by Peter David
“I have hope?” Xyon raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Make up your mind.”
“The only hope you have is if you tell us where the artifacts are now. You might actually survive to see another sunrise if you cooperate.”
Previous inquiries to that effect had been fruitless, but now Xyon said, “As a matter of fact, I would be happy to tell you that.”
Foutz made no effort to hide his surprise. He turned to the assembled throng that was still chanting cries of vengeance and bloodthirstiness, and called out, “The condemned wishes to try and make restitution by telling us where our holy artifacts are!” This announcement resulted in a rather tepid cheer. The crowd was sufficiently worked up that the last thing they wanted was any possibility of a reprieve. At that moment they were far more interested in blood than repentance. Foutz turned back to him and demanded, “Where are they?”
“They're off planet,” Xyon informed him cheerfully. His nose itched at that moment and he would have given anything to be able to scratch it. “Ysontian agents have, by this point, recovered them from where I'd hidden them before I was stupid enough to fall into your hands. I utterly underestimated your abilities, I freely admit that. I suppose I get sloppy sometimes knowing that imbeciles such as you can't possibly put an end to me. My fault. It won't happen again.”
“No,” Foutz said drily. “I daresay it won't.” Then he turned back to the crowd and shouted, “There is no repentance, my friends! Now there is only death and dismemberment!”
Over the rousing cheer that pronouncement elicited, Xyon inquired calmly, “In that order? Because if so, then the latter won't really be of much interest to me, will it.”
Foutz turned to him and picked up one of the sharp instruments, a small curved blade. “I can't decide whether your tongue should be the first to go. The temptation is there since it means I won't have to listen to you anymore. On the other hand, it will interfere with your ability to scream during your execution. What do you think?”
“I don't believe you're really interested in what I think.”
“Oh, but I am. I truly am.”
“All right. I think you should let me go because it may be your very last chance.”
“That,” Foutz told him coolly, “will not happen.”
“Told you you wouldn't be interested.”
That appeared to be all Foutz needed to decide him. He gestured to the guards, and they pried open Xyon's mouth. This prompted the loudest cheer of all from the crowd as they anticipated the beginnings of the torment they had been so eagerly awaiting.
Xyon didn't struggle in their grasp. Once again, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. There was a small brazier filled with coal nearby, waves of heat rolling from it. Foutz stuck the curved blade into the coal, calmly waiting for it to warm up to a sufficient temperature. The crowd began to chant Foutz's name. Apparently he was quite popular in these parts. He pulled the blade from the coals, and it throbbed with a deep red intensity. Foutz slowly started towards him, milking the drama for all it was worth. It was at that point that Xyon came to an unpleasant realization—he knew the circumstances of his eventual demise, but there was nothing in those circumstances that indicated whether he had a tongue or not. It was entirely possible there was a genuine threat being presented to him, and his considerable sangfroid was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain in the face of the heated blade coming closer and closer to his forced-open mouth.
Foutz saw the flicker of uncertainty in Xyon's eyes and seemed to derive pleasure from that. He brought the blazing knife up in front of his face, his steely eyes peering around the blade at Xyon. “Any last words?” he said.
“Yes, but I doubt you'd understand them.”
Foutz brought the knife forward, and Xyon braced himself for the agony that he was about to feel.
III.
AND THAT WAS THE POINT when the explosions began.
The roaring of the crowd had been so loud at that point that, at first, they didn't hear the detonations of weaponry around them. But the next wave of explosions unquestionably seized their attention, particularly when nearby buildings suddenly erupted into flying debris.
Foutz's head snapped around and he began to stammer in confusion. People were pointing, shouting, running, and Xyon suddenly felt the pressure released on his jaw as the guards backed off and looked skyward.
A barrage of small vessels was descending from on high, and Xyon had never seen anything quite like them. They were wildly decorated with pictures of crouching, slavering beasts with wild eyes and bared fangs. Descending upon the helpless Barspens as they were, the ships seemed like nothing so much as a pack of animals hurtling towards its intended victims.
