by Various
And Calhoun was slowing down, looking at the defenders in wonderment.
"Mac... Mac, what is it?" Shelby asked, shaking his arm when she got no immediate response. "Mac... ?" "It... can't be... " he breathed.
"Mac... ?"
Suddenly there was a howl of fury behind them, a hundred voices shouting as one, and Shelby spun just in time to see a horde of Xenexians pouring over the ridge that they had just climbed over. They were armed to the teeth, swords in their hands, rage in their eyes, charging full-bore toward the Keep. Their armor was of the most primitive sort, brown and black leathers that would turn away only the most glancing of blows. But they were heavily muscled, with bristling beards and wild purple eyes like Mac's. There were women as well, appearing no less vicious than the men, although their hair was shorn near to baldness.
Their collective goal was clear: to assail the Keep. The defenders of the Keep responded in kind, cascading down the wall toward their attackers.
Xenexians... both sides... thought Shelby in confusion, remembering that Calhoun had once told her that - although certainly there had been disagreements, disputes, fragmentations (usually along family lines) - throughout the course of his world, there had never been any sort of civil war among his people. But what else could one possibly call this? No quarter being asked, none given, as two sides fueled by murderous rage pounded toward one another.
"Mac! We've gotta get out of here!" shouted Shelby, but even as she said it she realized there was nowhere to go. Furthermore, she doubted at that moment that Calhoun had even heard her. The two sides were converging, with Shelby and Calhoun right in the middle, and there was no escape.
Calhoun didn't even try.
Instead, with a roar as loud and primal as anything torn from the throats of the attackers, Calhoun charged the men coming in behind them. As Shelby watched, stunned, Calhoun dropped to his hands and knees at the last second, and one of the foremost attackers slammed into him, upending, feet flying high over his head. He hit the ground directly in front of Calhoun, and with a roar Calhoun was upon him.
Calhoun grabbed his head with both hands, twisted once, and snapped his neck.
My God... so easily...
For years, Shelby had always known that deep inside - perhaps not so deep at that - Calhoun was a warrior born, a savage, cloaked in the appearance of a civilized man. She had convinced herself that, over the years, Calhoun had become more comfortable with that civility.
She now realized, though, that it had been the thinnest of veneers, for he had tossed it aside in a heartbeat. Moreover, when he had done so, she was sure that it had been with a sense of relief on his part. My God... he reverted so, so easily...
Calhoun was not taking the time to dwell upon matters of civilized and uncivilized behavior. "Behind me!" he screamed at Shelby, and this time there was no hesitation as she darted behind. He had already grabbed up the sword of his fallen opponent, and howling a battle cry in a voice barely recognizable as his, Calhoun fought back. There was no artistry to his tactics, no style, no elegant form as one would see in fencing. This was nothing short of mere butchery as Calhoun hacked and slashed like a bladed windmill.
Everything seemed to be moving around her in a hazy, dreamlike manner. In moments Calhoun was covered in blood, as was she. Their clothes were soaked through with it, and she thought at first that it belonged solely to other people, but then she saw cuts and slashes piling up on Calhoun. There were too many swords, too many men, and however many he managed to hack away from him, more came. She wanted to scream Enough! Enough! But none would have heard her, or cared.
At the last second, she saw that someone had worked his way behind Calhoun, and was coming at them. She lashed out with a side kick, and felt the satisfying crunch of bone and ligaments as the kick connected perfectly with his knee. He went down, writhing, clutching at his leg, and Shelby tried to pick up his sword, but it might as well have weighed half a ton. She couldn't budge it. Instead she settled for snatching a dagger off his belt, wielding it as best she could, slashing away as others came near. But they were laughing at her derisively, sneering at the dagger, almost daring her to come at them.
Then she heard a scream, and the tip of a blade brushed against her back, causing her to jump away. That was when she realized, with a deep horror, that the blade had actually come right through Calhoun's body, driven through from the other side.
She whirled just as Calhoun fell against her, coughing up blood.
"Eppy," he managed to croak out as she sank to her knees, cradling him.
She saw the massive redness spreading across his chest, and she knew that he was dying even as she said, "It's all right... you'll be okay... you're going to be fine... " He looked up at her and it was hard to tell whether he was annoyed at her pathetic attempts to lie, or amused because she was so wretchedly bad at it.
Then she felt a pinch at her back, a pain, and suddenly it felt worse, and that was when she saw a blade protruding from between her breasts.
Just missed the heart... that was lucky, she thought, amazingly lucid even as her upper body jerked when the blade was yanked clear. She felt her lungs start to fill with fluid, felt the world blurring around her, and - although she was sure she was imagining it - heard the sounds of battle receding. For some reason she thought about when she was seven and rode a pony for the first time. Then she'd had ice cream until she'd gotten sick. That was a good day. A lot better than this one.
She wasn't imagining it. The fighting had stopped. Instead everyone seemed to be grouped around, staring at the two of them with interest, as if surprised to see them. Calhoun was returning the stare, and his mouth moved for some moments before he finally managed to get out the strangest words: "You're all dead... "
At first she thought he meant it literally. That, even in his dying moments, Calhoun was threatening them with a fearful vengeance that he would take upon them. Then he coughed, and said again, "You're all dead... how can you be here... when you're all dead... ?" and that was certainly enough to confuse the hell out of her.
