by Don McQuinn
Tate pressed against Nalatan. “What’s that mean? About the stones?”
He looked straight ahead. “A large stone can end a stoning too quickly.”
Tate made a low moaning sound, and Nalatan drew her to him. He said, “We’re taught what we call a mahn. It’s like a hymn, in your mind. It gives calmness.”
“The trance,” Sylah nodded. “Tate hasn’t had our schooling.”
Hysteria flashed in Tate’s throat for the brief moment that she imagined a commanding officer’s face if she’d ever suggested Marines learn to chant so they could die with equanimity.
Nalatan said, “Sit by me.”
Sylah and Lanta joined them, shoulder to shoulder. Even as she dreaded what was coming, Tate marveled at the serenity of her friends.
Friends.
Leaning into Nalatan, Tate indicated the milling, excited crowd. “This isn’t the way I thought it’d all end, but I’m with the people I’d pick to go with. Except for Conway.” Her face broke in a hardbitten grin. “I’d love to see what he does to this outfit when he finds out what happened. And Clas. Oh, my, yes. Clas. I hope the two of them do it together. Take a good look at them out there, Nalatan. Those fools are just a massacre that hasn’t happened yet.”
He chuckled. When she looked, he was shaking his head. “What a warrior you are. Too bad we can’t make them pay. We can be strong, though. We can help each other.”
Tate kissed him, closing her mind to the howling warriors.
Until the noise changed. Sharpened. She pulled back from Nalatan, turned where the eyes of the mob led her. And screamed.
Four men carried Tanno on a pole. Suspended from all fours, lashed to the sapling, her eyes darted in all directions. A boy threw a rock at her, and she lunged, snapping. The crowd roared. An adult pulled the boy back, although he was yards beyond the dog’s reach.
Tate gripped Nalatan. She’d heard the sounds of death often enough to be inured. This was the sound of insensate killing. It frightened her as nothing else ever had.
The horns bellowed constantly. The crowd’s screaming escalated.
Sylah put a hand on Tate’s forearm. She had to shout to be heard. “They mean to break us, Donnacee. This is how it starts. Don’t look.”
“She’s a dog, Sylah. A poor, loyal dog. They can’t.”
Aching, Sylah could only move to shield Tate’s vision. Tate firmly pushed her aside.
Four warriors with long ropes fixed loops around Tanno’s neck and waist. The bearers dropped her heavily to the ground. Other men slashed the lines binding her to the pole. Instantly, Tanno was up. Crippled feet betrayed her, made her clumsy. The four lines kept her centered, controlled.
A rock struck her. She snarled, redoubled her efforts to attack her tormentors. A second rock, larger, took her forelegs from under her. She sagged, choking, hung on the throat lines.
Incredibly, the sound level rose.
Tanno struggled for footing. More rocks flew. Many struck. Still she fought. The great, intelligent eyes watched her foes. She tried to dodge the storm of stones flying at her. There were too many.
Tate shrieked every curse and obscenity she’d ever heard. Flailing, she broke the hold of Sylah and Nalatan. When she hit the end of her restraining line, the crashing fall dazed her. Nalatan pulled her back, held her to his side.
Although the movement was far behind her, Tanno sensed her master. She turned, barked once. Dragging the straining line handlers into the rain of missiles, she forged her indomitable way to Tate. The dog collapsed with her head in Tate’s lap.
The handlers let the lines fall slack. The barrage from the crowd stilled while they got out of the line of fire. After they were clear, a strange pause continued.
Someone cursed. A rock hummed across the open ground, struck Tate just above the eye. She exclaimed, reeled. In a straining bound, Tanno launched herself at the crowd. Bloody-mouthed, one eye closed, a leg hanging uselessly, she charged. Hackles raised, roaring like lion, she hurtled massively past the limits of the forgotten restraining lines. The crowd crushed backward on itself in panic-sodden retreat.
The arrow came from the flank, a shard of light, silent and treacherous. It drove solidly into Tanno’s rib cage. The great heart broke. The huge, loyal body tumbled to earth, forever facing her master’s enemies.
