Wings of Retribution

by Sara King

  The prodding continued. “The Emperor’s Will is to view you now.”

  Ragnar opened his eyes and realized that one of the half-naked servants was standing nearby, eyes downcast, hands quietly folded in front of him. The man’s face was tattooed in an angry red and black mask of what looked like a horned demon.

  Ragnar glanced at Morgan and Paul, who each had a half-clothed, tattooed servant waking them. The servants, he noticed, made absolutely sure not to touch any of them, using a two-pronged stick to prod Paul out of slumber when he refused to wake.

  Glancing at his brethren, Ragnar noticed that each wore a flowing white robe—and a constricting metal collar around his neck. Vaguely, he remembered that it was programmed to shock them into unconsciousness if it sensed the electrical impulses created when they tried to shift.

  …Which was why they had all been sleeping when the servants came to wake them. The L’kota did not wear collars. It was against their nature.

  And, now that Ragnar could once more feel the metal cinched around his neck, he felt the base instinct to shift, to flee, start surging upwards…

  “Leave it alone, Ragnar,” Morgan growled, eying the three tattooed humans. “We’ll hear them out.”

  Even at his father’s command, it was difficult to control himself.

  Unlike their multitudes of captors before this, the demon-faced humans made no attempts to prevent them from speaking with each other. Instead, eyes still on the floor, the one closest to Ragnar said, “It is the Emperor’s Will that the Strangers treat you as Nobles of the Second House, but we do have permission to beat you if you do not comply with his wishes.”

  Beat them? Ragnar gingerly got to his feet and frowned at the demon-faced man, somewhat surprised to see that they were not in cages. “Nobles of the Second House?”

  Instead of replying, the man kept his face downcast. “If it would please you to follow me, master, I will take you to the Emperor.” His words sounded…ancient. Almost like a vid left over from millennia past.

  Then he prodded him again with the stick and the spell was broken.

  Grunting, Ragnar stumbled to allow the man to direct him from the room, waiting just long enough to make sure Paul and Morgan would follow.

  “What’s with the sticks?” Paul muttered in L’kota, as he and his handler caught up with Ragnar in the stone hallway. “They’re going out of their way to avoid touching us.” Ahead, there were three more men with forked poles standing at the end of the hall, waiting for them.

  “Almost like they think we’re contagious,” Morgan said softly, also using the old tongue.

  It was true, Ragnar noted, and the fact left a knot of foreboding in his gut. Yet, on the whole of their experiences since their capture, their treatment from the demon-faced stickbearers was rather gentle in comparison. Further, their latest set of handlers were easily the most interesting of their long list of captors. Used to the cold utility of hardened criminals or the casual brutality of sleazy flesh-traders, Ragnar was rather impressed that, despite the sticks, they bore an attitude of humility and respect.

  Their demon-faced guides stepped wide to usher them through a door with the pronged sticks.

  Though they made no efforts to stop Ragnar and his kin’s conversation, their captors said nothing during the walk. They led them from the iron-barred cell out into a glorious Old-Earth-styled palace whose tall open windows allowed light to stream onto the warm white marble, making the gauzy blue curtains flutter in the breeze.

  Ragnar noticed that the deeper they went into the palace, the more guards stood in the corners, where they watched the three of them pass with bold, suspicious glances. These were not dressed in loincloths like the other three, but wore glittering suits of armor bedecked with bright feathers and gold. From the way the three servants avoided their glares, Ragnar guessed the warriors were much higher in the palatial pecking order than their guides.

  They paused at the entrance to an outdoor rose garden. A young man with billowing white robes and a long, embroidered silver cape stood with his back to them, inspecting a flower. Four glittering warriors stood at attention, each stationed at a leg of a sun-tent spread above the caped man’s head, their golden armor so bright in the sun that Ragnar found it hard to look at them.

  Kneeling beside the figure in white, two scarlet-robed women clashed with the calming ambiance of the place, burning Ragnar’s eyes with the intensity of their garments. Each held a jet-black bowl, their eyes cast downward. Standing a few paces behind the man under the pavilion, another woman in a brocaded white tunic and flowing white pants stood watching them with undisguised interest.

