Cast Under an Alien Sun (Destiny's Crucible)

by Olan Thorensen

  Exactly one hour later, Major Saljurk ushered Musfar Adalan into a room where Akuyun, Kalcan, and Hizer waited. Akuyun smiled and rose to greet the Buldorian commander. The smile was genuine, since he appreciated punctuality and sensed it boded well for these mercenaries’ coming performance. However, the smile was the closest they came to contact—clasping of hands or arms was reserved for close associates, not between a Narthani general and Buldorian raiders.

  “I’m pleased to see you, Captain Adalan, and right on time, as we agreed. I take this to mean a good start to our relationship. I hope your voyage here went well.”

  “Thank you, General. Yes, everything was smooth. No weather or other problems, and all seven ships and crews are ready to begin.”

  “Fine, fine. And you will begin soon, but after spending a couple of days meeting with Assessor Hizer.” Akuyun used an arm to indicate the man sitting next to him. “He is in overall charge of information gathering and will be selecting targets and coordinating the raids. Also, Admiral Kalcan will want to inspect your ships, and you’ll be meeting with him to go over coordinating naval issues.”

  Adalan was a master at concealing his thoughts, a talent that served him well to hide his exasperation. By all the Gods that might be, these Narthani loved to hear themselves talk! He thought they just liked to be sure everyone else knew they were in command. Not that the Buldorian commander didn’t appreciate good intelligence information, but he had dealt with the Narthani before and anticipated being told the same information over and over and over.

  Patience, Musfar. They’re paying for your time by setting this up for us, so you shouldn’t complain too much.

  “No problem, General. I look forward to our meetings.” To the facile lie, he added a flamboyant gesture touching forehead, lips, and chin, assuring himself the Narthani didn’t realize the order of touching was reverse a standard Buldorian gesture of respect and indicated the target should do something quite rude with the member between his legs.

  Akuyun was thorough in everything he did. There were three ex-Buldorians among the tradesmen brought in to resettle Caedellium, one of whom was a clever and fervent convert to the Narthon Empire and a willing tutor in the more relevant Buldorian customs.

  The general’s pleasant demeanor never wavered. So, our good captain tells me to go fuck myself, Akuyun thought, amused, though he showed no emotion. Never mind. As long as he does what we brought them here for, I don’t care what he thinks to himself or what he thinks he’s slipping past me.

  “Then, if it’s agreeable, let’s begin the briefings right away. I’m sure you and your men are eager to start.”

  Adalan barely managed to hide his surprise. He had been prepared for the Narthani to blather on. He recognized a different kind of Narthani than he’d dealt with before. This one was not one to be underestimated. While it didn’t quite rise to the level of worry, the Buldorian wasn’t as sure as he had been moments earlier that the Narthani didn’t know he had been insulted.

  “In that case, General, I need to send for my captains, if we are to begin immediately. Shall we reconvene in half an hour?”

  First Target

  It was near sunset when Hizer and Kalcan finished summarizing what they believed the Buldorians needed to know about Caedellium, including general topography, clan structure, types of weapons, most likely defenses the raiders would face, and enough detail of the coast and the nearby waters to begin. Sets of maps had been distributed, and the Buldorians asked many questions. Adalan, his second-in-command cousin, and the other ship’s captains were attentive to every detail. Akuyun was satisfied the mercenaries knew their business.

  Hizer ended the briefings. “And that, gentlemen, is our overview for you. Now, I’m sure you’re interested in the first target we’ve selected.”

  Saljurk handed each Buldorian another map showing an expanded view of a section of the islands making up Seaborn Province off the northwest coast of Caedellium. A settlement was prominently marked.

  “This is your first target, the fishing village of Nollagen on the southernmost island of Seaborn Province. The population is about 400, and, as far as we know, the Seaborn Clan doesn’t maintain a regular militia or security force of any kind. They believe their isolation and relative poverty protect them from such needs.”

