Twist of Faith

by S. D. Perry

  HORN AND IVORY

  Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Chapter One

  The ax nearly took her head off.

  Its wielder was large by the standards of the Lerrit Army, but she still stood half a head taller. The plate armor he wore on his chest was too small for him, and it slowed him down, making it easier to anticipate his movements, and therefore just as easy to duck the attack.

  That it still almost decapitated her spoke to how long she’d been fighting. How many hours had they clashed on this grassy plain just outside the capital city? She’d long since lost track, but however long it was, the fatigue was taking its toll. Her muscles ached, her arms and legs cried out for respite.

  She ignored the pleas of her limbs and fought on.

  The ax-wielder probably thought the sacrifice of movement was worth the protection his armor afforded. The problem was, it only covered his chest and groin, leaving his arms, legs, and head exposed: still plenty of viable targets. So as she ducked, she swiped her staff at his legs, protected only by torn linen. She heard bones crack with the impact—the staff was made from a kava tree, so it was as hard as they came—and the Lerrit soldier went down quickly, screaming in pain at his broken leg.

  She stood upright and surveyed the battlefield. The smell of mud mixed with blood combined with the faint tinge of ozone left from the morning’s rainstorm to give her a slight queasy feeling, but she fought it down with little difficulty.

  As they’d hoped, the Lerrit Army’s formation had been broken. As last stands go, she thought, this is pretty weak. The war had been all but won on the seas, after all. Lerrit had lost all control of the port, and without the port, there was no way they could hold the peninsula, even if they somehow were able to win today.

  Based on the number of Lerrit Army bodies on the ground, that wasn’t going to happen.

  She caught sight of General Torrna Antosso, the leader of the rebel army for whom she fought, and who looked to be the victor this day. As she ran toward him, one man and one woman, both much shorter than her, and both unarmored, came at her with swords. She took the woman down with a swipe of her staff, but the man was able to strike, wounding her left arm before she could dodge the blow.

  Gripping the upper part of the staff with her right hand, she whirled it around so that it struck her attacker on the crown of his head. He, too, went down.

  Tucking the staff under her injured arm, she put pressure on the wound with her right hand and continued toward Torrna.

  As she approached, she heard the reedy sound of a horn.

  Torrna, a wide-shouldered bear of a man with a full red beard and bushy red eyebrows that encroached upon his nose ridges, threw his head back and laughed. “They retreat!” he cried.

  She came up to his side, and he stared her in the eye—easy enough, as they were the same height. “We’ve done it, Ashla,” he said, his yellowed, crooked teeth visible in a smile from behind the beard. “We’ve driven the last of them off!”

  “Yes, we have,” she said, returning the smile with her perfect white teeth. The nickname Ashla—which meant “giant”—was given to her shortly after she joined the rebel army, since she was taller than all the women, and as tall as or taller than most of the men.

  Torrna’s words were prophetic: the horn was indeed the sound of retreat. The Lerrit soldiers who were able ran as fast as they could northward. No doubt they were returning to the base camp the Lerrit had set up on the other side of the hills that generally demarcated the border between the peninsula and the rest of the mainland.

  Raising his own ax into the air, Torrna cried, “Victory is ours! At last, we are free!”

  The remaining soldiers under Torrna’s command let out a ragged cheer.

  Next to him, Kira Nerys did the same.

  Chapter Two

  The meeting room needed a paint job, but at least it didn’t smell like a charnel house anymore, Kira mused. A particularly brutal battle had been fought here when the rebel army took over the capitol building. Even with the tide of war turning, the building was still the most heavily guarded, and the fight to take it was a brutal one with excessive casualties on both sides.

  But someone had done their job well enough to make the place habitable, if not aesthetically pleasing. The meeting table had been scrubbed, the chairs repaired, and the floor, walls, and ceiling washed.

  Looking around at the assorted happy-but-tired-looking faces in the meeting room, Kira wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing here. It was, after all, for the high-ranking members of the rebel army. At best, she was a soldier—hardly what anyone would consider important.