The small ships flew with almost demented abandon, zigzagging and unleashing wave after wave of concentrated fire power. Xyon quickly realized that they were not firing directly into the crowd. Rather they seemed intent upon attacking as much property as possible without actually killing anyone. But Xyon had the instinctive feeling that the attackers didn't care one bit about preserving life. This naturally meant they had another goal in mind, but Xyon couldn't even begin to guess what it was. Nor was he interested in doing so; at that point, he had other considerations uppermost in his mind.
“Steady! Steady!” Foutz was shouting, but no one was paying attention to him, including the guards. The platform had not been struck yet, but it was an obvious target, and the guards clearly realized that. They hesitated a moment more and then, with a significant look at each other, they suddenly bolted, their tentacles carrying them away with remarkable speed. “Come back here! Cowards!” shouted Foutz.
Then more explosions rocked the area, and Foutz obviously came to the realization that remaining in the area wouldn't be a particularly bright idea. Descending to the ground wasn't going to be much better; the crowd was in total panic, trampling each other in their haste to try and get somewhere, anywhere that they would be safe from assault. Foutz began to make his tactical retreat...
... and came to the abrupt realization that it might have been wise to tie Xyon's feet as well as his hands. For Xyon, although his hands were still bound by the leather straps, was still quite mobile when he didn't have guards on either side of him. Just as Foutz started to pass him, Xyon gripped the leather straps and swung his legs up. They snared around Foutz's neck and upper shoulders, and Foutz staggered under the abrupt pressure around his throat.
Foutz tried to get a word out, but Xyon's legs had closed too solidly on his throat. He couldn't say anything. But he could hear, as Xyon brought his head close to Foutz's ear and whispered, “A universe of options. Remember? That's what you told me about. And remember how I said I'd remember those words fondly when I was breaking your neck?”
“Y-yes,” Foutz managed to gasp out.
“Well, I lied. Not about the neck breaking part. About the fondly part.”
Foutz's eyes widened, but before he could say or do anything else, Xyon twisted his hips around with a quick, sharp turn. The crack that came as a result was most satisfying. Furthermore, the jolt was so abrupt that the knife which Foutz had been holding flipped out of his hand. His right hand outstretched, Xyon managed to snag it just as it started to fall past him. He released his grip on Foutz, allowing the newly created corpse of his tormentor to slide to the floor. Manipulating the knife deftly, he sliced through the leather thong that bound his right wrist. The heated blade parted the leather with no problem, then Xyon cut through the strap on his left hand. Within a moment, he was free.
It was not a moment too soon, for one of the ships angled straight towards him and opened fire from its gunports. Xyon leaped clear of the platform just as it erupted into hurtling shards of wood. He hit the ground rolling and came up quickly, rubbing his wrists a moment and barely glancing over his shoulder at Foutz's body. Not a moment's grief or regret did he waste on the corpse of his fallen foe. Instead, his only priority was keeping his own head on his shoulders.
He saw a convenient pile of debris that h
ad once been a building, and it seemed a reasonable place for him to hide. As explosions rocked the air around him, the smell of burning wafted toward him and Xyon charged across the open space and dove behind the debris for shelter. Then he clambered up behind the pile, peering over the top to keep an eye on what was happening with the invaders.
It was at that point he spotted what he could only assume to be the flagship.
It was larger than the others, painted even more fiercely if that were possible. The smaller ships deferred to it, banking away as it touched down in an area that had previously been crowded with both people and buildings but now contained only some assorted rubble, the people having run off.
Upon seeing the respect and deference with which the other vessels treated what was obviously the ship containing the leader, Xyon came to the conclusion that he was dealing with idiots. Well-armed idiots, to be sure, but idiots nonetheless. How else to explain such stupid behavior? The last thing any reasonable individuals should want to do is point up for the benefit of an observer who their leader is. It made him or her a spectacular target. If Xyon had been armed with anything remotely formidable, he would have known which ship to take down and conceivably put a major dent in the offensive of these individuals, whoever they were.
