal.
“See the stores master and have enough synthetics set aside for seventy thousand women and children,” Teulon said. “If we fail to take the cities, it will be up to you and the reserve troops to keep them alive until the planet recovers.”
The war had destroyed much of Akkabarr’s already limited resources; the holdout tribes had also decimated what game had escaped it. Teulon had no doubt he would be victorious, but he woul
d not leave the helpless behind to starve on the barren ice if he had miscalculated.
He noticed his second was scowling. “What is it?”
“You have told me nothing of this attack, so I do not know of what you speak.” Hasal removed the dishes and dumped them into a washbasin. “I am useless with women and children. Let Edin see to the people, and take me with you.”
“You are the one I trust to see the Iisleg through this if we fail.” Teulon looked up as someone stepped through the flap. He did not put his knife away when he saw it was one of his guards. The men knew better than to intrude without invitation. “What is it?”
“An urgent matter, Raktar. Aktwar Navn has returned from Bjola,” the guard retorted. “He has brought a windlord prisoner and wishes to relay vital information.”
Navn’s son, Teulon recalled, had been assigned to ordnance and recovery after proving himself a coward by running from battle. “Send him.”
Navn’s son entered a few moments later. “Raktar.” He gave the diagonal salute of Iisleg respect and pulled back his shoulders. “I have news of the windlords that you must hear. It may well turn the tide of the war.”
Teulon waited for Hasal to make one of his usual caustic comments, but his second had vanished. “Speak, son of Navn.”
Aktwar took out what appeared to be the collar from a Toskald uniform. “I found one of the enemy cowering inside a privy hole,” he said, showing Teulon the insignia on the collar. “A Tos’ commander who begged for his life. He offered information if I would spare it.”
“What did he say?”
“The commander told me that there are five hundred League ships orbiting the planet, and that Orjakis is preparing to make pact with them.” Aktwar gestured toward the roof of the shelter. “They will re-supply the windlords with ships and fresh troops if the windlords give them the ensleg female. From how he described her, it is the woman Resa who saved my life.”
Teulon had been counting on the Hsktskt blockade to hold a little longer. “When will the League troops arrive?”
“The commander does not know.” Aktwar made a casual gesture. “If he had, he would have told me.”
Teulon had blades in both hands now. “I gave orders that no prisoner was to be tortured.”
Navn’s son didn’t have the sense to cringe. “It was necessary, Raktar. The man commanded the patrol. He had much knowledge to impart to me, once I began cracking his bones.”
He would have to summon Jarn and Resa from their beds. “Take him to the healers’ shelter.”
“I cannot,” Aktwar admitted. “He escaped.”
Or was permitted to. Teulon tightened his grip on his blades. “Can you do nothing right?”
A woman rushed into the shelter and threw herself at Aktwar’s feet. “Forgive my son, I beg you, Raktar.” She tore her face wrap away, displaying a pretty, plump face painted with Iisleg cosmetics. She looked beyond his shoulder. “He only wished to contribute something of importance to the Raktar’s glorious coming victory.”
Teulon vaguely recalled the woman as Navn’s kedera. Whoever she was, she had no business being in the camp. “Why are you not in the trenches with the other women and children?”
“My son permits me to travel with him, so that I may care for his needs, Raktar.” Tears spilled down her face. “His father was killed during the avalanche at Elsil. I have no one else. If he dies, so do I.”
Teulon saw the only solution. “Navn, take your mother to Mnomo trench. Stay there with her and help guard the others.”
Aktwar’s jaw sagged. “But, Raktar, the information I brought you—surely this proves I am worthy of joining your personal staff—”
Greed and ambition. That was all the boy had in him. Today five hundred men had died on the ice, and Aktwar Navn had tortured an enemy for information, let him escape, and was now worried only about securing his promotion to the inner circle.
Navn had even brought his mother to take the blame for his mistakes.
He is too stupid to be a spy. “Get out.” When neither the boy nor the woman moved, Teulon shouted it. “Get out.”
Bsak, who was recovering from a bolt wound he had received during the last battle, rose and padded forward into the light. The sight of him released Navn and his mother from their shock, and they stumbled over each other running from the shelter.
The League’s arrival was a disaster. Teulon had to take the Toskald cities before the League sent reinforcements to the Kangal. Which meant launching the final phase before schedule.
The next day could well decide the war.
Teulon pulled on his outfurs and armed himself. He could not spend another minute sitting in this shelter. Bsak came to stand before him. The cat gave him a strange look, as if he intended to stop Teulon from leaving.
