The Imperium Chronicles Collection, 2nd Edition - Stories

by W. H. Mitchell

  Mel checked that the download was complete and reinitialized the robot’s operating system. When Squire came back online, Mel was eager to ask him a few questions.

  “Who the hell is that green guy?” she said.

  “Sir Golan?” the robot replied.

  “I guess.”

  “He’s my master.”

  “I just saw him,” Mel went on. “He acted like he was in a trance.”

  Taking a moment to process, Squire replied, “Oh, I suspect he was meditating. Sir Golan is quite dedicated to thinking deeply about things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Well, he’s Cruxian, you know. They live a life of introspection, reflecting on their actions, both past and present.”

  “I’ve never heard of them,” Mel confessed.

  “Few have, actually,” Squire said. “I suppose because so few of them still exist.”

  “Are they dying out or something?”

  “By their own hand, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Many centuries ago,” the robot said, “the Cruxians were a wealthy, enterprising race. They built great structures and expanded their society across their home planet. As Sir Golan would tell you himself, they wanted everything and believed they could achieve whatever they set their minds to. It turns out that their ambitions and, you might say, hubris, got the better of them and it all came crashing down. There was a great war and most of their race, nearly all life on their planet really, was destroyed. Those who survived dedicated their lives to redeeming themselves and, metaphorically, their species. They scattered to the four winds, looking for ways to reclaim their honor.”

  “Like how?” Mel asked.

  “Wandering from place to place, mostly,” Squire replied, “helping people when they can...”

  “Well,” Mel said, “spending all your time helping people can just end up hurting the people closest to you.”

  “There is only Sir Golan and myself, Miss Freck.”

  Mel closed the lid on Squire’s chest which was filled with the repairs she had spent the last several hours completing.

  “How’s that working out for you?” she said.

  When Golan was a boy, he remembered training with his master in a temple overlooking the Cruxian capital city. When the sun set, the yellow glow of the horizon would mix with the lights of the city, the colors like paint spilled across a canvas. When the bombs began falling, the only color Golan remembered was the orange of fire and the blackness as all the lights went out.

  Deep in meditation, he almost didn’t hear the crash as Katak warriors broke through the window and spilled into the bedroom. Once aware what was happening, the Cruxian knight was instantly on his feet, his sword at the ready. Two of the froglings held spears while the other two carried spiked clubs. The room was small, giving Golan the advantage by preventing the Katak from attacking all at once.

  Golan remembered the day his master gave him his sword. It was a single-edge blade with writing down the side, a prayer of forgiveness and fortitude. As a young man, he didn’t fully understand why a weapon of death would be engraved with such an invocation. His master called the sword Rippana.

  Golan sliced through the spear, breaking it in half, before whirling around to cut the Katak warrior across the chest. The second frogling died when Rippana carved him down the center of his head, between two bulging eyes. The third warrior raised a spiked club high above until both his arms were separated from his body. The final opponent met his end exiting through the window in which he entered, his last view of the world a glistening blade of steel protruding from his chest, the letters of an unknown language etched across the metal.

  Before the bombs fell on the Cruxian capital, Golan’s master finally explained the reason for the prayer on the young knight’s sword. During any conflict, especially in the heat of battle, an honorable knight must remain strong, but must never feel hate or malice toward those he fought. Most of all, he must absolve them of sin so that they might travel to the next life cleansed of whatever led them to leave this one.

  In the hallway, Golan rushed toward the sound of fighting. Squire and a tiny woman were struggling with a pair of Katak. The female was kicking a frogling in the leg while Squire was using a chair to hold off the other. Golan made quick work of both enemies, cutting them down with quick lacerations, severing their spines. Golan, Squire, and the small woman stared blankly at each other until a scream drove them back down the hallway. Silandra stood at the door to her daughter’s room. The knight thrust himself past her, but the room was empty except for broken furniture and a shattered window.

  “They’ve taken her!” Silandra shouted.

  The forest grew brighter as a heavy morning mist hung among the low branches. Sisa Oakhollow, her hands tightly bound, followed the Katak warrior in front of her while several others trailed behind. The leading frogling trudged ahead, his webbed feet making hardly any sound among the leaves and twigs. His back, moist and shiny, reflected dapples of dawn piercing the canopy from above.

  “Where are you taking me?” the girl asked, but the front warrior said nothing. None of them had spoken a word since dragging her out of bed and into the night. She could sense the froglings were agitated. They had lost many fighters in the attack.

  Sisa reached out with her mind.

  “Why are you doing this?” she thought.

  The lead Katak stopped. Turning to face her, his throat swelled and he made a loud croaking noise. In her head, Sisa heard him say, “be quiet!”

  They started walking again, but after an hour or two, they stopped. The warriors formed a perimeter, a semi-circle, arrayed between the girl and a stand of birch trees.

  Sisa heard movement from the trees. Several small humanoids emerged. Each looked like a toadstool, tiny eyes peering out from under a cap of red with white spots. Their arms and legs were short, sprouting from their squat bodies. Like the Katak, they carried spears.