Then again, Xyon certainly had little enough reason to harbor any sort of grudge. As vicious and unprovoked as the attack might have been, it was also spectacularly well timed. If not for these new arrivals, Xyon's tongue might be flopping around on the floor of that platform, and who knew what other essential pieces of him might have joined it by that point.
The flagship, with a firing of reverse thrusters, had settled into a tidy landing. From his safe observation point, Xyon was able to hear gears shifting as an exit port cycled open. There was a burst of haze, which indicated that the atmosphere or temperature inside the ship was different (probably cooler) than the surface of Barspens. The other, smaller ships were settled as well, and they were likewise opening up.
When the creature shambled from the flagship and looked around, Xyon had to blink his eyes several times to make sure that he had not lost his mind, that he was seeing what he was seeing properly. Xyon's first assumption was that some sort of pet had emerged from the ship and would shortly be followed by the true leader of the group. Then the creature angled its snout around, sniffed the air, its nostrils flaring slightly, and its lips drew back in a contemptuous sneer. “All right!” he called in a gravelly voice that sounded like two sides of a fault line scraping together. “Come out, you sons of tharns!”
At first Xyon thought the creature was addressing whoever might be left after the initial wave of assault. But then others similar to him started to emerge from his ship and the other ships as well, and Xyon realized the thing—no, he —had been speaking to his own troops.
The leader was definitely the largest of them. He wore gray, lightweight armor that left bare his arms and legs, presumably to allow greater maneuverability. Those arms and legs were thickly muscled and covered with coarse brown fur. His hands and feet were flat and broad, with thick pads on the palms and (Xyon presumed) the soles of his feet. His toes and fingers ended in formidable-looking claws, and when he took a few steps forward while still sniffing the air, his toenails clacked on the rocks beneath his feet. His head was set close to his broad shoulders. His ears were perked up, his snout long and vicious looking with visible fangs curling out from beneath his dark lips.
Worst were his eyes. They were solid black, it appeared, and pitiless. Dead. They seemed dead to Xyon. And Xyon had a feeling that if those eyes spotted him, he might very likely be dead as well.
Then he came to a fairly hideous realization. The sniffing nose of the creature was pointed in his direction. It was possible that it (he, dammit!) was zeroing in on him. Xyon didn't move, didn't so much as breathe. Even though he was slightly visible if someone was looking right at him, he didn't want to take the chance of moving because that alone might be enough to attract attention directly to him.
He saw the ears of the creature twitching. It wasn't just sniffing, it was listening as well. Xyon was certain by that point that his heart was pounding so loudly that the annoying organ's beating could be detected. Even the blinking of his eyes sounded thunderous to him. The only thing he had going for him at that point was that there was so much rubble floating through the air, and the scent of weapons' discharge, that it might obscure whatever scent Xyon might give off that could be detectable.
Waiting. Still waiting. The creature hadn't moved.
Then, finally and amazingly it looked away from him. “This way,” it said roughly, and they moved off. Even so, Xyon still didn't let out a sigh until they were safely out of range.
Not all of the creatures looked like their presumed leader. They were of the same general type and caste, but varied in height, fur coloration, and other aspects. Granted, Xyon still owed them a debt of timing. However, he felt under no compulsion to repay it in any way. He had the distinct feeling that if he came forward and tried to thank them, they'd just as soon rip him apart as look at him. Besides, they clearly had something on their mind, and far be it from him to interfere with their plans.
But... even so . . .
Even so . . .
The thought of not interfering was immediately bothersome to him. Who knew what they intended to do? Who they intended to hurt? Who knew?
Well, they did, certainly. They knew exactly what they intended to do. Which meant that Xyon was going to have to know, too.