  Ragnar’s guide slapped him in the chest with the stick, halting his forward progress. “If it pleases you to wait here, master,” the man said to the floor, “I will see if it is the Emperor’s Will to see you now.”

  Frowning at the paradox of the man’s behavior, Ragnar just nodded. His guide immediately stepped away from the group and promptly got down on his belly and began to crawl towards the robed figure, his nose touching the cobblestones. He wiggled right up to the edge of the sun-tent’s shadow and lay there staring at the ground in silence.

  After long minutes, the Emperor turned.

  Ragnar was stunned. The tall, thin man turned out to be a boy of barely twelve years old, if that. His eyes flickered over the man on the ground, but they alighted with interest on Ragnar and his family.

  “It is Our will to see those men,” the boy said in an archaic version of Standard Utopian. “Bring them to us.”

  The man on the ground began crawling backwards and the other five servants jabbed Ragnar and his kin in the backs with their sticks, forcing them forward. Thankfully, the rules of this place did not seem to require that the three shifters approach the young man on their bellies. Their guards stopped them at the edge of the shade, which Ragnar guessed was reserved for the Emperor only. When the Emperor nodded, the servants dropped to the ground and crawled away.

  What is going on here? Ragnar wondered. He couldn’t remember hearing of a society like this before. And surely, with these massive stone buildings and obviously unique, yet well-established culture, he would have heard something. It was…rare…that Marceau allowed an emperor to exist within his domain. Hell, it was unheard of.

  And yet, when Ragnar looked, he caught none of the unnaturally smooth faces of a Utopi anywhere. Everyone seemed to be aging…naturally.

  “Where are we?” Paul whispered, seemingly noticing the same things.

  A bejeweled guard stepped away from the leg of the sun-tent and stopped in front of them. The young Emperor seemed to be trying to show an impression of interest in a blooming yellow rosebush, but he was watching the exchange out of the corner of his eye with the flush-faced excitement of youth.

  The guard snapped his fingers loudly in front of Ragnar’s nose, startling Ragnar into returning his attention to the man’s hard-lined face. It was painted with flowing colored lines that looked like feathers and dusted with yellow sparkles. Up close, his polished armor looked to be struck of solid gold.

  “You will not look at the Emperor,” the man barked in his archaic Common. “You will not speak to the Emperor unless it is his Will that you answer a question. You will not spit, fart, or make any rude gestures in the Emperor’s presence. You will keep your hands at your sides unless it is the Emperor’s Will to move them. You will not make sudden movements in front of the Emperor. You will not try to flee. If you do any of these things, the Warriors will punish you. Do you understand?”

  Because he got the idea that punishment at the hands of this hard-faced gorilla—a man who wore solid gold like plates of tin—would be rather unpleasant Ragnar nodded.

  The Warrior moved back to his spot at the tent’s leg and assumed a stone-still pose of attention.

  Ragnar became aware of a white blur moving toward him, but he kept his eyes firmly on the ground. The last thing he wanted to do was to insult the young boy’s tender pride, esp
ecially when he knew with gut-curdling certainty that the boy could offhandedly say a single word and he and his comrades would all be executed instantly.

  “It is Our Will is that you lift your head,” the boy said.

  Ragnar swallowed when he realized the youth was standing right in front of him. Tentatively, he looked up.

  The boy-emperor was only a yard away, gazing upon the three of them with hungry, eager brown eyes.

  “Step forward. Just you in the front.”

  Trying not to let his nerves show, Ragnar closed the distance between them.

  The boy-emperor circled him, eying him like a head of cattle.

  “You are to remove your clothes.”

  Ragnar did so, having no human aspirations at modesty.

  “It is Our Will to know if you have trouble holding that image. You may speak.”

  “No,” Ragnar said. “Once I shift, I stay in the new form.”

  “You may put your clothes back on.”