  Hizer paused, as he noticed frowns from several of the Buldorian captains. “I realize this is not as attractive a target as you were expecting or as attractive as future targets, but we chose this one for the first raid. Resistance should be minimal for a force your size. Other settlements are far enough distant to minimize help arriving before you finish with the village, and news of the raid will take time to reach the other clans, meaning you should be able to carry out another raid or two before other clans are warned.”

  Not all of the captains appeared mollified, but Adalan accepted the arguments. Not that he thought there would be a problem with going directly to a richer target, but he agreed with the Narthani that careful preparation was never unnecessary. If everything worked as expected, there would be opportunities for better spoils.

  Admiral Kalcan took over the meeting and went over surveys of the coast around Nollagen, using the maps to point out beaches, reefs, coves, inland terrain, and other details his sloops had gathered from a year of careful patrols and mappings. The degree of detail alerted Musfar.

  “Pardon, Admiral. I don’t see how you got such impressive details simply by observing from offshore.”

  It was Hizer who answered. “That’s because the Admiral’s data is supplemented with observations on shore. You don’t need to know other details.”

  While Adalan would have liked to learn more, he was satisfied. Obviously, the Narthani had agents in place within the Seaborn Clan and therefore likely among all of the clans. They might be genuine Narthani spies or paid Caedelli. Either way, he was reassured the information being given him had multiple sources.

  Hizer continued, addressing Adalan. “We would like you to think about what you’ve heard these last hours and propose how you would carry out the raid on Nollagen. Let’s meet again tomorrow at mid-morning to go over your plan.”

  Nollagen, Fishing Village, Seaborn Province

  Senwina Kardyl roused from her sleep. Their small house was dark, but noise got through her dreams. A tone overlaid with distress. Still half asleep, she automatically reached out to the cradle beside her bed where six-month-old Onyla slept. The baby hadn’t stirred. Senwina tucked her arm back under the blanket and rolled toward her husband’s warmth, when she heard shouts. Many shouts. The walls of their home were thick stone to keep out the rain and dampness endemic to this part of southern Seaborne Province, so she couldn’t make out the words being yelled, but there were many voices.

  She rose to one elbow and turned up the whale oil lantern on the table next to their bed. The lit lantern was a luxury they permitted themselves when they had their first child. Now fully awake and trying to understand what she was hearing, she sat up.

  “Kort,” she whispered, so to not wake the baby or their five-year-old son, Allyr. Kort didn’t respond. She put a hand on his shoulder and rocked him. “Kort,” she repeated, louder. He grunted. She shook him hard with both hands and yelled, “Kort! Wake up! Something’s happening in the village!”

  “Wha . . . ?” her husband croaked.

  “KORT!! SOMETHINGS HAPPENING IN THE VILLAGE!”

  Kort’s eyes flashed open with her fourth and loudest prompt. He sat up, listened for a moment, threw off the covers, and ran to the main door. “I’ll see what’s happening.” He could hear yelling and other noises, even through their walls. His first thought was a fire, the only occasion in his lifetime he’d experienced similar turmoil.

  Senwina remained sitting up in bed, watching through the bedroom door into the main room and a view to her husband opening the outer door. Instead of the darkness expected, she could see reflections of fire on the door and the jamb. The faint noise changed to ferocious pandem
onium when the door opened. Yelling in Caedelli and some other language, screams, cries, clashes, animals joining in. Kort stood frozen for several seconds, then slammed the door shut, jammed the wooden locking arm into its brackets, and turned toward the bedroom. Even in the low light, she could see the fear in his eyes.

  “Get the children and go out the back door!”

  She stared, frozen, as he ran into Allyr’s bedroom. Then she threw off the covers, jumped to her feet, and grabbed Onyla from her cradle.

  A moment later, he appeared in the bedroom doorway, carrying their son in his arms. He ran to her, grabbed an arm, and pulled her out of the bedroom, dragging them toward the back door.

  “People are attacking the village!” he choked out. “Many of them. They’re everywhere!”

