by Scott Moon
It was not Seccon.
An hour passed and his pursuers seemed to have lost interest in finding him or were following one of the many false trails he had set. Carefully, with slow movements and frequent stops, he worked his way down to the destroyed village and looked for Fey and the others dear to him. Battlefield carnage was nothing new to him. He moved quickly, finished his search, killed the bleating goat, and began following the exodus.
Despite the tragic number of human corpses, it was the sound of the goat and the sight of his missing hind legs that bothered him. Breaking its neck took seconds, but he still felt the fur in his hands and smelled the musky exhalations of the animal.
It was morning before he located Fey and the others. Seccon had survived, as had Sveinn and his sisters, including Fey. Borghild seemed furious with Seccon. The man avoided her, often suffering what looked to Aefel from a distance as screaming directed at the former Strongarm’s back. The dirty old soldier had had his fun with the young woman. Now he was going to face her wrath.
Aefel pondered Borghild’s anger. The rest of the villagers were sobered by the destruction, clearly glad to be alive and overwhelmed by the violent force of the orbital bombardment. They probably thought God, or the gods, had damned them all.
He decided, after watching several interactions between Borghild and Seccon, that the man had been prepared to abandon her. It seemed he had left the woman to fend for herself.
It took some time for his appreciation of Seccon’s capabilities to solidify. The man frustrated the searching commandos at every turn. It was a matter of time before Fey and her siblings would face the wrath of the Earth System Commonwealth. With Seccon scouting ahead and changing their course often, they had a chance. For a man who hadn't seen field duty for decades, he was doing well.
Aefel only suspected the reason Sveinn and his sisters were marked for death. His understanding of politics was fundamental and utilitarian at best. He believed his eyes. Direct observation had served him well over the years. All he knew for certain was that the next time they tried to kill Fey and her siblings, he would show the bastards what a FALD Reaver could do when he had nothing to lose.
7
MIDDAY
KLAK MOUNT TRADING POST
GRENDEL 0473829: SURFACE, MOUNTAIN PASS 83D2B
MISSION CLOCK: n/a – FUGITIVE
Klak Mount Trading Post served Seccon’s every need, except there was no modern military garrison waiting to follow his command. He had to assume his few confederates had been discovered and captured — or with any luck, killed — before they secured transport to Grendel. The Hawk Clan, led by the badly wounded Jorgo the Giant, still controlled access to the mountain pass where the trading post dominated the east/west commerce route — and that wasn't good. The gate guards atop the stone walls were less than generous without bribes to warm their hearts and he needed to get people inside before Jorgo massacred every man, woman, and child.
His situation deteriorated hour by hour. To make his situation perfect, he estimated that less than one percent of the Grendel population understood sarcasm.
More than half of the Sky Clan villagers were injured, including Sveinn, who suffered shrapnel wounds while running to help his twin sisters and burns while bashing the head of a Commonwealth commando who had moved in right after the artillery barrage. Seccon forced his mind away from the memory. Twice in as many minutes he had feared Sveinn dead.
Everything he had done would be meaningless if he could not prove the crimes Dan Uburt-Wesson had committed against his own family. To do that, he needed at least one of them alive to present to the House of Lords and Commons.
Now he looked at a four-meter-high door made of iron-banded timber and a gatehouse fashioned from well-laid stones. The owners of the place might not recognize laser-cut stonework or modern construction techniques, but Seccon understood this place had been built during the pre-colonization phase. If he were lucky, there might be a bunker under the primitive replica.
Two men stood at the top, leaning on spears and flirting with Borghild.
“You’ll be fucking yourself, I say.” Borghild had a way with words that Seccon hadn’t anticipated when they first met.
Gunnarr moved in front of Borghild. “Is Candon still your Bondi? He asked about my sister the last time our clans met at the Althing.”
The two guards sobered. One left and came back with a severely blond-haired boy about Gunnarr’s age. His skin was albino white and he looked both grave and glad to see Gunnarr.
“Ivar, it is good to see you. Can I bring my people in? We have wounded,” Gunnarr said.
