by Don McQuinn
His thoughts went to his absent friends. Donnacee Tate, their surviving professional military type. And Matt Conway. A transportation manager, Conway survived to become an adept warrior. His acquired skills helped keep his friends alive when the evil King Altanar captured them. Yet the civilized, sophisticated mind behind that new knowledge made Conway a near-neurotic mass of self-doubt.
Only Gan Moondark would let two such fighters as Tate and Conway accompany the Rose Priestess Sylah on her quest for the thing Church called the Door. Especially with their weapons. Those had survived the centuries in the crèche, as well. Infantry small arms, the thing called a wipe, as well as handguns. Leclerc’s hand stole to his pistol. He realized with a start that he hadn’t fired it once since Gan overthrew King Altanar. Within two days, however, that would change.
Leclerc sighed. He’d hoped to spend the rest of his days in peace in Gan’s Three Territories. Foolish dreams. Peace in this world ended at birth. It only returned at death.
If the wipe, the tool this world called the lightning weapon, didn’t turn the tide engulfing those Three Territories, Louis Leclerc would learn all about eternal peace.
He was swept by a vision of himself sprawled in a disjointed heap. The feathered shaft of an arrow jutted from his chest. His stomach was slashed, a gaped mouth. It exposed a mass of wet things. Leclerc unconsciously turned his head. Blinking, he cleared the image.
Shocked, he felt the fear creeping insidiously along nerve paths. It sang in the channels of his spine. He held out a hand. There was no tremble. But he knew. It was in him now, like a disease. Almost sobbing, he told himself to hide it, to never let anyone know. That was his only hope. Cowards had no life here.
Acknowledging the other men at last, Leclerc interrupted the muddle of questions. “Murdat must strike. The troops will not be recalled. We, his Barons, his commanders, must assure that Murdat strikes true, that every stroke kills. We will win. We will.”
A man called Emso, a grizzled, scarred old warrior who was among the first to pledge to Gan when the young man was little more than a wandering outcast, drew his sword. He carried a murdat now, exactly like his leader. Emso battered his shield with the flat of the blade. “Murdat!” he shouted. There was a warrior’s wild joy in the shout. He repeated it, louder. The Barons took up the chant.
In the distance, the Wolves heard. Moments later, every man shouted the title. Torrential, the cadence rolled across the fields, careered off the city’s stone. “Mur-dat! Mur-dat!” The chorus continued as the other regiments and their drums moved out of the city.
Gan listened, watching the men stream along the twisted road. Biting his lip thwarted the choking lump in his throat. He wasn’t sure if his eyes misted out of pride and love for those men, or fear for them. He knew he wished time could end at this point, and hold him in this moment forever.
Chapter 3
Kate Bernhardt waited at Sunrise Gate when a frowning Leclerc rode up. She wore the ground-sweeping black robe of Church almost exclusively now, as did the other two women who survived the crèche and remained in Ola. The fourth, Donnacee Tate, was their sole female adventurer.
Bernhardt was deeply committed to the Priestesses of Church and their efforts to bring some semblance of civilization to the myriad cultures of this world. Leclerc admired her for it. For that matter, he admired Sue Anspach and Janet Carter, despite their total submergence in Church. They were in danger of becoming more orthodox than their leaders.
Bernhardt waved at him across the level ground extending beyond the city walls. He waved back, the sudden motion causing a pack llama in the train next to him to shy. Leclerc turned to apologize to the merchant for the brief disturbance, recognizing the man as a Jalail by his bold-striped black-and-white sash. The merchant smiled broadly. “Not a problem, Louis Leclerc.” At Leclerc’s surprise, the man laughed aloud, gesturing with a broad sweep of his arm. “My first return to Ola. Just about a year ago, I was with Gan Moondark when we charged across these fields. Fought under the red and yellow of the Jalail pack. Brag to my grandchildren about that, I will. About the strangers who helped us, too. You’re the one who gave us the thunder packages that knocked down King Altanar’s doors. Many of us are alive today because of that.” He paused, then continued with what Leclerc could only think of as dogged cheerfulness. “As soon as I sell off these furs, I’ll join the volunteers on the walls. In case the Kwa force Murdat back to the city. Never thought I’d see the day I’d offer to defend Altanar’s old stone box.” He saluted good-bye in the Wolf fashion, closed right fist pressed to his jaw by his right ear.
