Behind Horngore, the earthen lodges of his tribe were scattered across a low depression, protected from the wind. The dome-shaped homes were partially submerged in the soft soil, with wooden frames for walls filled with mud and sod.
Horngore stared out on the open landscape, his back to his village. This was not his home and this moon was not his planet. If he had a choice, he would burn it all.
Needing the Feran’s home planet for their own ends, the Imperium had resettled them against their will on Pellium D decades earlier. The Imperial government reasoned this was a fair trade, considering the open expanses of Pellion D and the chance of making a fresh start. The humans failed to consider that the native population might take offense at the Ferans’ presence, leading to years of hostility punctuated with occasional warfare. Horngore didn’t mind the fighting. He loved it in fact, but the fact that he was fighting over land that he didn’t love left him with a strange dissatisfaction that only fueled his anger. He hated these wide-open spaces, but he hated those who wanted to take them away even more.
He pulled on the hairs hanging from his chin and ground his teeth.
Returning down the hill, Horngore soaked in the daily background noises of his village. A blacksmith hammered a glowing piece of iron into shape before sending it back into the forge. Younger Ferans, their horns mere nubs, chased each other until an older female shouted at them to get back into the lodge.
Horngore found the simple village life monotonous and mundane. He was a warrior with a warrior’s spirit. His greatest wish was to fight, a wish easily granted.
Another warrior named Emberfist, a few years younger than Horngore, galloped through the crowd of other villagers. The warrior, his hair a copper brown, carried a sword but sheathed it as he approached. He stopped short in front of the older fighter, his chest heaving.
“What is it?” Horngore demanded.
Gasping for breath, Emberfist coughed a reply, “The Centauri! They’re returning.”
“Already?” Horngore said, smiling to himself. “They’re early this year.”
“They pitched their camp farther off, but several were seen around the antler hoard.”
Punching his fist into his hand, Horngore ground his knuckles into his palm.
“I thought we taught them a lesson last season,” he said, “but apparently they’re back for more.”
“What do we do?” Embefist asked.
“Get the warriors together,” Horngore replied. “I’ll meet you shortly.”
The younger Feran ran off while Horngore sauntered confidently toward his lodge. Inside, the smoke from the central fire carried an acrid scent throughout the house. Opposite the entrance, beside a bed layered with furs and animal skins, Horngore stopped before a long wooden case. He slowly raised the lid and pulled out a bundle of red velvet. Even through the thick material, Horngore could feel the tingling in his fingers and smell the slight odor of ozone. He unwrapped the velvet to reveal a weapon, a long metal handle with a cone-shaped head on one end. Small, rounded knobs went around the circumference of the head and tiny arcs of electricity jumped from one to the other. The entire mace hummed like a dynamo.
The dark, slanted irises in Horngore’s eyes widened to match the grin on his face.
“Thunderclap,” he said.
The next morning, or rather the late morning because everyone was hung over, the Pellions and Sir Golan headed back to the sacred antler shrine. As before, Squire found himself strapped across a Centauri’s back with nothing than the passing grass for scenery, along with far more of the Pellion’s anatomy than either had wished for.
Squire admitted to himself that he had never seen his master inebriated before, but that was the only explanation for Sir Golan’s behavior. Fermented fluids were often the weakness of organics, the robot realized, but the green knight was usually above such appetites. Knowing how the Cruxians had fallen from grace, Squire worried that Sir Golan might be turning down the wrong road. He hoped this was only a temporary lapse.
Of course, it didn’t help that his master was once again talking about imaginary music in the air.
“It’s quite beautiful,” Sir Golan remarked, riding on the back of his own Pellion.
“I’m sure it is,” Squire replied while doing a quick check of his database for delusions.
Toward the later part of the day, the group arrived at the shrine. Batuhan, the Herd Father, led the procession with Qadan close behind. As far as Squire could tell from his ungainly vantage point, the group included all the mature males of the herd, each with intact antlers on their heads. Sir Golan and the robot dismounted while the others went about creating piles of wood for bonfires around the giant mound.