Ivar waved his hand without looking at his guards and the gate swung open. He was thin for a young man of Grendel, tall and almost willowy. Although he didn’t look strong, the men of the trading post seemed to fear his displeasure.
“It is good to see you, Gunnarr.” Ivar’s deep voice was quiet. It contrasted with his delicate physical appearance, but seemed to fit him as though from frequent and strenuous use. He called his steward and gave orders for the people of Sky Clan to be admitted and cared for. “My father has gone to the Great Hall. Jorgo brought the news. He claimed your people did the murder, but I never believed him.”
“Thank you, Ivar.” Gunnarr hugged the tall lord of Klak Mount. He made introductions.
Seccon bowed. He no longer led a troupe of performers. Hiding in Borghild’s dwelling had made that impossible. Gunnarr and the others still called him Sangerhinde, which, so far as he could determine, meant singer or master of singers. In many situations, the title felt derogatory.
“Is this all of your people?” Ivar asked. He placed one hand on Gunnarr’s shoulder and looked down the trail through the pass toward Sky Clan village.
“There are stragglers,” Gunnarr said.
Seccon looked around. His heart raced as he searched for Sveinn. Only years of military training and half a life in the Emperor’s court allowed him to hide his alarm. “Where is Sveinn?”
Gunnarr started to answer, but Ivar was already responding to Gunnarr’s words. “Jorgo has gone on the war path. My scouts sent a bird. I am surprised you made it to our gates before his warriors attacked your column.”
Seccon turned to run back and find Sveinn, but hesitated. “Lord Ivar, do you have a horse that I might borrow?”
Ivar regarded him with curiosity. “You are alarmed at this news?” He summoned one of his guards with a gesture. “We have many garrons. Small horses, but surefooted.”
Moments later, Seccon was rushing down the trail at a painful trot. He hadn’t ridden a horse since the last time he hunted with the Emperor, several months before the assassination. Compared to most soldiers in service to the Commonwealth, Seccon was a good rider. His kidneys didn’t appreciate his skill as they took a beating from the garron’s clipped gait.
The stragglers streamed up the trail now, casting aside baskets of food and personal possessions as someone fought to guard the narrow path. Shouts and the sound of blades ringing on shields darted through the thin mountain air. Seccon slowed the shaggy little horse and weaved through the people — most of them old or infirm. He stood in the stirrups and searched for Sveinn.
What he saw amazed him.
Sveinn had formed a perfect imitation of a shield wall, except that only half of his fellow boys and girls had shields and his companions looked like children playing at war. The Blood Royal led the charge with such resolve and such complete loyalty of his fellow younglings that Seccon paused to stare. “Sveinn! You must retreat!”
Jorgo and a dozen stout warriors took a step backward, laughing and pointing swords at the fierce children.
“Damn you!” Sveinn yelled. “Fight or go back to your village and leave us alone.”
“It is too late for that, boy,” Jorgo said.
Seccon rode nearer the scene and dismounted, allowing the reins to drag on the ground. He hoped the horse would stay, but spared it little thought. “Sveinn, the rest of the clan
has arrived safely at the Klak Mount stronghold. There is no need to fight.”
Sveinn’s sister, Ari, stared at him as though he were mad. “No reason to fight? They are Hawk Clan.”
“Have you had your moon blood, little Ari? I think you have.” Jorgo’s deep voice rumbled, suddenly devoid of laughter.
Seccon stepped through the shield wall and glared at Jorgo.
“What do you want, old man?” Jorgo spat to one side, revealing several missing teeth.
“If you knew how old I am, you would probably fear me as a wizard,” Seccon said.
Jorgo interrupted, ignoring the words. “There is no glory in killing a band of children who don’t know swords from their mother’s tits. But I am coming up this trail to finish the rest of Sky Clan. If you want this boy and his heroic band to survive, you must talk sense to them. They will make good thralls. Especially you, Ari.”
“Jorgo the giant coward!” Sveinn yelled, pushing past Seccon.