The man’s conversation reminded Leclerc of his talk with Gan. It rekindled his irritation. The stone-and-brick city was a series of defendable squares. The walled castle backed against steep cliffs that dropped to the Inland Sea. The landward approach was a flat meadow, allowing no cover from defenders’ arrows. Or ammunition. Both city and castle walls were tall, strong, studded with turrets to provide flanking fire. More, the resistance that helped overthrow Altanar built a network of tunnels under the city.
At the gate, Leclerc turned his attention back to Bernhardt. Halfheartedly, he looked for Carter and Anspach. Bernhardt realized what he was doing, and her expression when he looked back to her was rueful. She waved ineffectually to indicate where their friends should be by her side. “I’m sorry. Janet and Sue… They’re really uncomfortable with you riding off to war with Gan. They think he should try to negotiate, compromise.”
“Can’t they understand this is a fight to the death?”
Bernhardt came forward, put a hand on the reins of Leclerc’s prancing horse. “Calm down, Louis. You’re getting the horse all worked up, and you know you don’t ride that well.”
“The horse is fine. And I’m hardly riding off to war. I’ll give some support fire…”
“We. We’ll give some support fire. I’m coming.”
Leclerc burlesqued a huge wince. “You told Janet and Sue? That took more courage than war.”
Bernhardt’s laughter was in keeping with her appearance and manner. She was a larger woman; not big, but generously proportioned. No one would ever think her beautiful, but there was an elemental femininity to her that was much more attractive than she seemed to realize. Leclerc always thought her expression in repose had a soft, hidden sadness, as though there were something she wished she could share, but could find no way to express.
She said, “I shoot well. I’m strong. It’s only two days to the place where Gan expects to meet the Kwa and their allies. We met the Mountains once, Louis. I know what to expect if they win. It’s going to be desperate.”
“It’s not all that bad.” Leclerc looked around nervously. Morale was already a problem.
“I worked in the healing house with the Healers. Wounded men and men still weak from plague forced themselves out of bed to return to their units. The Healers say none can remember men so recently recovered from illness being tolerated by men who’re well. You know how they normally shun anyone who’s even suspected of being exposed to disease. Things are worse than bad.”
“All the more reason for you to stay here. We should have trained some of the Wolves to use these weapons.”
Bernhardt’s lips thinned. “We all agreed. Knowing how to fire the wipes and the pistols is our final insurance in this world. If someone does kill one of us and gets the guns, they can’t turn them on our friends. It has to be that way.”
Laughing softly, Leclerc dismounted. Bernhardt fell in beside him on the way to his quarters. He said, “We live in irony, don’t we? Back in our world, I signed up for the crèche because I thought coming out into the surviving world would be an exciting challenge. I left my world of protein structures expecting to be thawed out to reproduce the exact same culture.”
She watched him from the corner of her eye. “I’ve always suspected you were secretly pleased when we came out of the crèche cave and found we’d been in there centuries, instead of decades.”
&nb
sp; The earlier fear oozed free once again. He refused to look Bernhardt’s way. She might see the death-fearing person he was fighting. He spoke too loudly. “I’m ashamed to admit it: Yes, I like it here. But I’m still primarily a technician.” He laughed, the ring of it cheap as brass in his ears. Adding a dismissive flip of the hand, he went on. “I could be a warrior. Not like Tate and Conway. More a planner than a grunt. All my life I dreamed of being a man of action. Living here’s taught me my skills are too advanced to waste. That sounds arrogant, but it’s only honest. The best thing I can do is improve the local technology. Leave the heroics to the younger guys.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re just fishing for compliments. You can’t be more than thirty; that was the top age for crèche volunteers. You’re a good-looking man, with a good smile and a good heart. I happen to think all of that, plus being a first-rate technician, is a lot more important than fighting.”
