by Don McQuinn
The designated warrior moved to stand over his victim.
Lorso and the raiders moved ahead.
When the huts were only a few paces away, he stopped. Keeping his white bear totem directed away from the camp, he dispersed his men to his flanks. There were twenty, not counting himself.
Lorso rose, his face to the sky. He shrieked. The ululating cascade shattered the night. Before his signal was even half finished, the faster Skan were at the huts.
Each warrior carried a spear and a sword. Their technique was to plunge the spear through the flimsy hut wall. If anyone bolted out the small exit, the sword awaited. Some For warriors were astute enough to lift the entire shelter and roll out. They fought desperately. Hopelessly.
Screams of anguish and terror rose, only to break with the eternal finality. The howling helplessness of children tried to make itself heard. Women sobbed for the lives of those same young ones. Both pleas drowned under hoarse, brutal war cries.
It was over very quickly.
Efficiently, Skan bound and gagged survivors. The fallen were checked to assure none were faking, and hiding weapons. The living too damaged for slaving were eliminated. Lorso glanced at the horrified, huddled prisoners. “Build up the fire,” he said. Men leaped to obey.
Most of the Skan were rummaging through the belongings strewn about. Grabbing a particularly tall man by the shoulder, Lorso said, “Get three men. Bring her here.”
Even the asymmetrical warpaint failed to disguise the warrior’s wince. “Why me, Lorso?”
Lorso smiled. It wasn’t a warm expression. “Because she likes you. You want me to tell Tears of Jade that you don’t like her?”
The warrior whirled, jerked three other men from their searching, and led them at a trot down the beach toward the sharker.
Lorso shouted for more firewood. By the increased light, he picked through the wreckage of a hut with the point of his sword. Flicking open a basket, he discovered a trove of succulent smoked oysters. Sitting cross-legged amidst the destruction as if at a banquet table, he ate. He munched steadily, deep in thought, oblivious to the wailing of children, the rending and tearing sounds of his men ripping apart baskets, sacks, clothing—everything that had belonged to the people of the camp.
Lorso knew these people had nothing of real value.
Save—perhaps—one. He shivered.
Immediately, he shot an aggressive glare about, daring anyone to have seen.
Something moved in the darkness. A backhanded swipe of Lorso’s sword tumbled the basket of oysters. He rose. “She comes. Get the prisoners over here in the light.” Oar-hardened hands yanked captives to their feet. Unmindful of any injuries or pain, the Skan warriors hastily formed them in a line.
When Lorso faced down the beach again, the firelight revealed his four warriors shouldering a platform. Atop that, there was a chair and a dark figure. The warriors moved in straining, careful unison, using the out-thrust butts of spears for additional stability. Arriving, they lowered the platform to the ground with near comic delicacy.
Tears of Jade’s pointed shoes poked out from beneath the flowing skirt like the black claws of a perched bird. A low crowned, netted hat obscured her face. Hands hid within sleeves. The robe itself was dark green, shot through with random flecks and swirls of purest white. It was as if the figure wore the sea. From behind the shielding net, she said, “Lorso. Bring them closer. I must see clearly.” The voice drifted, dry and soft as smoke, yet within it was a dire dominance.
Lorso’s gesture was unnecessary. The Skan warriors obeyed.
Tears of Jade turned by slow, threatening degrees to look at Lorso. “Why do you vex me? Have I told you what I require?”
Lorso stammered a reply. “This afternoon… You said household slaves. I thought…”
Brittle words cut across his stammer. “You assumed. Get rid of all but those who qualify.”
Again, the Skan warriors moved without waiting for Lorso’s orders.
The tiny figure looked up at the two traumatized young women left in front of her. Both had the fair skin and dark hair that was the pride of For women. The disheveled long tresses hung tremulous in the breeze. Traditional one piece knee-length smocks, cut to fit closely, revealed vital bodies cresting from youth into full womanhood.
Something like a growl, visceral and savage, mumbled through the gathered Skan.
The young women were almost close enough for Tears of Jade to touch. Even so, the old woman bent nearer. “You know who I am?”
Terrified, gagged, both shook their heads.
“Tears of Jade is what I am called. You know that name?”
The young women’s eyes widened in greater horror.