  Someone tried to open the front door and then pounded on the heavy wood—the sound of an ax. They could hear wood splitting.

  “Go!” he yelled to her, setting Allyr down and shoving him into her. “Run into the woods and keep running! Don’t look back! Run for your lives!”

  “Kort! You’re coming, too?” she cried, the baby in her left arm, her right hand gripping Allyr’s small one.

  “I’ll be right behind you, now run!!” He opened the back door and looked out into the darkness. Their house was on the edge of the village, so there were no more structures between them and the woods fifty yards away. He pushed her out the door. She stumbled toward the darkness of the woods, when she thought she heard Kort say, “Take care of the children.” She turned in time to see Kort close the door. In that last moment, her mind noted that he appeared to be holding his fisherman’s knife. Then she ran, barefoot, clad in only her nightshirt, clutching Onyla and pulling Allyr behind her. She was too afraid to cry or feel the rocks bruising and cutting her feet, focusing only on the woods and holding her children. She was within a few yards of the first trees when a hand shoved her in the back. She lost hold of Allyr, as she fell and twisted to avoid landing on the baby.

  Flames covered the entire village, reaching thirty feet above the main buildings, illuminating everything within the line of sight for a mile in all directions, including the smoke billowing upward and drifting from the onshore breeze. Musfar Adalan waited on the main dock. He hadn’t led the assault and wouldn’t come ashore on subsequent raids, but for this first one he wanted to get a feel for the island and its peoples. His men had rowed straight to the dock from their ships anchored offshore. There had been no watch by the villagers, no one to alert what was to come, no defensive positions, no general alarm, no organized resistance once his men burst into the village itself. Only the cries from the Caedelli met his men, as they plundered from structure to structure. Adalan was pleased it had gone quickly, but not pleased with the disorder of his men once they realized they faced little opposition. It wouldn’t always be this easy. There would be measures taken to ensure discipline was maintained.

  Still, he had to admit the Narthani information was accurate. He watched as the four wounded and one dead of his men were loaded on a longboat and rowed to a waiting ship. One of the wounded told Adalan he had been injured by a single villager, who had also injured a second raider and killed a third. The wounded man begrudgingly admitted that the villager, wielding a wicked fisherman’s knife, had put up a ferocious fight in a house’s darkness before dying of a dozen wounds. Adalan took the account to heart. This village may have fallen easily, but that didn’t mean the islanders couldn’t fight.

  His men set fire to the buildings nearest the dock, having saved those for last. Several longboats of booty had already been to the ships and returned to shore. Now it was time for the last of the captives and his men. A line of the former were led to the boats, a dozen at a time, linked to thirty-foot sections of rope by nooses tightened around their necks. They were females and boys of three to seven years—the age limit for male captives. Some of the captives were too shocked to show expressions; others were crying, all stumbling along. At the end of this rope was a woman holding a baby and a small boy clinging to her leg. She would bring a good price. Still young, comely enough, and obviously fertile. If she were lucky, a buyer would take all three. Otherwise, she might never see the children again after the auction, especially the boy.

  Yes, it had gone well enough, Adalan thought, but they’d need to go over the raid in detail before the next one. They wouldn’t all be this easy.

  Chapter 23: Earth Fades

  Forgetting

  The summer moved toward fall. The contrasting green of Earth and the darker foliage of Anyar became more distinct, as leaves turned shades anticipating colors to come. Scattered yellows to reds of Earth and blues and purples of Anyar already graced the higher elevations.

  Yozef nestled under several blankets, out of which poked his face to take in the cool air coming from the open window. One eye opened to note the morning light, then closed again. He turned and stretched under the covers, feeling . . . good. He drifted in and out of sleep for the next hour, coming awake enough to know he was too comfortable to get up yet and then drifting under again. He had to get up. There were things to do. Things he wanted to do. Things he was eager to do, which was . . . odd, he thought. He couldn’t remember ever being this eager at Berkeley. The effort pulled up other memories of his previous life. He could picture Julie’s voice, her face, her body, her smell. Her favorite stuffed animal—a bear, saved from childhood—was named . . . what? He couldn’t recall the name. His forehead wrinkled.