  “Sporemen,” Sisa thought.

  The froglings chirped excitedly, thrusting their weapons in the air. The sporemen did the same.

  “Alright,” Sisa said. “Everybody calm down.”

  The lead Katak shook his spear at her, then pointed back at the fungus people.

  Sisa formed words in her mind. “What do you want from me?”

  “Translate,” he thought back.

  “I think you mean interpret, but whatever...”

  “What do they want?”

  Concentrating, Sisa focused on one of the sporemen. As a fungus, his thoughts were difficult to understand at first, but after a few minutes, Sisa began comprehending the situation.

  “You’re trespassing,” she told the frogling telepathically. “They want you to leave.”

  “No,” the leader replied. “We must go this way.”

  “Well, I don’t think they’re going to let you,” she thought.

  “So be it!”

  With one of the froglings guarding Sisa, the others rushed into the trees and attacked the sporemen. The two sides squared off, each lunging with spears. Sisa could feel their fury and fear, mixed with her own. She didn’t understand why any of this was happening. Why they kidnapped her or why this was so important that someone had to die because it. Mostly, Sisa just wanted to be home in bed, the smell of her mother’s hotcakes wafting down the hall from the kitchen.

  The Katak shouted when they died, croaking their last breath, but the fungus people, gentle in their own way, made no sounds at all. They fell quietly, like the morning fog burning off in the sunshine.

  The treetop village was in uproar, the Gowyn townspeople running from one platform to another, looking for their missing Sylvan. From what anyone could tell, only Sisa had been taken. To Silandra, her mother, this made it all much worse.

  “Why would they take my daughter?” she asked the others, but their concerned stares held no answers.

  Bragor arrived with a few of his usual patrons, all
armed with blasters.

  “We’ve searched the whole village,” Bragor said. “There’s no sign of her.”

  A foot taller than the others, Sir Golan stood at the back of the crowd. Squire was beside him.

  “I will find her,” the knight announced.

  Everyone turned, their eyes fixed on this stranger that some of them were seeing for the first time. A crescendo of their murmuring voices escalated until Sir Golan spoke again.

  “By my sword,” he said grandly, “I shall return her safely.”

  Bragor’s mouth was forming a question when Silandra interrupted.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  “No,” Bragor said. “I should go.”

  “I can sense her,” Silandra said, shaking her head. “You can’t.”

  Bragor looked at his feet, but said nothing.

  Sir Golan and the robot waded through the crowd until they reached the mother. Silandra caught a glimpse of Mel at their heels, her body hidden behind the taller Sylvans.

  “Do you have any idea where they might’ve taken Sisa?” the knight asked.

  “I don’t know,” Silandra replied. “They’ve never attacked us before. Usually, we have good relations with them.”

  “They must have towns somewhere...” Mel said.

  “They have settlements in the swamp to the West,” Bragor said. “They’ve sometimes sent traders from that way.”

  “Alright then,” Sir Golan said. “That’s where we’ll start.”

  “Shouldn’t we send a larger group?” Bragor asked. “Everyone wants to help.”

  “If Sisa is a captive,” Squire replied. “It might be better if we didn’t appear overly hostile.”

  “Well, I’m going...” Mel said.

  “Why?” Sir Golan asked.

  “Ah, because your robot might need more repairs,” Mel replied. “I’m very serious about my service plan.”

  “Service plan?” Squire said.

  “Your money back, guaranteed!” Mel said. “Also, I threw in a few things and I want to make sure they work okay.”

  “What kind of things?” the robot asked.

  Mel looked off to the side.

  “You know,” she said, “upgrades...”

  They followed the Katak tracks into the thickening woods. Sir Golan, in full armor, led the search party with Squire behind him. Mel and Silandra walked together. The noises from the town faded into the background.

  “Why did you say only you could sense Sisa?” Mel asked.

  “Only Sylvan women are psi sensitive,” Silandra replied. “Mothers and their daughters are especially linked.”

  “Can you feel her now?”

  “Only weakly.”

  “But at least that means she’s alive...” Mel said.

  “Oh, yes,” Silandra smiled. “If I didn’t sense her at all, I don’t know what I’d do right now.”

  “You two must be pretty close,” Mel said.

  “Sisa was always independent,” Silandra said. “She doesn’t like how aware I am of her feelings. She calls it spying.”

  “I never knew my mom.”

  “No?”

  “I was an orphan,” Mel went on. “I never knew either of my parents.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But Sisa’s father is still around...”

  “Bragor is a good father,” Silandra said. “He loves Sisa very much.”

  “It must drive him crazy knowing he can’t understand her the same way as you.”

  Silandra laughed softly until it became a sigh.

  “It’s not always a blessing,” she said. “When she’s happy, I’m happy, but when she’s sad, I can’t help but feel sad too.”

  The search party wound their way between the larger trees, cutting through brush with Sir Golan’s sword. The trail cut by the Katak before them made the going easier and, Mel hoped, faster. The tracks themselves, four-toed feet, slightly webbed, were easy to distinguish from Sisa’s own tiny soles.