For a brief moment, Seccon considered yanking the boy backward, but stayed his hand just in time. Humiliating a boy who would need to lead his friends into real battle as adults would be worse than killing him here and now. He thought of Sveinn’s uncle, Emperor Dan Uburt-Wesson, in his prime. Before the madness of absolute power destroyed his reason, the Emperor had been a bold and decisive leader — his charisma unmatched and his ability to choose good councilors uncanny. For a time, he had held the Earth Systems Commonwealth in relative peace and definite prosperity.
Sveinn needed education and training. He needed a mentor and a guide. If he survived the year, he would find himself burdened with responsibilities few men or women could imagine.
Seccon spoke to Sveinn in a low voice, keeping his eyes on Jorgo. “Might I suggest a tactical retreat?”
“How would I do that, Sangerhinde?”
The answer was on his lips when he noticed a reflection in the distant tree line of the opposing mountain slope. One flash, and it was gone. Nature produced very few objects with reflective properties in this type of terrain. He accepted that what he saw might be the product of a warrior’s polished helmet or a woman’s hand mirror, but instinct warned him against complacency.
Sveinn stared at him impatiently.
Seccon studied the terrain and saw nothing. Then, just as he was about to give the young Blood Royal counsel, he saw a similar reflection far across the valley. Are they communicating?
“Do your worst, Jorgo,” Sveinn said. He slammed his axe against his shield. “Shield wall!”
Boys and girls tightened their formation and braced for the attack.
Seccon shook his head. Someone had been practicing in secret. Unable to decide if he was impressed or alarmed, he spoke quickly and just loud enough that Jorgo might overhear the words. “We must hold on for as long as we can. Aefel is hiding in the trees across the valley.”
The change in the Hawk Clan warriors was immediate. Seccon had suspected his words might evoke an emotional response from Jorgo. The half-giant brute that reminded Seccon of a genetically modified LTGE guard slammed his sword on his shield and stomped one foot at the same time. Frost exploded from the ground. The heat in his eyes was deadly. Veins throbbed on his neck and on the forearm not obscured by the shield that looked too heavy to lift. His sword hand trembled with white knuckled rage.
Seccon hadn’t expected the rest of Hawk Clan to express the same anger. Jorgo had been the humiliated leader, but as the scene unfolded, each warrior had a curse and a challenge for Aefel of Sky Clan. Several were already marching toward the distant tree line.
Jorgo thrust his chin at Sveinn as he walked backward to join the others. “I’m going to fuck your mother if you’re here when I get back.”
Sveinn laughed.
8
DUSK
KLAK MOUNT TRADING POST
GRENDEL 0473829: SURFACE, MOUNTAIN PASS 83D2B
MISSION CLOCK: n/a – FUGITIVE
Seccon ceased pacing the curtain wall and leaned on a parapet at the base of Ivar’s tower. The young albino seemed a reasonable leader — not easily impressed and very confident. He couldn’t resent the Lord of Klak Mount for making him wait. It was what leaders did. What he did resent was his inability to speak with the trader in private. The moment the man arrived at the gate, Ivar had spirited him into a private meeting. It was a situation that made Seccon’s nerves flutter in his stomach. If the Lord of this place understood who and what the peddler was and why Seccon needed him, things could become very difficult.
He didn’t know much about the man he sought, but his pre-assassination intelligence suggested the peddler was named Elf or something similar. Maybe he was an elf. At this point, Seccon wouldn’t be surprised. He began this misadventure with more information than his enemies would expect him to acquire by any means. His investigation had been both brilliant and totally insufficient.
He had learned shockingly little about the Emperor’s crimes and the numerous plots against him, yet he had taken action that could never be forgiven. He had broken his oath, betrayed his Emperor, and murdered him. Saving Sveinn and his sisters was the only thing he could do to redeem himself. Without modern resources and a modern sanctuary, he didn't stand a chance.
A gust of cold wind assaulted his face, handling him roughly as Casia might have if she were here, but not surprising him. He’d been standing here long enough to expect such treatment from the elements.