Leclerc shook off the attempted kindness. “Think about it, Kate. Technology increased pollution, it didn’t cure it. Terrorism and constant warfare only reflected unbearable overpopulation. We have to understand what our contemporaries taught their children about intellectuals and technology. Look, I reinvented black powder. Have you seen the way women hide their kids when I pass?”
He paused, struck by a perception so startling it approached epiphany. Continuing in an awed, subdued voice, he said, “I never thought. Black powder isn’t just about breaching walls, or penetrating chain mail or plate armor. It’s one man killing more than one man at a time. A product even these people can produce in abundance. I’ve moved the whole world from single combat to mass destruction. They sensed what I am. No wonder they fear me.”
Bernhardt hugged herself, white hands startling as they peeked out of the deep, black sleeves. “You mustn’t feel guilty. Gan’s not afraid of advances. He directed us to teach all Chosens to read and write and do basic arithmetic, remember.”
Leclerc was harsh. “Chosens. Church buys the children the slavers will kill if Church rejects them. That’s the real world, Kate—slavery. You forgot to mention that your other students are all Gan’s military officers. They learn to read and write so they can communicate better on the battlefield.”
“You think I’m happy about warriors being an elite? At least they fight people who practice slavery. Like the Kwa and the Mountain People. Like the Skan. Our Chosens and the warriors will teach others. What if we can create a culture that fights for justice, for fairness for all?”
Leclerc threw back his head and guffawed. Seeing Bernhardt’s pain, he broke it off. The lingering smile was affectionate, the voice apologetic. “You’re a darling. I wasn’t laughing at you, honestly. I was laughing at humanity. Every culture fights for justice, for fairness. It’s just that all those vicious fools out there”—he flung an arm in an extravagant sweep—“don’t understand that only we have real justice, real fairness.”
Only partially mollified, Bernhardt sniffed. “Well, it’s true. You’re only teasing me because you know I’m right.”
Leclerc linked an arm through hers. “The old earth has just about healed from all the damage we did her, but I don’t think she’ll let us run quite so free this time. Oil was nearly exhausted when the collapse started, remember. Aluminum ore was scarce. Everyone was worried about increasing dependency on low-grade iron ore and coal. Today these people mine what used to be our cities for raw material. New technology’s inevitable. We have to guide them in the direction of a culture that accommodates nature and other cultures. And freedom. I think Gan’s a necessary step. He’s a tyrant, but a benevolent, progressive one. If a democratic polity can evolve here, he’s the man to protect us.”
Bernhardt pressured his arm with her own. She turned to smile at him, their heads almost exactly even. Leclerc was mildly surprised at how her presence, her companionship, pleased him. There was a comforting quality about her. He decided it was because she was so understanding. A very bright woman, actually.
They were crossing the meadow separating the town proper from the castle grounds. The summer had been gentle in what Leclerc still mentally called the Pacific Northwest. Intellectually, it didn’t disturb him that the land was cut up into tiny states that called themselves kingdoms or tribal holdings. He accepted the fact of diverse, warring fragments of humanity, the exoticism of major religions called Church and Moondance.
In his heart, the land was more than geography. At times it spoke to him. A sudden view or evocative scent would set off a nostalgia that left him trembling and weak. It happened once in the evening, looking across the ebon waters of the Inland Sea. The last rim of a fiery sunset edged the Whale Coast Mountains. Leclerc saw Puget Sound. The Olympic Mountains. And was nearly crushed by homesickness.
Then there were the times when he brooded. Under his feet—burned, gassed, infected, irradiated—lay the cities of millions. Their names seared his thoughts. Seattle, Tacoma, Bellingham, Olympia. It embarrassed him to think how many smaller communities he couldn’t even name. Covered by the detritus of centuries. Some buried in volcanic mud or drowned by diverted rivers when the northwest slope of Snowfather Mountain erupted.