  Ragnar did.

  “It is Our Will to know your name.”

  “Ragnar Reeve.”

  “Is this your true name or an alias?”

  “My true name.” Ragnar could not pronounce his birth-name using a human tongue, and he had been ‘Ragnar’ for so long that he even had trouble remembering all the syllables. He also didn’t want to have to explain all that to this child-emperor. Overall, he got the distinct impression that the less talking he did, the safer he was.

  The boy-emperor stroked his beardless chin in an imitation of sagely thought. “We have learned that you three are nobles among your kind. It is Our Will that you be hosted as Nobles of the Second House here on Xenith. Do you understand what this means?”

  Ragnar shook his head.

  Immediately, a Warrior leapt from the sun-tent and slammed a fist into Ragnar’s gut—the most tender spot upon a L’kota’s body. Ragnar’s vision immediately burst into a thousand tiny points of light and he crumpled to his knees.

  “It is Our Will that the shifters not be harmed,” the Emperor said. He sounded impatient.

  “This humble Warrior apologizes, Emperor,” the man in gold said, falling to the ground in a clatter of heavy metal. “He will gladly slit his own throat if it is your Will.”

  Holding his stomach, Ragnar groaned and stood.

  The Emperor was looking at him, brown eyes curious. “We’ll let Ragnar Reeve decide. He is a Noble of the Second House until We say otherwise.”

  The warrior did not get out of his prostrate position at the Emperor’s feet, but Ragnar could see that the man was trembling.

  “What is your opinion, Ragnar Reeve?”

  Ragnar glanced back at his father, who gave a slight shake of his head.

  “Let him live,” Ragnar said. “He was only trying to best serve you.”

  That seemed like the correct answer, since the man got up from the ground and resumed his post at the tent pole as if nothing had happened. He was, however, paler than his bronze-skinned comrades.

  “They may be trying to serve Us,” the boy-emperor said, “But they can grow cumbersome. It is Our Will that they take the priestesses and depart. Our Guiding Light will protect us.”

  The four men backed away without question and took the two scarlet-clad priestesses by the arms and led them off in such a way that they resembled captives.

  The Emperor must have seen Ragnar’s curious look. “The Priestesses of the Light are blind and deaf. All priests and priestesses of Xenith must live as such, to grow closer to our divine purpose.”

  “What is that?” Ragnar asked. Then, catching himself with a wince, he added, “If I may be so bold.”

  “It is that which our Emperor embodies,” the white-clad woman said as she approached. She had a hard look to her that made Ragnar think of Athenais.

  She also had perfectly smooth skin.

  “Minds that convey messages without words,” she continued. “Bodies that can heal others with only a touch.” At that, she pulled an obsidian knife from her belt and drew the glittering black blade across her palm. It cut deep, slicing into the flesh of her hand. When she withdrew the blade, blood began to spurt from the wound.

  The Emperor moved toward her and took her hand in his. He moved a finger over the cut and it stopped bleeding. Behind Ragnar, his father muttered something softly under his breath.

  The woman sheathed her knife without glancing down at her hand. Ragnar didn’t like her eyes. A soft blue-green, they were also dead. Utterly devoid of any emotion. The kind that belonged to a mass-murderer…or a psychopath.

  Proudly, the woman said, “Our society on Xenith constantly moves toward humanity’s ultimate goal. Each Emperor is stronger than the last as the power builds within us and within our children. In just a few millennia, Xenith will control its own destiny. We will emerge to rule our own quadrant of space and all the ships in the Utopia will not be able to stop us.”

  “You speak as though a few millennia is a small thing,” Morgan noted softly behind him. “You’re another of the originals, aren’t you?”

  The woman gave Morgan an odd look, the flatness of her eyes flickering for a moment.

  “What does he speak of?” the Emperor said.

  “He is confused,” the woman said, and it sounded as if she were speaking to Ragnar and his brethren, not the Emperor. “I am the Guiding Light of Xenith. I am a manifestation of the earth, the sky, the water. Neither Death nor Life may reach Me, for the planet nourishes and protects Me. A flutter of My hand can mean life or death to every inhabitant of Xenith.”