  Why can’t I remember the damn name? I saw the bear every day, and we joked about a third tenant in our apartment. We carried on conversations with it, as if it were another person. What was its name?

  He searched other memories: family, school, television, Berkeley, books. English! It had been an Anyar year since he’d heard anyone speak English, except for talking to himself. He still carried on audible English conversations with himself but found speaking Caedelli easier and easier. The initial need to translate everything through English was fading. The periods of remembering were also less frequent. Snuggled under the covers, he realized he hadn’t thought about Earth for several days.

  Earth? Why did I think “Earth” instead of “home?” I should have thought, “Thinking about home.”

  He mulled this for several minutes. Earth. Anyar. Home.

  Home wasn’t Berkeley or his parents’ house where he was raised or even Earth. It was … but wasn’t. Then where? Here in Caedellium? He didn’t know. There was a sense of having lost something he hadn’t been aware of possessing, overlaid with the sense of the need to find something he couldn’t quite identify.

  Sounds coming from another room diverted his thoughts. His attention shifted to his nose. Biscuits and bacon. Elian in the kitchen making breakfast. Sourdough biscuits that could have come from his mother’s kitchen. A not-quite-bacon smoked meat made from a wild herbivore—a slothin. His stomach growled. Confusion set aside for the moment, he rose and dressed. Life went on. Breakfast and then head to the shops.

  Fair Practices

  The months whirled past Yozef. The ether business had taken off, with orders coming in from a dozen provinces and ether production handled by the workshop crew with minimal oversight by Yozef. He stopped in occasionally to check whether they were maintaining safety procedures. The men acted skeptical of his early warnings, until their cavalier attitude to Yozef’s safety obsession tempered after a lesson in the explosive potential of ether. Fortunately, singed hair, missing eyebrows, red skin, and moderate shop repairs were the extent of the event.

  Freed from constant attention to ether and ethanol production, Yozef’s attention had shifted to soap. The single Abersford soap maker, Pollar Penwick, produced a single bar soap used for both body and clothes. The bar cleaned but was harsh and gave Yozef a mild rash if he rubbed himself too hard. Penwick’s initial skepticism that there would be markets for different soaps converted to enthusiasm with the demand for the first two products. By the time Yozef was ready to move on to
other projects, the soap maker was producing other bars, liquid soaps, soaps better for clothes, and harsher versions for industrial-level cleaning. Not all products were well received by the citizen of Abersford and surroundings, but enough were that orders increased each sixday.

  The soap maker expanded into a small factory set outside Abersford and near the new spirits production facility in an area Yozef now called his “industrial park.” He wasn’t interested in following the soap business and was happy to have better soaps for himself and a cut of new profits—content to let Penwick reap most of the benefits. Months passed, and he assumed all proceeded well in the soap world, until Cadwulf noticed several wagons loading at the soap factory late one night and then moving with deliberate stealth down the road toward Gwillamer Province. Exactly what Cadwulf was doing in the middle of the night in the village Yozef never asked, but he suspected it involved one of the village’s young females. Whatever the cause of his presence, Cadwulf shared with Yozef his suspicion that not all records of soap shipments were accurate.

  Over Penwick’s protests, Yozef insisted Cadwulf examine mandated operation records, which confirmed his suspicions. Penwick had recorded only half of the soap production, as required by their partnership.

  Yozef, with Cadwulf and Carnigan beside him—Carnigan, in case they needed intimidation or security—confronted Penwick. After first denying any impropriety, he admitted the obvious, though instead of being apologetic, the shameless Penwick told Yozef that since they had no written agreement filed with the district registrar he was under no obligation to share anything with Yozef, and that Yozef should be grateful he was getting any share of the new business at all. Although customs and laws of Keelan were on the side of the soap maker, who had counted on Yozef’s reputation for being mild-mannered, the brazenness turned out to be a monumental mistake.