An eerie hush settled on the valley. Darker than mere silence, there was a feeling to the quiet, something foul and shamed. When Tate rose to her feet there was a sibilant inhalation, a damp sound of collective guilt. Rhythmically, powerfully, Tate applauded. “Good dog,” she said, and stopped clapping. Her voice cracked. “Oh, you good dog, Tanno. You steadfast heart. The fire and courage of you. There was never a one like you, my Tanno. My wonderful, loyal Tanno.” She stopped, swept the crowd with a slow gaze that stopped men, dropped their faces low so they saw only the dirt at their feet. Those who’d held the binding ropes trickled away into anonymity among the tribe. Only the Harvester held Tate’s eyes as the hating, shaming look crossed her.
Tate went on. “Look, brave Starwatch. Make your sons look, so they can remember forever the valor of their fathers. Where’s your savior, the one of the last arrow?”
She caught Canis Minor pushing his bow behind him. “You! Too weak to fight a man. You grow, from lying coward all the way to skulking killer.”
A long, soft sigh rose from the tribe. The Harvester assessed it, shoved into action with a whispered command. Orion spoke to a flame-red Canis Minor, then hurried toward the prisoners. Standing beside them, he raised his arms.
“These traitors are to die in shame, denied the weapons of men. Church demands they be stoned. Stoned. Stoned. Stoned.” At each repetition of the word, he pointed at one of the foursome.
Canis Minor advanced, his movements oddly stiff. His face gleamed with sweat and rage. Facing the gathering, he said, “I will hold the black one. The oldest law of Starwatch says her life is forfeit to the tribe, and I claim it. I will fight any for her.”
Orion, shaking his head, stepped forward. Warriors along the front of the crowd shouted approval before Orion could speak. Others took up the cry. In an instant, it was practically universal.
A gesture from Canis Minor brought his friends on the run. Most struggled to restrain Nalatan. Others slashed Tate’s bonds, spun her onto her back at Canis Minor’s feet. He reached for her.
Tate let him lift her until she was standing in front of him. Quickly gripping his vest in both hands, she fell backward. Startled, caught unaware, he was drawn along. She rolled and lifted her feet into the pit of his stomach. When he was overhead, she straightened her legs, hard. By releasing his vest fractionally later, she sent him into a soaring midair flip. Dust billowed where he landed.
The crowd gasped.
Tate leaped to her feet, faced the gang of cronies. They hesitated.
Sylah’s laughter pealed out across everyone. Even the Harvester swiveled to stare. Pointing at Canis Minor, Sylah stopped guffawing long enough to say, “Another show of manly skill, Canis Minor, mighty champion of Starwatch. You want her? Wait till you’re a man. She’ll beat you like a drum.”
Tears of rage sparkled on Canis Minor’s cheeks as he scrambled upright. He drew his knife.
Canis Minor’s friends cheered and laughed. “Open her up,” one shouted. “See what color she is inside.” They moved in a group to seat themselves at the front of the stage area. Canis Minor moved toward Tate, who crouched, hands raised in defense.
“What have you done?” Nalatan demanded. “He doesn’t mean to kill her, he wants only to cause pain.”
Sylah’s gaze remained locked on the maneuvering pair. “Get behind me and Lanta. For the first time since they drugged us, no one’s watching us. Chew on your wrist bindings. And pray for Donnacee.”
Nalatan didn’t argue. Behind her, she heard him, gnawing and grunting.
Clamor encouraged Canis Minor. He postured. Played. Still, when he slashed at Tate, it was in earnest.
S
oon, Sylah heard growing surliness in the crowd noise. Tate’s clever defense frustrated them. Sylah knew it was a matter of little time before the stones would come. Or worse, intervention from one of Canis Minor’s friends.
The watchers were recovered from their momentary embarrassment over Tanno. They wanted their new victim humiliated. Bloodied. Quickly.
Chapter 25
Pressed to the near-vertical slope, Conway watched Tate dodge Canis Minor’s blade.
Behind Conway, Karda and Mikka scrabbled for purchase. Conway patted them. He needed them calm, confident; one misstep would send them bowling downhill.
Surprise was the only hope Conway had. He meant to get full use of it. Bile still burned his throat, the residue of watching Tanno die. Such sacrifice demanded retribution.
He and the dogs crept downward. Closer.