Basking in their fear, Tears of Jade almost purred. “Spirit woman of the Skan people. Servant to the god, talker to the dead, the knife that cuts the veil that hides the future.” Waving a finger, she said, “Release them. Take off the gags.”
While two warriors carried out her orders, Tears of Jade went on. “Now you can flee. Into the hands of these men. You are young. Pretty. They would enjoy you very much. They grow bored quickly, however. Then they seek… rougher amusements. Best you not run. Smile for me.”
The girls stared, too stupefied to move.
“Smile.” The tiny body hunched forward. One girl burst into tears. The second grimaced wildly.
“Turn around. Slowly.” After their full circle, Tears of Jade extended a gnarled forefinger from the sleeve of her robe. It indicated the taller of the girls. Lorso was in front of that one in two swift steps. Wrapping his hand in the girl’s flowing black hair, he twisted her head back and up. A warrior moved to grip her arms from behind. Before she could scream, Lorso’s knife flashed across her throat. Her high collar fell open. Another slash opened the dress down to the hem. The warrior behind the girl tore it from her. Naked, too shocked now to scream, the girl stared past Lorso at Tears of Jade.
The earlier sound groaned up from the warriors again, urgent. A bound woman on the ground struggled, shouting incoherence through her gag. One of the warriors kicked her. The strangled cries dropped off to sobs.
Tears of Jade said, “Lorso. We go home. Get clothes for this one.” The ancient woman’s head swung slowly from one still warrior to the next, pausing at each. Every man’s gaze tore away from the naked, vulnerable girl and looked to Tears of Jade. Every gaze went to the ground. Lorso wanted to roar at them that they were Skan warriors. Instead, he cursed himself for not daring those old, terrible eyes himself.
Finally, Tears of Jade continued. “This girl is mine. You will not even think of her.” Redirecting her attention to Lorso, she added, “If the woman crying on the ground over there is this girl’s mother, save her for me. For the others, the same as before. No prisoners to slow us down. No survivors to seek help and pursuit. We leave when the guide star is there.” The small finger pointed.
Lorso snapped orders. “You four—carry Tears of Jade to the sharker. You two—take the dress off that girl, give it to Tears of Jade’s slave.”
Bending close to Tears of Jade to keep his comments confidential, Lorso still had to raise his voice to be heard over the rejected girl’s screams as she was claimed. “You’re sure you’ve found the right one? How can you tell?”
Tears of Jade’s laughter rustled. “I know. That’s answer enough for you. Your concern touches. You see she’s untouched, unharmed. She will be my weapon, just as you. I have names now: Gan Moondark, Rose Priestess Sylah. Gan will rule a kingdom. Sylah will change the spineless religion that calls itself Church. I must destroy them, so that Sosolassa and the Skan people are paramount. I have little time—a year, perhaps two. Then he who waits in the Deep Calm will feast.”
“Tell me how to help. I want you to be happy.”
Tears of Jade gestured for her bearers to approach and raise the platform. From aloft, she extended her hand down to Lorso. Cold, dry fingers traced his brow, his lips. “Poor Lorso. You never understand. Pleasure isn’t
the issue. My goal is to destroy the children of prophecy, to make the names Gan and Sylah signify shame and disgrace. When I do concern myself with pleasure, my delight is the perversion of pleasure. That’s why I treasure you so.” She straightened. A word set her bearers in motion.
Chapter 2
Gan Moondark straightened at the sight of his Wolves’ bright banners. Standing apart from the other men gathered with him, he was torn between pride of accomplishment and the soul-grinding weight of responsibility. This was his first complete summer as ruler of the Three Territories. Sometimes it felt like the hundredth.
It threatened to be the last.
First pestilence, and now war. The packs had suffered. When he brought the kingdoms of Ola and Harbundai into union with his own Dog People, peace and prosperity seemed assured. It was not to be.
A new, strange people, expanding to the south, was bleeding his kingdom dry.
He had to stop them.
Doubt tore at him as never before. He wondered what his own people truly thought of him now.
He took stock of his appearance. Tall. Fair-haired. He took more pride than was proper in great physical strength and proficiency with weapons. It was practically a compulsion with him to keep that pride hidden. His wife said he was handsome. He told himself Neela was biased, but secretly hoped she was right. Her own incredible beauty was unquestionable. So was the wonderfulness of their son, Coldar, who sincerely believed that not being quite able to walk didn’t preclude being able to run.