“I need air.” When the cat didn’t move, he crouched down to put them on eye level. “You cannot come with me. Sleep. I will need you when we go to Skjonn.”
Bsak nuzzled his face once before slowly walking back to the pile of furs where he slept.
Outside, the night air rushed into Teulon’s lungs and tried to freeze them. The men had gathered around an open-air heatarc propped over a vent shaft, and were quietly talking while sharing some rations. They all fell silent when they caught sight of the Raktar, standing outside his shelter. A moment later they had their weapons slung as if ready to escort him.
“No. I go alone.” Teulon walked off.
He was too far from the small cave now to trek to it, so he made a circuit of the camp. Most of his exhausted troops were asleep. The only light came from the healers’ shelter. He was tempted to go and seek out Jarn and Resa, but they would know he was troubled. They always did.
He would go back. He would sleep tonight, so he would not be weary when the dawn came. It might well be his last.
When he returned to the shelter and secured it for the night, Teulon stretched out on the mound of furs opposite Bsak. He did not think he would sleep, but he still tied the silencer over his mouth and closed his eyes. He hated the dreams, but he hoped this night they would come for him. It might well be the last time he shared with Akara, their son, and the HouseClan that had been their lives.
Jado, come to me, he thought, opening his heart to the darkness. Stay with me, this last walk on the path.
Slowly he drifted into the twilight world, but no dreams came. Perversely, they were going to leave him in the dark, and that, more than anything, convinced Teulon that the rebellion would fail. Hope was truly done when not even the ghosts of the past would come to haunt his soul.
Or it has come to the moment when I no longer have a soul.
Weight settled near him. Bsak often climbed onto the furs beside him to keep him warm. Teulon reached out from his sleep and stroked silky hair. Akara had possessed the most beautiful hair. Black as the night, falling like dark silk to her hips, and as soft as their infant son’s shorter, unruly locks. Teulon had spent hours brushing and braiding his wife’s hair.
How I honored you, my heart. How I failed you.
Akara came to him. She did not look frightened this time, as she always had. She seemed only sad. I am where I am to be, and you have your path. Follow it.
He reached out to her, and she came into his arms.
Only know the price, she whispered.
There she began to burn, silent, looking up at him through the flames, her cerulean skin darkening to black, peeling away, her bones charring. In her arms, their son huddled as he, too, burned to ash.
This is how I honored them.
His muffled scream jerked him out of the dark, and he sat up, the sweat pouring down his body, his frame shaking. Something was making a soft sound. There were hands stroking him, arms embracing him.
He lifted his hand to untie the strap, but smaller fingers were already at the knot. Another hand brushed the hair back from his eyes. A third hand rubbed a soothing circle over his chest.
“You were dreaming,” Resa whispered in the da
rk to his right, where she lay against him. She turned only for a moment, to throw away the shredded strap.
Teulon felt long hair stream across his chest as Jarn, on his left, wiped the blood from his mouth with her hand.
EIGHTEEN
“Will I be blind?” Reever asked the woman tending to him.
“No.” Hands adjusted the furs keeping him warm. “The blindness is only temporary, from the flash of the blast. The healer has checked the insides of your eyes and they are still functioning. She says it will take a few days before you may see again.”
He had woken up in some sort of primitive hospital, alive, but with most of his head swathed in bandages. There were seven other men around him, survivors of Bjola, he presumed, and two women moving around the ward who were tending to them.
All were Iisleg.
“Are you thirsty?” the woman was asking him. “The healer said you may have water, or some soup.”
The healer.
“There was a healer who found me, at Bjola,” he said, choosing his words so as not to alarm the nurse. “If she is here, I must speak to her immediately.”
“I do not know who found you, but Jarn and Resa led the vral to rescue the wounded. It was likely one of them, but I will ask. No.” Her hand kept him from sitting up. “Stay as you are. You are still weak from the bleeding, and you cannot see to move around, remember?”
Reever took the time the nurse was gone to check the rest of his body. He was battered and bruised all over, and he had a ferocious headache, but he was able to move without impairment. He considered tearing off the bandage, but he didn’t need his eyes to recognize his wife.
It was enough to know that he had found her.
An hour passed before she came. “You asked for me?”
“Yes.” He turned his face toward the sound of his wife’s voice. She said nothing more, and he remembered the bandages. “Do you know who I am?”
“I know you are an ensleg, and you do not have enough sense to take adequate cover during a patrol barrage.” Cherijo’s cool hands touched the exposed part of his face. “Your fever is gone. I’m very pleased with you. Once your eyes heal, you may rejoin your unit.”