Tate blocked a thrust. It was a feint. When she made her move, he turned the blade, slashed upward. Reflex pulled her back, exposed her throat. Taut, sweat-gleaming, it seemed to attract the weapon.
Conway bit back outcry. The prisoners tied to the post shouted in horror. The crowd thundered.
Tate staggered back, windmilling. She caught herself, reached for the wound. Blood ran thickly between her fingers.
Conway exhaled slowly. She was cut, but it was her jaw, not her throat. Regaining her defensive posture, Tate concentrated on her enemy.
Nalatan huddled against the post, unimaginably quiescent, seemingly defeated. Only when Conway looked closely did he see him furiously tearing at his bindings with his teeth. Sylah watched the uneven duel with iron self control. Lanta covered her eyes with her hands.
Canis Minor lunged again. Tate struck his right forearm inward with her left. Pivoting on her left foot spun her away from the blade. The turn continued to a full circle, ending with her beside Canis Minor. Off-balance, arm extended awkwardly, the man was already turning in pursuit.
Tate speared the point of her right elbow into his unprotected kidney area. He froze, paralyzed in a shock of agony. Pirouetting with deadly delicacy, Tate moved to Canis Minor’s left side. Translating speed into force, she repeated the elbow blow. It crushed the other kidney.
This time he screamed. Staggering, arms clamped to his sides, the projecting knife in his hand was a passive barrier.
The crowd surged to its feet as one, shouting encouragement to Canis Minor, cursing Tate.
Conway scrabbled closer. Only a few yards away, Orion stood with his back to the hillside. Tightening his grip on the wipe, Conway steadied for his rush.
Tate punched at Canis Minor’s face. The knife hand went up protectively. Tate’s other hand chopped at his wrist. The weapon flew, glinting, beckoning. Canis Minor reached uselessly, pathetically, after it. Tate hacked him behind the ear on her way past him. When she had the knife in hand and turned back to him, he was stupefied, drooling, knees bent, hands at his sides.
Tate moved to finish him.
A warrior sprinted from the crowd, knife in hand.
Nalatan’s shout warned Tate. Turning, dropping to a crouch, she saw the man’s rush. Her decision was instantaneous. She whirled, leapt at Canis Minor. Disbelieving, he watched her stab past his imploring hands. She withdrew the blade. Stabbed again.
The attacking warrior was too close for her to free the knife and defend herself.
The report of the wipe altered time.
Tate remained bent, looking over her shoulder.
Nalatan strained at the end of the line.
Sylah was a statue.
Lanta cowered, peering through her joined hands.
The crowd was an unmoving forest.
The warrior’s head twitched sharply right at the impact of the flechette, as if responding to some distant call. For a moment—so brief the mind doubted the eye—the skull expanded. Eyes bulged. Cheeks puffed. A faint red mist bloomed in midair by the man’s temple, vanishing as he careered sideways on boneless legs and collapsed in an untidy pile.
The flechette, distorted by its passage through bone and tissue, shrieked over the heads of the gathered tribesmen. The insane wail reestablished the present. Men fell face down, dragging their sons with them. Many ran, screaming. Panicked Opal brotherhood horses reared, threw riders, galloped into the night.
Conway and the dogs raced past a dumb founded Tate. He threw the wipe to her. “Here. You take this.” In the next instant he held Orion from behind, knife blade snuggled under the beard, against the throat. Shoving his captive toward the dignitaries, Conway shouted, “No one moves or this one dies.”
The Harvester rose in the stirrups.
Aiming the wipe at her, Tate preempted any speeches. “Stop. You’ll go first, I swear it.” As she spoke, Tate hurried to shelter directly behind the helpless Starwatch chief.
Hatred trembled in the air around the Harvester. Even so, it was obvious she was weighing, judging. The stoicism of the bleeding, exhausted woman peering along the wipe barrel convinced her. Turning her head as far as possible toward her escort, while still keeping her eyes on Tate, the Harvester said, “Men of Opal. Whatever happens to me, do nothing. I order it. Protect Church Home.” She settled back into her saddle.
Taking Tate’s knife, Conway dragged Orion to the prisoners. He handed the weapon to Sylah. “Free Nalatan so he can get the lightning weapons.” Conway looked to Lanta. She tugged at her wrists. The frayed leather snapped. Conway joined in her grin of accomplishment.