  “How far are we from Gowyn?” Mel asked the robot.

  “My GPS says approximately three miles,” Squire replied.

  “Good to hear your satellite tracking is still working.”

  “I must admit that Sir Golan is not well-versed in technology,” Squire said. “My capabilities often prove useful to him.”

  “Are you saying he can’t use a computer?”

  “It’s not that he can’t. He simply chooses not to.”

  “Why?” Mel asked.

  “He prefers the simplicity of less modern things.”

  “But he has you, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s not a Luddite, Miss Freck.”

  “Sorry,” Mel replied. “I’m sure it’s nice to have you around.”

  “One would hope,” Squire said, “but I faithfully endeavor to be useful whenever I can...”

  Sir Golan stopped suddenly.

  “What’s wrong?” Mel asked.

  “There’s been a battle,” he replied, pointing Rippana, his sword, at several mounds sticking out of the leaves and grass. Drawing closer, Mel recognized some of the shapes as Katak corpses.

  “Sisa!” Silandra started, but stopped herself. “No, she’s not here. I can still sense her elsewhere.”

  Among a standof birch, froglings and fungus creatures lay motionless, spears stuck into the ground like poles marking a burial place.

  “These are sporemen,” Silandra said. “This is their territory.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t approve of trespassers,” the knight said grimly.

  Something moved, snapping a fallen branch. Sir Golan was instantly on guard, holding his free arm to protect the others.

  In the midday shadows, a large mound with four trunk-like legs moved toward them. At the end of a long neck, a face like a thick flower with four petals turned in their direction. The petals peeled open, revealing a structure like a starfish full of teeth.

  “Get back!” Silandra shouted. “It’s a Kamal Maut!”

  Sir Golan took a step backwards while Mel hid behind a tree.

  “According to my translation,” Squire said, “that means Death Lotus.”

  “Thanks,” Mel said. “Very helpful.”

  As if ready to roar, the Death Lotus opened its maw even wider, but instead of sound, a cloud came pouring out.

  “Those are spores,” Silandra said. “They’re poisonous if you breathe them in...”

  “I can’t get close without passing through the cloud,” the knight said.

  “Maybe you should’ve brought a gun!” Mel shouted, still behind the tree.

  “Didn’t you mention upgrades to my system?” Squire asked.

  “Of course!” she replied. “Use the displacement field.”

  “I fail to see how that would–” Squire began.

  “Just do it!”

  A dome of blue energy, with Squire at the center, burst into existence, enveloping the party beneath it.

  “Now, walk toward that thing,” Mel said.

  The robot started toward the Death Lotus, while Sir Golan remained in between. As Squire got closer, the toxic spores collected against the outside surface of the dome.

  “Keep going!” Mel urged. “Just don’t let its mouth puncture the dome...”

  The displacement field pushed against the creature, bending inward like a hand pushing against a balloon.

  “You can attack it,” Mel told the knight. “The field is one-way.”

  Sir Golan took a swipe at the Death Lotus, cutting into its mossy hide. Spurts of blood shot out but, like the spores, soaked only the outside dome.

  “Now I have you!” the knight shouted, sending his sword through the barrier and into the creature.

  The Death Lotus staggered as its front legs gave out, falling clumsily on its side.

  “Neat,” Squire said.

  Mel came out, brushing herself off.

  “Yeah, well,” she said, “it works against solid objects as long as their mass isn’t too big. I fi
gured it would work in this case...”

  “But you weren’t sure?” Sir Golan asked, his eyebrow raised.

  “Consider this a field test,” Mel replied.

  Sisa felt sick.

  The froglings had waded into the sporemen, killing them all while losing several of their own. Sisa wanted to throw up, but the head Katak who had survived kept tugging at her bindings, pulling her along.

  The forest floor beneath her feet became damp as the land turned swampy. Also, the daylight began to fade and Sisa found herself tripping over roots lurking in the gloom around her feet, now soaking wet. The noises changed, too, as insects and lesser amphibians filled the air with a cacophony of different cries.

  When Sisa saw the first skull, she didn’t recognize it at first. A series of long stakes, each crowned with a skull, led the way into the Katak village where camp fires drew the froglings home like moths. Unlike Gowyn, the huts, made from driftwood and held together with mud, were nestled on bits of land surrounded by pools of water.

  The townspeople came out to greet the arriving band of raiders. They gathered around Sisa, peering with wide eyes at her strange appearance. They took her to the center of the village where a large bonfire was burning. On the other side of the flames, from an earthen lodge larger than the surrounding huts, a Katak with black and yellow skin came tottering out. A vest made from dried reeds hung on his chest and he carried a staff with yet another skull on the end. Sisa wondered where they were getting them all.

  He swayed back and forth from one webbed foot to the other until he was next to the girl. He looked her up and down, only then giving a loud, approving croak. His breath smelled so rancid, Sisa nearly choked.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked, reaching into the old frogling’s mind. Distorted images flooded her thoughts.

  Sisa screamed.

  “Something’s wrong,” Silandra said.

  “What is it?” Mel asked.