That was what was best in life. A family. Simple, good things.
That wasn’t the life of Gan Moondark.
He ruled.
Was he good enough? Did he deserve to rule, or was he one of those who rises by luck, only to fall by incompetence?
Impossible. His mother prophesied that he would bring glory to the Dog People. She also said his life would always have two paths. Today was a day of choice.
His oiled chain mail gleamed in the morning sun. The copper handle of his sword—the blade shaped in the spear head design the Dog People called a murdat—was a killer whale. Tail flukes made a wide buttplate; the blade protruded from a mouth rimmed with inset ivory teeth. Beside Gan lay his brindlegray war dog, Shara, the massive beast as heavy as most men. This morning the dog wore the wide spiked collar of war.
The Jalail Wolves led through Ola’s Sunrise Gate. They marched in a column of fours, singing. Originally a five-hundred-man pack, they were now far fewer. They wore the black and white of Jalail on striped sashes, but as the original Wolf pack, their high-flying pennon carried Gan Moondark’s personal red and yellow. Exiting Sunrise’s brass-faced doors, the thunder from the first of their huge, cart-borne drums rumbled across the fields. It was as if the shocked air magically hardened, shuddered the very organs of everyone it touched. Gan smiled inwardly, acknowledging to himself, as he could acknowledge to hardly anyone else, his susceptibility to that power.
Gan, who still saw himself as warrior, Nightwatch of the Dog People. He wondered if anyone saw the frightened unsure man who wished with all his heart he could throw off the responsibilities of his position.
Searching the distant marching column, he noted how many of his warriors limped, how many swung an arm awkwardly. His cavalrymen sat with bowed backs on shuffling horses.
It was barely two weeks since many of these men had risen from sickbeds and met the first invading wave of the Kwa People and their new allies, the Mountain People of the Enemy Mountains. That first thrust sent Gan’s northern packs reeling back onto the fortifications of Ola. Now, two days’ march to the east, an even larger Kwa and Mountain army advanced to finish the conquest of the fledgling Three Territories.
A knot of men stood several paces behind Gan. All but one wore black torso armor fitted with steel bars and bosses in personalized decoration. The armor itself was buffalo or wildcow leather. Boiled in oil until pliant, it was molded to the individual, removed, and allowed to harden. It turned most sword strokes and was proof against arrows, except at close range. The apparently fanciful steel arrangements increased protection. Legs were protected by high boots, while the thighs and groin were shielded by a leather apronlike cover, similarly decorated.
The uniquely dressed man of the group was the most intriguing, and it was he who stepped forward to stand at Gan’s right side. The huge dog to Gan’s left stopped panting, turned and examined the newcomer for a moment, then resumed watching the marchers.
The smaller man wore chain mail, too. The truly unusual aspect of his armor was the split in the skirt on his right side. It allowed unobstructed access to the holstered pistol at his waist. In the face of a culture that was clearly based on the visible panoply of swords, knives, and armor, a firearm was a singular, staggering contradiction. Yet the man seemed perfectly accepted by his fellows.
When Gan finally spoke to him, it was with the familiarity of long-standing friendship. “Well, Louis, everyone’s making one last argument against this move. It’s your turn, I suppose.”
Consternation swept the smaller man’s features. Gan laughed shortly. Louis Leclerc drew himself erect. “I won’t waste time, then. Defend the walls of the city. Let the Kwa and the Mountains come to us. We’ve got my black powder. You’ve got me, Bernhard, Anspach, and Carter. From on top of those walls, each lightning weapon’s worth thirty to fifty men.” Leclerc slapped the pistol for emphasis.
Gan raised his eyebrows in silent question. Leclerc colored. “All right, so forget Carter and Anspach. They’re opposed to killing because they believe it’s wrong, that’s all. The point is, Bernhardt’s a woman, too, and I believe she’ll stand beside me. We can destroy an attack against any wall, anytime.”