“What time does the ceremony start?” the knight asked the Herd Father.
“Just after dark,” Batuhan replied. “In the meantime, you should probably stay out of the way if you can. Qadan isn’t happy with your presence here, regardless of what I say, so I would give him a wide berth if I were you.”
Taking the advice to heart, Sir Golan and Squire stood a good way off, watching the preparations take shape. Qadan, his spear on display, rode around the heap of antlers, shouting orders at the younger warriors. Batuhan looked on while drinking from a bottle he kept in his saddle bag.
“They have a curious relationship,” Squire said, turning to his master.
“Who?” Sir Golan asked.
“Well, Qadan seems to be in charge, but he takes orders from the herd father.”
The knight murmured in agreement.
“Some lead by example,” he said, “and others lead by letting others lead by example.”
Not fully understanding, the robot shrugged.
When the sun had crossed the farthest hilltop and the sky turned a deep indigo, the Pellions lit the bonfires around the antler mound. By the time the stars began appearing, all of the Centauri except the Herd Father had formed a wide circle around the mound, facing outward. Batuhan, carrying a golden carafe, trotted around the circumference of the circle, calling out to the others who shouted in reply. Each time the male Pellions shouted back, they also clapped their hands in unison.
“Do you know what they’re saying?” Sir Golan asked his robot.
“I believe it’s something about the passage of time,” Squire answered. “Also, did you notice that they’re ordered by age?”
“By age?”
“Yes, it appears the oldest Pellion starts the circle and it goes all the way around, descending in age, until it comes back to the oldest again.”
At that point, the Herd Father stopped abruptly in front of the youngest Centauri who stood beside the eldest. The boy lowered his head while Batuhan poured from the carafe, a dark liquid soaking the base of the Pellion’s antlers. This process continued, from youngest to oldest, until all of the males were anointed. Batuhan then emptied the remainder of the vessel over his own head, shaking his rack of antlers with a deep laugh.
He motioned to Sir Golan and the robot. “Now watch!”
The Herd Father joined the others as they turned to face the mound. With a firm grasp on the shaft of their racks, they shouted together as they pulled their antlers free and held them high above their heads.
“Good lord,” the knight whispered.
“Indeed,” Squire replied.
Over the crackling bonfires, the Pellion males cheered as they threw their recently detached antlers onto the pile.
Aboard his yacht, the Acaz, Lord Devlin Maycare and Benson sat in the pilot and co-pilot seats respectively. In the adjacent lounge, Professor Jessica Doric and Henry Riff were seated on couches.
“You realize,” Doric said, “this would have been a lot more efficient if we had known where we were going before we left.”
“Probably,” Maycare replied, “but you found the information we needed, didn’t you?”
“Sure, but–“
“I helped...” Henry mentioned.
“Yes, of course,” Maycare said. �
�Good job, Henry!”
With a wide grin, Henry glanced at Doric who nodded back in tacit approval.
“Anyway,” Doric went on, “don’t get your hopes up about finding whatever this is.”
“What? Don’t be silly!” Maycare protested. “This is the best I’ve felt in months. Of course we’ll find it!”
“But we don’t even know what it is,” Doric replied.
“That’s part of the fun!” Maycare said.
Benson took a look at the instruments. “We’ll be arriving in the Pellium system in another hour.”
“Thank you, Benson,” Maycare smiled.
“Speaking of which,” Henry spoke up. “Does anyone else think it’s strange that robots can’t hear the siren music?”
Doric nodded.
“Which is precisely why I think this is some kind of mass psychosis,” she said.
“Come on, Jess!” Maycare sighed. “You’re ruining my buzz...”
“Somebody has to be the voice of reason.”
“Well, I think it’s exciting,” Henry said.
“That’s the spirit!” Maycare shouted, causing Henry to recoil.