Paradoxically, those were the times when he loved this place with the greatest fierceness. Now, back in his present, he let his view rise west beyond the structure of the castle to the greater wall of the distant Whale Coast Mountains. My country, he thought, and the words swelled in him. My land—savaged, wounded, crushed to her knees and changed beyond recognition, but my country still. Neither of us can ever be the same, but I can be wiser than I was. I can love you better, if not more. “You must rise.”
“Did you say something?” Bernhardt stopped, puzzled.
Flustered, Leclerc stammered an answer. “Nothing. Thinking out loud, I guess. We better hurry. I’ve got to load equipment on wagons, get the horses ready, check my own gear, see to—”
“I’ve got a lot to do, myself,” Bernhardt interrupted, her look making it clear she was rescuing him from his own babble. Leclerc nodded agreement. They continued their walk.
Bernhardt swallowed her hurt, wondering why he wouldn’t share. Did he really expect her to believe that lame story about equipment? She knew there were changes going on in him. Dark, wrenching realizations and concerns that involved a depth of feeling she’d never suspected of him.
She sensed it all as warning, and winced inwardly. He was a good man, eager to do the right things. Why did she feel that now, when he was most at risk and needed someone to be afraid for him, that she was a bit afraid of him?
And why in the world would that make her feel all the more protective?
It was too confusing.
Chapter 4
Stillness mocked the wide valley. Sunlight bathed sprawling pastures, but no cattle or horses grazed the lush grass. Rich fruit gleamed in laden orchards. Strong stands of corn and beans stretched in ripe rows. No farmers inspected the crops, nor did children shoo away the huge flocks of opportunistic pigeons and geese settling to wreak havoc.
Crows, swift black darts across the waiting green, were eerily furtive.
Massive hills, their dark shoulders caped in firs, pressed against the lowlands. Even higher, the Enemy Mountains rose in the distance.
Gan pointed at the closer high ground from his position on the small rise in the center of the valley. “They’ll follow those parallel ridges,” he said, “keeping inside the tree line. Once they’ve gotten behind our defenses, they’ll close to cut off our retreat, then destroy us.”
The grizzled Emso listened in silence. Now he was acidly sarcastic. “If that’s the way of it, can I give the men permission to break out all the rations? And pull in the scouts? If we’re all going to just squat here and die, we’d as soon be well fed and well rested. Murdat.”
Even as he turned away to hide a smile, Gan marveled at the nuances the speaker squeezed into the last word. Somehow, it came out a title, a challenge, and a borderline insult all at once. Shara edged forward to peer pas
t his master. Gan put a hand on the dog’s head. “Easy, Shara; it’s only Emso.”
Emso grunted, shooting a sharp glance at the animal. “Dog, if you had good sense, you’d growl at him, not me. I’m not the one predicting your death.”
“I didn’t say anything about us dying. I told you what the Kwa leader means to do.”
“Ah. Then you have a plan. Do we guess at it? With a prize for whoever gets it right?”
“Testier than usual. Angry. That’s the Emso I need.” Gan finally faced the older man. “Remember how we dealt with Altanar, flanked him under cover of darkness?”
“Of course. But the scouts say these people are moving on us. We’ll be under attack long before nightfall.”
“We attack.”
Blinking, Emso kept his stare locked on the far distance. “Don’t try to stir me like some young fireblood, Murdat. We both know our only chance is to check these people and run, then sting them again. There’s no glorious victory here.” His color rose as he spoke.
“Exactly. We disrupt and defeat him in pieces—or the whole of his force crushes us. We’re outnumbered at least five to one.”
“Then why are we staking the ground around this knoll? Why dig pits to trap horses and men, why exhaust the men building that wall?” Emso’s pointing finger was an angry spear.
Gan said, “Because this is where everyone but the Jalail Wolves will stand. We’re the bait. You’re the deadfall.”
Some heat receded in Emso’s face. Gan called, “Leclerc! Bernhardt! To me, please.” They arrived at a run, the wipes clattering against their chain mail. Gan said, “You go with Emso. There’s a shallow draw a short walk to the rear. He leads the Jalail pack up the draw onto the ridge to the south. From there, you’ll drive east until you run into the Kwa forces advancing toward you.”