  And she didn’t want to become important. She’d done enough time-traveling—both voluntary and involuntary—to know the risks.

  Flexing her left arm, Kira winced slightly. The wound from the sword had been long, but not deep, and was proving maddeningly slow to heal. Unfortunately, Deep Space 9 and Julian’s infirmary wouldn’t be built for many millennia, leaving Kira to heal naturally, just like when she was in the resistance. Her tendency to scratch at her wounds and not give her body a chance to heal properly hadn’t changed with age. In fact, she remembered a snide comment Shakaar had once made about how symbolic it was that Kira always picked at her scabs….

  Kira had met most of the people in the room only once or twice. The ones she’d gotten to know thus far were Torrna and the tiny, short-haired woman who entered the meeting room last: Natlar Ryslin.

  “Thank you all for coming,” she said as she approached the seat at the head of the table. “Please, everyone, be seated.”

  It soon became apparent that there were far more people than chairs, by a factor of two to one.

  With a small smile, Natlar amended, “Or stand, whichever you prefer.”

  Soon enough, many were seated around the table, with the rest standing against the wall. Kira was among the latter—Torrna, though, sat in the seat opposite Natlar, at the foot of the table.

  Her expression serious, Natlar said, “I hereby call to order the first meeting of the government of the Perikian Republic.”

  A cheer, much less ragged than the exhausted one Kira had participated in on the battlefield, met that pronouncement. Periki Remarro had first agitated for independence against the oppressive Lerrit regime years earlier. The nation of Lerrit had ruled the peninsula with an iron fist and a hefty tax burden, and, though she was not the first to desire the removal of their yoke, she was the first to say so publicly.

  Periki had died soon after she began that agitating, hanged by Lerrit authorities. Her cause had lived on, and was now, finally, victorious.

  I always wondered how the Perikian Peninsula got its name, Kira thought with a smile.

  As Natlar went into the details of what needed to be done next, Kira found herself tuning out. She had been to plenty of meetings just like this—hell, she’d led meetings just like this. But those meetings were far in the future and, paradoxically, in her own subjective past. She saw no reason to involve herself now.

  She stared out the window, seeing the people of the capital city—which would no doubt also be renamed at this meeting—rebuilding their homes and places of business. The window faced south, so she could also see the docks and the large port beyond the city—the true heart of the peninsula.

  Docked there were several warships, armed with massive cannons, that carried the flag of the nation of Endtree.

  Kira turned back to the table just as Natlar was saying, “Admiral Inna, once again, we thank you for all you have done for us.”

  Inna Murent, a short, stout woman with salt-and-pepper hair severely tied back and braided, nodded her head. Kira noticed that she gripped the edges of the table—no doubt a habit from a life aboard a seafaring vessel where the surface beneath her feet was never steady. “We simply followed the road the Prophets laid out for us,” she said.

  Kira’s eyes automatically went to the admiral’s right ear, which was adorned with an earring. Though it was
nowhere near as elaborate as those worn by Kira’s time, Kira knew that it symbolized devotion to the Prophets—a way of life that had not become as widespread in this era as in hers. Kira wasn’t completely sure how far back she had gone, but, based on the clothes and weaponry, it had to be over twenty thousand years in the past. Which means, she thought, the first Orb won’t even be found for at least ten thousand years or so. Still, though no Lerrits she saw wore earrings, a few from the peninsula did, as did most of those from Endtree.

  And, of course, Kira, though a believer herself, didn’t wear one either, thanks to a decree by a religious authority that did not yet exist.

  The admiral’s comment elicited a snort from Torrna. “I doubt that the Prophets were the ones who put those cannons on your ships, Admiral.”

  A chuckle spread around the table.

  “Be that as it may,” Natlar said before Inna could reply, “I am afraid we have more business with our neighbors in Endtree.”

  Inna seemed to shudder. “With all due respect, Prefect—” Kira blinked; she had missed Natlar’s assumption of that title “—I’d rather leave any other business to the diplomats and politicians. I was happy to aid you in casting out those Lerrit leeches. Their shipping tariffs were an abomination. But whatever further relationship there is to be between our governments, it is not for me to arrange. I would simply like to return home and await new orders.”