“Actually,” Benson said from the co-pilot’s seat, “there could be a range of reasons why robots are unable to hear the music.”
“Or the whole thing’s made up,” Doric replied, rolling her eyes.
Maycare groaned. “Buzz killer!”
With his sword Rippana hanging by his side, Sir Golan felt a kinship with the Pellions, something he had not experienced since leaving his home world so many years ago. His people, the Cruxians, were scattered across the stars of Andromeda, but the green knight’s connection to them persisted through rituals and memories of those long past, not unlike the ceremony performed by the Centauri. They kept themselves grounded in the roots of their culture, just as he did with his own. Sir Golan only wished he could feel the same comradeship as these warriors felt for each other.
On the other hand, he had a robot.
“What a strange display,” Squire remarked, in sight of the Pellions still gathered around the antler monument.
“Really?” Sir Golan replied. “I thought it was magnificent.”
“I mean it seems odd that you can simply remove part of your body like that,” Squire said. “What if I suddenly pulled off a leg and threw it onto a pile?”
“Well, you could,” the knight suggested.
“True, but I wouldn’t like it very much.”
The bonfires around the sacred mound were dying down, the flames dwindling to an orange glow. With the dimming of the fire, the stars in the sky grew brighter, filling the expanse of black with flecks of light. Since it was too late to head back to the main camp, the Pellions set out bedrolls on which to lie. However, before they could bed down, a cry erupted from the darkness. Sounding like bleating goats, the noise roused the warriors, their spears and bows out almost immediately.
By instinct, Sir Golan did the same, Rippana emerging from its scabbard like a sharp, dangerous claw.
“What’s going on?” he shouted at the Centauri passing by.
“Ferans!” one of the warriors replied before disappearing into the night.
“Squire?” the knight asked.
The robot paused while consulting his data base.
“They’re a race of animalistic humanoids,” Squire replied finally. “Humans call them Beastmen.”
“They must be mad to attack warriors such as these!” Sir Golan shouted, already moving toward the sounds of fighting.
“I’ll stay here if you don’t mind...” Squire called after him.
Sir Golan had not gone far before he encountered several Pellions engaged in combat. Most of the Ferans had horns, curved and goat-like. Sir Golan thought the Pellions probably wished they still retained their antlers, but it was too late for that. At least both sides were evenly matched with weapons. The knight saw the flashing of swords against spears amid the rumble of hooves on the grassy earth.
Sir Golan came across his first Feran shortly after the Beastman had apparently chopped down a young Pellion warrior. Armed with a medium-sized blade, the Feran took a swing at the knight, but Sir Golan parried it harmlessly away. Apparently not expecting a non-Pellion, the Feran fighter hesitated, which the knight used as an opportunity to attack, driving Rippana deeply into his chest. The fighter let out a brief bleat before gasping his last breath and falling to the ground. Christened with blood, the knight’s sword tasted the viscera of several more Ferans in short order until Sir Golan felt his clothes becoming heavy and wet.
While stepping past dead Beastmen, the knight also found the bodies of numerous Pellions. During the pitched battle, both sides had taken heavy casualties. He was wondering what grievance led to this when a flash of blue light caught his attention. A moment later, the crack of lightning reached his ears. Sir Golan headed in the direction of the flare. The Herd Father’s voice, loud and angry, greeted him.
Sir Golan started running.
Over a rise, Batuhan was absorbed in combat with a Feran with large, curved horns. While the Herd Father struck at his adversary with a spear, the Beastman swung an odd-looking mace, knobs along the head glowing with arcs of blue electricity.
Sir Golan thought Batuhan should be at an advantage with his longer spear, but gaping wounds on the Herd Father’s legs and flank suggested this was not his first opponent of the night. Weakened, he lunged without vigor and was slow to parry the Feran’s attacks.
“You’re finished!” the Beastman shouted.