They gathered beside Tate. Lanta gestured at Sylah to attend to events while she went to work on Tate’s wound. Tate’s eyes narrowed and the corners of her mouth twitched at Lanta’s ministrations, the wipe remained firmly centered on the Harvester’s midriff.
The chief and the elders milled distractedly. The Starwatch warriors were restive. There were whispers, sidelong glances.
Nalatan brought Tate’s weapons. Shoving both pistols inside his jacket, Conway replaced his knife, electing to control Orion with his wipe. Lanta took custody of the sniper rifle, standing on its case to continue her work with Tate.
Nalatan said, “They’ll come at us soon. The moral structure of my tribe is broken, but they’re not cowards.” He spoke in great sadness. Conway had the feeling Nalatan never expected to see his people again after this night, live or die.
The Harvester said, “You can’t be so foolish you hope to escape.”
Conway said, “We’ve got plenty of hostages.”
Sylah stepped forward, put a hand on Conway’s forearm. Her training understood more than scornful warning in the Harvester’s words. Sylah said, “You didn’t come here just to see us killed.”
The Harvester’s smile was bitter. “Very shrewd. It would gratify me to see you die, but the experience wouldn’t warrant a trip to this nest of incompetents.”
“What would?”
“Saving Church Home.”
Sylah grimaced, turned away. The Harvester continued. “You think you alone care about Church? You think me a monster because I intend to control it? What of you, then? Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t think you know what’s best for her. Tell me your fabled Door doesn’t mean ascendancy. You may tell yourself you’re wondrously pure. I see into the cobwebbed crevices of your soul. Guidance. Influence. Authority. Call it what you will, you mean to dictate to Church. Our only difference is that I acknowledge it. You shrink.”
“Liar.” Fists white-knuckled in front of her, Sylah took a cramped step forward. “I seek peace. You leave a trail of death wherever you go. You kill.”
“I kill. And what is that? Or that?” Languidly, the Harvester’s pale hand drifted out of the end of her night-black sleeve, indicated the dead Canis Minor and the warrior.
“It’s not the same. I’m sorry about what happened. It’s not the same thing at all.”
“They opposed you. They’re dead. There are no variants in death. One is no more dead than another, no better or worse. None of us escapes. Institutions live forever, though. That’s what brings me here.” She broke
off to point at Orion. “This sniveling fool knew. Only Nalatan and the Tate one were to die. You and Lanta were to be delivered to me. I need help to save Church.”
Conway interrupted. “Who’s going to save it from you?”
The Harvester’s unflinching gaze never left Sylah. “I told you we must talk. Send those Starwatch idiots back to their hovels. I don’t like the sound of them.”
Sylah was embarrassed to realize she’d forgotten the tribesmen entirely. A glance showed the enormity of her mistake. The warriors were closer. Most had weapons in their hands. All carried stones. Conway, Nalatan, and the dogs watched them intently. Tate remained concentrated on the Harvester.
Orion broke his silence. “They’ll go if our chief orders it. We are still Church; our men have no desire to kill priestesses, no matter who would have them do so.” He looked at the Harvester as he spoke. Her glance touched him, and he turned away, shaken.
Lanta said, “Equipment. Horses. We want our possessions.” Orion nodded miserably, then called the terms to the chief. The tribe’s officials herded the sullen warriors toward the village. By the time the last torch disappeared over the ridge, a trio of youngsters was already returning with the things Lanta demanded.
Including Dodoy, trussed, bound to his mount.
Tate didn’t see him until the escort was racing off. She ran to cut Dodoy’s bonds, shouting outrage. Then she turned on Orion. “Why did you do this to him?”
Sylah said, “Please, Donnacee; we have Dodoy back. Let’s settle things here. The warriors could come back.”
Tate rejected the plea. “I’m talking to you, Orion. Answer me.”
Orion looked to Dodoy.
“They made me do it!” Dodoy flung himself off the horse, embraced Tate. “They did terrible things to me. Don’t let them get me. They’ll hurt me again. Hold me.”
Tate poked Orion with the muzzle of the wipe. Muscles jumped in her jaw. Fresh blood from the reopened wound soaked through her makeshift bandage. While Sylah rummaged for needle and thread, Tate said, “I ought to kill you.”