The view from the top of the pass took his breath away. Sheets of white covered much of the mountain pass, bordered by evergreen trees. Blue skies and wispy clouds stretched above the jagged peaks. Seccon had campaigned on many planets. The mountains on Grendel 0473829 put the mountains of most other worlds to shame. Most ranges were completely impassable without modern technology.
After carefully scanning the area for watching eyes, he pulled a pair of small binoculars from his tunic and searched the pass for signs of ESC commandos. What he found was Jorgo and his warriors fleeing the demons of hell, or so they must have thought the armored ESC troops. Jorgo’s search for Aefel had led him directly into an ESC company. The violence stunned Seccon, who had seen worse but forgotten the flavor of it.
Several minutes passed as he swept his binoculars across the ESC soldiers, double-checking his tally of their numbers and looking for anomalies in their equipment or the way they moved. He did this without thinking too much. Everything seemed to follow standard operating procedure for the ESC troops.
Then he noticed the emblem. In the place of ESC were the letters NGO.
He wished he knew what the acronym meant.
He was tired of war, tired of politics and intrigue.
A lone swordsman stopped running across a meadow buried under snowdrifts. Exhausted, he faced three ESC/NGO soldiers in full armor, head-to-toe technology that made them nearly invincible. The warrior raised his chin, staring at his enemies for a moment, then charged. His blade arched through the air, slashing savagely at the nearest foe. Bullets cut him down. He twisted and danced his way to the ground as a red mist erupted into the air.
“It took me longer than I expected to send Jarl Ivar away,” a voice said.
Turning, annoyed that he had allowed a civilian to sneak up on him, Seccon evaluated the short, well-dressed man of smiles and confidence. The trader wore several necklaces over his high-collared tunic. He had a belt inlaid with silver, kidskin gloves thrust through the expensive leather with rakish style. Seccon saw all of this, but his attention was on the glass eye. Few people on this planet could afford the expense of such a thing. Eye patches were more common. In a matter of heartbeats, Seccon was convinced the eye was part of the man’s cybernetic enhancements. The crude, outdated thing seemed to emit heat and a low vibration.
This was the man he was looking for. This was the man who understood the world that Grendel had become after being abandoned and what it had been in the early days.
“My name is Elof; some call me Magiske Oje.” The peddler stared directly at S
eccon for several moments, motionless as a man could be. His breathing slowed to invisibility and he didn’t blink.
“Are you scanning me?” Seccon asked in the Commonwealth language.
Elof smiled.
Seccon felt the coin in his belt pouch and cursed himself for his show of nerves. Now that he had found the peddler, he wasn’t sure he could trust the man.
“Humans sit Humanum,” Elof said.
“Veritas nihil sine actione,” Seccon said, feeling power in the words. Truth is nothing without action.
Elof considered him a moment longer, measured him as thoroughly as the Emperor had been wont to do, and nodded. “Veritatem.”
“Ivar will not allow us to remain here indefinitely. Jorgo has twice been humiliated by Sky Clan. The next time he comes, it will be with all his strength and his best allies,” Seccon said.
“Should that mean something to me?” Elof asked.
Seccon considered throwing him off the curtain wall.
“I thought a man of your reputation would have gathered additional resources by now.” Elof looked over his shoulder and even stepped to the edge of the wall to make certain a spy had not climbed up to eavesdrop. “If you don’t have it, then get clear of these natives. They will get you killed.”
Seccon watched the peddler’s every move. Realization dawned on him like a nuclear barrage on the horizon. Elof the magic-eyed peddler didn’t know about Sveinn, Fey, Ari, and Thrud.
Of course he didn’t. How could he? And if someone like this amateur spy understood the Blood Royal was sleeping with villagers, thralls, and sheep in a crowded barn, he would call in all his favors to capture them. Elof was a pure opportunist. Seccon knew the type.
“Cat got your tongue? Don’t worry. I know what you did and could care less about the reward.” Elof looked around one more time. “I want the weapon. Not for me. Of course you wouldn’t give it to me. I just want to be on the same side as the new Carosn Device.”