Perhaps gathering the last of his strength, Batuhan responded with a quick jab, but the Feran swiped the spear away. Raising the mace over his horns, he slammed it down, the metal head erupting with a burst of lightning. Batuhan’s body crackled as bolts of electricity surged across his skin. Still too far away, Sir Golan could do nothing but watch the Herd Father drop into the grass, dry tufts catching fire. In the light of the flames, the Feran took a second to survey his victory before racing away.
Qadan galloped up to where Sir Golan was standing.
“What’s happened?” the warrior asked gruffly.
“Batuhan is dead,” the knight replied.
Without a word, Qadan cantered over to the Herd Father’s body, but instead of stopping, he galloped past it and disappeared into the darkness.
Mud City wasn’t as glamorous as it sounded. The largest human settlement on Pellium was still no more than a village, most of its structures built from prefab kits brought to the moon decades earlier. Between the buildings, the roads were a mixture of wet dirt and gravel, but mostly mud from which the town got its name. Sidewalks, raised a few inches off the ground, were metal grates to keep the inhabitants from traipsing through the muck whenever possible. This was fine in principle, until the grates became encrusted with mud as well.
The Acaz landed on a pad of reinforced concrete euphemistically called the Mud City Starport. Since the accommodations on Maycare’s yacht were superior to whatever the town had to offer, Doric and Henry remained aboard while they finished their research on the Song of the Sirens. Meanwhile, feeling bored, Maycare found the nearest tavern, accompanied by his butlerbot Benson.
The outside of the Salty Dog Saloon was unassuming and nearly unlabeled except for its name scrawled in spray paint above the front door. Inside, Maycare found the place nearly deserted. A settler, his head pressed against a table top, sat snoozing while a Wulver stood behind the bar. A canine race, the Wulver had white fur with patches of brown. His eyes, red around the edges, drooped nearly as much as his jowls that hung lazily from his face.
“I’m Salty,” he said in a gruff voice, “What’ll you have?”
“Gin and tonic?” Maycare replied, taking a stool at the bar. Benson remained standing behind him.
“We have beer,” Salty said.
Maycare smiled, his teeth white and perfect. “I’ll have beer then!”
The Wulver pulled a dusty bottle off the shelf behind him. Popping the li
d off with the edge of the bar, he poured the beer into a glass mug that looked surprisingly clean.
“We don’t get a lot of off-worlders here,” the bartender remarked.
“What a surprise!” Maycare replied.
“There was a guy came through here not long ago,” Salty went on. “He cleared out a nest of ratlings for us. Kinda green.”
“Inexperienced?”
Salty glared. “No, his skin was green!”
“Oh, my mistake.”
“He had a robot too,” Salty said. “Kind of an older model like this one...”
Benson perked up. “Thank you for including me in this conversation.”
The bartender rolled his bloodshot eyes.
“Anyway,” Maycare said. “We’re here about that siren business.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you tell us anything about it?” Maycare asked.
“Just head out of town until you get to a big heap of antlers,” Salty said. “Then go a little farther and you’ll start hearing it.”
“Big heap of antlers?”
“But be careful of the Ferans,” Salty went on. “They’ll kill you as soon as look at you. And you better steer clear of the Pellions too.”
“Unfriendly, are they?”
“They won’t kill you on sight,” Salty said. “They’ll trample you for a spell and then kill you.”
“Delightful!” Maycare replied and drank his beer.
The day after the battle, the Pellions honored their fallen Herd Father by erecting a funeral pyre before placing Batuhan on top and setting it alight. While the fire burned, the tribe buried the other dead warriors around the pyre, the smell of smoke and death lingering in the air.
At a discreet distance, Sir Golan and Squire watched.
“Why would the Ferans attack?” the green knight asked.
“They’re a fiercely territorial species,” Squire replied. “Ironically, they are not native to this moon.”
“Then why are they here?”
“You can thank the humans for that!” Qadan said, riding up in a flurry of hooves.
The Imperium Chronicles Collection, 2nd Edition - Stories Page 21