  Her words left Ragnar with a coldness pooling in his gut, and he suddenly very much wanted to be anywhere else but standing in the rose garden with the woman and her child emperor, the pleasant twitter of birds in the trees all around them.

  The Emperor nodded his agreement. “Our Guiding Light chose the first priests, who chose the first Emperor. She built our society from a forgotten colony many thousands of years ago and Xenith remains unknown to the Utopia through Her guidance.”

  “So what do you want with us, if I may be so bold?” Ragnar asked.

  The Emperor smiled. “It was Our idea. We bought you to keep you out of Utopian hands, and to give you sanctuary on Our planet. We paid an enormous price to get you here. We had to trade raw metals and gems for your lives, both of which are very rare on Xenith. It was a great expense. Yet you will be safe here. The Utopia considers this part of the galaxy dead space.”

  “Not to offend you,” Paul said gingerly, “But what if we don’t want to stay here?”

  The Emperor’s face darkened. “It is Our Will that you stay.”

  “We have a friend who can pay you double any sum you spent on us,” Ragnar said. “She has vast accounts throughout the Utopia.”

  The woman scoffed, “Look behind you, children, and tell Me that Our Emperor is in need of your petty wares.”

  Ragnar did, and his breath failed him. The palace at his back was not just a single story as he had guessed, but forty. Beyond that, spires rose from the glittering black roof and jutted into the sky. In either direction, the palace went on forever. He could see no end to the elegant stone architecture, which towered above hills in the distance.

  “What could We possibly need?” the woman said, much too smugly.

  Ragnar turned back with difficulty. “She could get you ships.”

  “The skies of Xenith would darken with ships if it were Our Will,” the Emperor interrupted. “But it is Our Will that you stay, instead. Propagate amongst yourselves as We are propagating with Our subjects and create a new colony of your kind hidden from the Utopia’s eyes. I am giving you sanctuary. Your children will rise with us when the citizens of Xenith move to establish Our dominance of this quadrant. Your progeny will create a new caste amongst Our people. You will be Our assassins, Our thieves, Our spies. We will send you abroad to infiltrate the Utopia to prepare it for Our ascendance to divinity.”

  Ragnar glanced at the other shifters. “Prop
agate amongst ourselves? He is my father and he is my brother. We’re all of the same gender, more or less.”

  “We have others,” the child-emperor said quickly. “None with your extraordinary talents, however. Our Guiding Light tells Us that you are of a special caste of shifters. Royalty, more or less. Ishala.”

  “Your Guiding Light seems to know a good many things about the universe,” Morgan said. He was scowling at the smooth-faced woman.

  “You are royalty because you can perform the yeit,” the boy said. “Is that not correct?”

  “We can,” Ragnar said.

  “Then it is Our Will that you begin breeding immediately amongst the others. You will pass your abilities on to your children and eventually, all will be able to yeit.”

  Ragnar felt his muscles stiffen. “Ishala don’t breed with non-ishala. It would dilute the blood. Would you ever marry a commoner?”

  The Emperor’s face clouded over, approaching the ominous darkness of a thunderhead. “The priests chose Us from amongst the Strangers. We were two days from having Our face tattooed. The blood of Strangers is no different from the blood of Nobles. Should We marry, We would gladly choose from the Stranger women. But with Our Guiding Light beside us, We will never need marry. We will propagate Our seed amongst many, to strengthen Our blood.”

  “Perhaps your ‘Guiding Light’ didn’t explain this to you,” Ragnar said, “But we’re not animals. You’re not going to breed us like horses.”

  The boy-emperor turned his back to them. “It is Our Will that these three return to their cell. We will give them time to think about what We said.”

  “Nice, Ragnar,” Paul muttered.

  “Follow me,” the woman said. She stepped between them and began walking back into the palace. Reluctantly, Ragnar and his kin followed.