The young man made no effort to spare himself an internal scolding. Damn it all, when was he going to learn to keep to his own business. Why did he go out of his way to get involved in the difficulties of others? There had to be more to it than his overdeveloped sense of confidence, stemming from his secure belief that his death would not be immediately forthcoming. He was beginning to wonder if it was overwhelming ego or perhaps just sheer stupidity. The creatures were heading north. Xyon's own ship was south. There was every reason in the world to head as far away from the creatures as possible and not a single good one to follow them.
Xyon turned towards the south, took three steps, froze, and then with an angry sigh, spun and headed north.
Krul liked watching Rier work.
Rier in addition to being the leader and the best fighter of the Dogs of War was also the best tracker. It had taken him no time at all, using his own abilities as well as information garnered from terrified citizens, to learn what he had wanted to learn.
There had been some resistance, credit the Barspens with that at least. Once the Dogs of War had come to ground, individuals had managed to pull together local militia to muster a repulsing attack. They had been spectacularly unsuccessful, of course. The Dogs were too well prepared, too vicious, too thorough in their ability to rend and tear and destroy with brutal efficiency. They had left a string of bloodied and shredded bodies behind them as they had hunted down Sumavar with the sort of speed and efficiency that marked all of their operations. They had known the general area that Sumavar was hiding out in; tracking him down to his specific location had not taken much time at all.
Krul had heard much about Sumavar before they had landed. Once upon a time, he had been one of the premiere warriors of the Thallonian Empire. Now, though, he was older—albeit no wiser. He was past his prime. Yet he had been given a responsibility and had taken it quite seriously. But the Dogs of War took their responsibilities seriously as well; at that point they considered it their bound duty to track down Sumavar and extract from him the information they desired.
Tracking him down had been easy enough. Not all of the Barspens questioned knew who Sumavar was or where he resided, but enough did. He was, after all, an outworlder, and the Barspens certainly knew enough about those types. Indeed, the fact that the Barspens were so renowned for their dislike of those other than themselves had been the key to Sumavar's being able to remain hidden for so long. Who would think to look for someone on a world o
f renowned xenophobes? Apparently, however, Sumavar had managed to grease the right palms or do the right favors for the right individuals to garner himself some sort of special dispensation. They had left him alone, he had kept to himself, and it was a perfectly reasonable arrangement all around.
The arrangement, however, had come to a halt naturally because the Dogs of War had tracked him down.
Give Sumavar credit: He had put up a fight. Apparently, he had heard the explosions and, anticipating a battle, had assembled a battery of weapons with which he had intended to defend his home. He had been quite successful too, at least for a brief time. The Dogs had suffered some light casualties during the initial assault, and Rier was not particularly happy about it. Indeed, his instinct had been to tear Sumavar limb from limb for daring to fight back against the Dogs of War. But several of the Dogs, including Krul, had managed to remind Rier of just how counterproductive such an activity would be, considering that they needed Sumavar alive in order to obtain the information they wanted.
So instead, once they had managed to beat past Sumavar's defenses, smashing into his house from all directions and overwhelming him through sheer ferocity and force of numbers, Rier had simply settled for breaking Sumavar's arms. Both of them, one after the other, snap snap, and he hadn't even asked a single question yet. The stunned Thallonian warrior had sunk into a corner, gasping and choking back tears and looking really rather unimpressive. If this was what a typical Thallonian was like when faced with pressure, thought Krul, no wonder the fools had lost their empire.
“Does that hurt?” Rier had asked.
Sumavar, his red face already turning a lighter shade of pink, nevertheless looked defiantly up at Rier and then spit at him. Rier, without hesitation, slammed down with his right foot and broke the large bone in Sumavar's left thigh. This elicited a howl of agony from Sumavar's throat, and in a fit of uniform mockery, the Dogs raised their voices in imitative baying. Sumavar would have reached over automatically to cradle his injured leg, but since his arms were not exactly functioning at that moment, naturally his abilities on that score were somewhat limited.