  “I, however, would rather you did not return home just yet.” Natlar folded her hands together. “While General Torrna has assembled a fine army, and one that I would pit against any other nation’s in the world, we are still vulnerable at sea. Lerrit does have a navy of their own, after all, and the moment we lose the protection offered by your fleet, they will return and take us back with little difficulty.”

  “Perhaps,” Inna said cautiously. Kira knew that tone of voice. The admiral knew that Natlar was absolutely right, but to admit it would mean going along with something she did not want to do.

  “I therefore would like to request that Endtree leave a delegation of five ships behind to protect the port.”

  Torrna slammed his fist on the table. “Prefect, no!”

  “Is something wrong, General?” Natlar asked, her tone never changing from the reasonable calm she’d been using all along.

  “We’ve just fought for our independence.”

  “With our help,” Inna added with a small smile.

  Sparing the admiral a glance, Torrna said, “For which we thank you, Admiral. But if we allow them to stay here, we become as dependent on them as we were on Lerrit! We’d be exchanging one oppressor for another!”

  “My people do not ‘oppress,’ General,” Inna said sharply. “The Prophets—”

  “I’m fully aware of your people’s religious beliefs, Admiral. They don’t change the fact—”

  “Many worship the Prophets,” Natlar said. “It is not a reason to dismiss Endtree as a potential ally.”

  “I still think—”

  “General, can we adequately defend the port with our current forces?”

  Torrna grimaced. “Given a few months, we can assemble a fleet that—”

  “And until that fleet is assembled?”

  Kira winced in sympathy for her friend. She understood all too well the difficulty Torrna was having.

  Some things never change, she thought.

  Inna was speaking now: “One of my ships is setting out for home with a full report at first light tomorrow. I will include your request, which will be put before the Council.”

  Nodding, Natlar said, “Thank you, Admiral. General Torrna will serve as your liaison to me—and, should the Council see fit to honor our request, he will continue in that duty.”

  Torrna stood up. “What!?”

  Before Torrna could argue further, a young girl came in. “Excuse me, but three men are here claiming to represent the Bajora.”

  Kira blinked. Just when I thought this couldn’t get more interesting.

  Natlar barely hesitated. “Send them in.” To Kira’s ear—well used to the nuances of politicians—the prefect sounded relieved that her argument with Torrna had been interrupted.

  For his part, the general sat back down, but glowered at the prefect. Kira knew Torrna well enough to be sure that he would pick up this argument sooner rather than later.

  Three men entered. They wore red robes that reminded Kira a bit of those of a vedek in her time, though these were shorter and tighter about the sleeves.

  They also wore earrings in their right ears.

  “Greetings to you from the Bajora,” said the one in the middle, the oldest of the three. “Do we have the pleasure of greeting Natlar Ryslin?”

  “I am Prefect Natlar, yes.”

  All three bowed their heads. “We would like to extend our respects to your provisional government, and—”

  Torrna stood up again. “There is nothing ‘provisional’ about our government! We are the Perikian Republic, and we will be treated with the respect we deserve!”

  The envoys looked a bit nonplussed at the general’s outburst. Good, Kira thought. They seemed a bit too obsequious to her.

  “My apologies for my imprecision in speech. Regardless, we do come to you with an offer.”

  “Really?” Torrna said with a laugh. “The battle has been won less than three days, and already the Bajora have sent their envoys. Were you flown here by remla bird with this offer?”

  “General, please,” Natlar said in her usual calm tone, but it was enough to induce Torrna to take his seat. The prefect then turned back to the envoys. “General Torrna’s point is well taken. You cannot have received word of our victory and composed any offer in so short a time.”

  The envoy smiled a small smile. Kira noted that the envoy had yet to provide a name for himself or his two aides. “You are correct. We have been in the city for several weeks now, awaiting the outcome of your war. If you were victorious, as our intelligence reports indicated you likely would be, then we were prepared to offer you entry into the Bajora. If you lost, then we would simply return and await a more felicitous time to add this region to the glory of the Prophets.”