Gan draped an arm across Leclerc’s shoulder. Insistent pressure forced the older man to walk along beside Gan. Keeping his voice low, Gan repeated Leclerc’s last word “‘…anytime.’ I also saw the look on your Bernhardt’s face when I said my defense must be aggressive. Never mind; we all do what we believe is best. Which brings me back to defense. Remember, many of these Mountains are survivors of our last battle; they were King Altanar’s allies. They’ve always been the deadly enemies of my Dog People. We don’t call them Devils for nothing. Now they’re back, with their northern brothers. They’ll come at you, believe me. The captain of the Nion boat that docked here ten days or so ago said the Skan are coming in their sharkers. More than anyone’s ever seen. They expect to arrive here two days after the Kwa attack. Which wall do you defend then?”
Stubbornly, Leclerc said, “All the more reason to sit tight. Make them come to us, use our firepower to best advantage.”
“Firepower.” Gan managed a tight smile. “You mean the lightning weapons and the black powder that breaks everything. Firepower. Yes. Your dialect has some descriptive words. But consider; it’s past midsummer. Plague made us neglect fields and livestock. If I don’t cripple these invaders, they’ll rampage across the countryside, slaughter my people, destroy our already-meager harvest. Winter will mean starvation for our survivors. What good then if Ola’s walls stand firm now?”
“Why are the Dog warriors sitting east of the Enemy Mountains while you fight a mutual enemy on the western side?”
“My tribe suffered the plague worse than anyone. They’re under pressure from the Buffalo Eaters to their east. Moondance nomads are moving north. The Dogs can’t help us. I must attack, Louis, before my enemies mass against me. I must destroy the Kwa and the Devils in order to defeat the Skan when they arrive.”
“What if you lose?”
Gan suddenly radiated menace. “My responsibility is victory. Slavery is the alternative. I won’t have it.” His right hand slipped down to grip the hilt of his sword. Blue eyes glinted from palled features. Leclerc thought of the strangely ominous color of glacial ice on Snowfather Mountain. Gan continued. “My wife was stolen from me once. In her, our unborn son. We’ve talked about that event, Neela and I. Between us, we decided. As a family, we live free or die free.”
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For a moment, Leclerc couldn’t speak. When he inhaled, it hurt. Then, “Well. That seems to settle it.” He was almost turned to leave, when he changed his mind. “What about Conway and Tate? If the Dog warriors that rode south to Church Home found them, they should be getting here soon. Can’t you wait a while? Tate and Conway are an army by themselves.”
Still distant, Gan said, “If they were found, and if they still live, and if they get here in time, maybe they’ll make a difference. I have a bellyful of ifs and maybes. I can afford anything but indecision and time, Louis.”
“And human feelings,” Leclerc muttered under his breath, walking away. Instantly, he repented. Of all people, he himself—and all the friends who’d accompanied him to this rebuilding world—knew of Gan’s humanity.
Leclerc rejoined the waiting group. He ignored the irritated glances of the rest of the men, who were clearly impatient to hear what Gan said. His mind jerked back through time, to the escape from the cryogenic crèche that kept the band of survivors from his world alive to discover this one.
There were times when he thought of that gift as the cruelest joke in the insane comedy that destroyed everything he knew.
The world into which Louis Leclerc was born destroyed itself. Nature, in her infinite patience and kindness, had obliterated most nuclear scars, but there remained places where man glassed the very earth. Their gleam shamed those who understood.
Only those from the crèche did understand. They also knew of the nerve gases and the obscenely unnatural genetically engineered diseases. The few humans who survived taught their descendants that everything left over from the holocaust was dangerous. There was truth in the tales. Urban areas harbored concentrations of disease, radiation, chemical pollution. Initially collecting points for fugitives of the nuclear winter, they became pestholes. People shunned man’s works. Learning was blamed for creating the world-breakers’ arrogance. Education became anathema.
Leclerc and his friends stepped out of the capstone of mankind’s technological achievement—a cryogenic facility that suspended them in time for over five centuries—into a world that considered reading and arithmetic so dangerous those skills were restricted to the privileged few. The people of this world mined destroyed cities to salvage metal, glass, ceramics. Paper or anything else with legible writing on it was immediately destroyed under the supervision of Church, the monotheistic religion that seemed to Leclerc to be a mélange of Christianity, Judaism, and medicine.