  “The Prophets?!” Torrna’s voice was like a sonic boom. “You wish to make us part of your theocracy?”

  In a snippy tone that Kira recognized from certain vedeks back in her time, the envoy said, “We are not a theocracy, sir. The Bajora is a democratic government of the people of this world. Our goal is to unite the planet once and for all.”

  “Really?” Torrna’s tone was dubious.

  “For too long,” the envoy said, and now he was addressing the entire room, not just Torrna or Natlar, “we have squabbled and bickered in conflicts much like the one you just finished.”

  “That was hardly a ‘squabble,’” Torrna said angrily.

  “True,” the envoy said, sparing the general a glance, “many lives were lost. And they need not have been, for if we were a united world, there would be no such conflicts. Sister need not fight against sister, blood need not be spilled recklessly—we would all be free to follow our pagh without worrying about who rules us or who we will fight tomorrow.” He turned to Natlar. “I urge you, Prefect, to consider our offer. The Bajora can only bring benefit to you in these difficult times. You would have the service of our navy to guard your port, you would have the benefit of our assistance in repairing your soil—”

  “And all we’d have to do in return is worship your Prophets, yes?” Torrna said. “A small price to pay, I’m sure.”

  The envoy turned to the rest of those gathered. “And does this man speak for you all? Will you let one man stand between you and progress?”

  Natlar suppressed a smile. “General Torrna does not speak for us all—he simply speaks loudest.” A small chuckle passed around the table at that—though Torrna looked even angrier at the barb, and Kira couldn’t blame him.

  “The point is,” the envoy continued, “you have been weakened by this conflict. True, the Lerr
it have as well, but they have greater resources. The Bajora, however, have even greater resources still, and we’re expanding. It is only a matter of time before we have united the entire planet—we urge you to aid in that process.”

  The envoy went on for quite some time, outlining in more detail what joining the Bajora would involve. Kira found her attention wandering. It reminded her a bit too much of the meetings with Federation dignitaries when they carried on about the joys of joining them.

  Another parallel…

  Finally, Natlar said, “You have given us much to think about.” She signaled to one of the guards who was standing at the door, who sent the young girl in. “We do not have the finest accommodations, but Prilla will show you to a chamber where you may refresh yourselves while we discuss your proposal.”

  Prilla came in as the envoy nodded. “We thank you for your hospitality and your indulgence, Prefect.” Then he and his two aides followed Prilla out of the conference room.

  Silence descended upon the room for several seconds, before Torrna’s booming voice, predictably, broke it. “You can’t possibly be considering their request, can you?”

  Natlar sighed. “Of course I am considering it, General. I would be a fool not to.”

  Torrna slammed a fist down on the table. “No, what would be foolish would be to accept their offer! We’d be trading one oppressor for another!”

  One of the other people at the table, an older man, said, “You keep saying that, Antosso. What, you’re saying the Bajora, Lerrit, and Endtree are all the same?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Then you’re even more naïve than I thought.”

  Again, Torrna slammed his fist on the table. Kira half expected to see a dent in the wood at this point. “I’m naïve? I have been fighting for our lives out there, Morlek! Don’t you dare tell me—”

  “No one is doubting your accomplishments,” Morlek said, “but the truth is—”

  “The truth is, we are free!” Torrna looked at each person at the table as he spoke. “But we are not going to remain free if we just let someone else do exactly what Lerrit did! So many have died so that we could shape our own destiny—not so we can let someone else do the same thing. No matter who it is—Bajora, Lerrit, Endtree—we cannot let anyone direct our paths!” He turned back to Morlek. “You’re right, Morlek. Lerrit, Endtree, and the Bajora are not the same. But from our perspective, they are all outsiders, and that is what concerns me—and should concern all of us. If we are simply going to allow ourselves to be subsumed by the next power that comes along, then I have to wonder what, precisely, we have been fighting for all this time.”