Then the crowd of warriors seemed to separate, making way for someone. He was a burly man, with a strong chin evident even though he had a beard, and wild black hair tinged with gray. Aside from some glistening metal armbands, he was naked from the waist up, his torso rippling with power, but scars, also. Deep, livid, angry scars that looked as if they'd just been made yesterday, but not by swords, no.
They were too blunt, too rounded. Whip marks, perhaps, or some kind of rod...
Her chest was on fire, and she realized with a distant sort of interest that the pain had been increasing for some time. They were all staring down at her impassively now, and as her lifeblood mingled with that of Calhoun, she managed to say, "You... you murdering bastards...
why... why... ?"
The burly man, the one she took to be their leader, chuckled at her pain, which angered her all the more. He sounded condescending until he spoke, at which point he sounded... familiar.
“He knows why," he growled, pointing a sword at Calhoun. "Don't you, son?"
Calhoun, his face horribly sallow and pasty, managed a nod.
But Shelby didn't understand at all. All she knew at that moment was that her one wish was not to die in ignorance.
"Welcome," said Calhoun's father, "to Kaz'hera."
Shelby didn't get her wish.
The last thing she saw, just before she died, was the sun setting. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, and she hoped that Calhoun, at least, had had a chance to see it as well.
Calhoun awoke to sunlight on his face. It wasn't direct sunlight; rather, it was filtered through the cloth of a tent. Calhoun wondered where in the world a tent had come from, and then he remembered that there had been tents lining the bottom of the Keep. The ground was bumpy beneath him, although he was lying on some rough-hewn blankets which provided at least some measure of cushion. Nearby outside, he heard swords clanging, and for a moment he thought tha
t there was another battle in the offing. But then he realized that it was just two people, and there was a distinct absence of shouting or panicked running about. So it was probably some sort of training session or private lesson.
The tent flaps were pushed aside, allowing more sunlight to flood in, and Calhoun blinked against it. His father's frame filled the door.
"It's a fine, Xenexian sun. Never used to bother you. Have you gone soft?" he asked, his voice slightly challenging.
Calhoun didn't respond at first. Instead he stood slowly, unsteady on his legs, but determined not to fall over. Even though the evidence of his own eyes was right before him, he still couldn't help but ask, in a tone of utter disbelief, "Father... ?"
Gr'zy of Calhoun, father of M'k'n'zy of Calhoun, sized up his son and did not seem to be especially approving of what he saw. "Look at you," he said in annoyance, stepping forward and gripping Calhoun by the chin, turning his face from side to side. "You call this a beard?" "I... I haven't been growing it for that long, sir," Calhoun managed to say.
"Well... it will have to do, I suppose. And your muscles!" As if sizing up an unworthy slab of meat, Gr'zy squeezed Calhoun's biceps and shook his head. "Nothing to them! By this age, they should be hard as rock by now! Too busy surrounding yourself with weapons and security men to stay as fit as you should be! Well? What do you have to say for yourself!" he fairly thundered.
"I... I'm sorry, sir," said Calhoun.
"Sorry! You're sorry! Well... " and then Gr'zy's face broke in a wide smile. "It will have to do, then! Hah!" And he smacked Calhoun on the back so hard that Calhoun was almost positive Gr'zy had broken his back.
Calhoun had always wondered, in the back of his mind, whether in the intervening years since his father had died - beaten to death by Danteri soldiers - Calhoun had somehow built his father up in his recollections. He remembered Gr'zy as being big, powerful, indomitable.
It was a pleasure to see that his recollections had not been misleading. That Gr'zy was everything Calhoun recalled him to be.
"You lasted long enough to see a sunset!" Gr'zy told him approvingly, taking a step back. His voice was so boisterous as to be deafening, and his breath smelled like burnt animal flesh, since Gr'zy usually preferred his meat thoroughly charred. "That's good! That's good!
And that, as you know, entitles you to an eternity of sunrises!" "Father, I... " Suddenly overwhelmed by emotion, Calhoun took a step toward Gr'zy, his arms wide. But immediately his father retreated, his face darkening. "Father, what... ?" "Are you insane?" his father demanded.
"What? I don't... " "Look at you," and this time there was no jest or gentle jibe in his father's voice. "About to embrace me? Me? Has this Federation of yours made you softer than I thought?"
For a moment, Calhoun felt anger bubbling within him, but he suppressed it. "No, sir," he said firmly.
The clanging of swords outside was getting faster and faster. Gr'zy ignored it. "Good. Because this is Kaz'hera, my son. Such... delicate emotions are inappropriate here. Softness of body and spirit are not rewarded, as you well know. For that matter," and he took a step toward Calhoun, his voice low and confidential, "I am concerned about the female you came with." "Shelby?" "If that is her name, aye. The simple fact is that she may not fit in here, M'k'n'zy. She may not fit in here at all." "I... I don't understand. She's a warrior at heart, Father... you just have to see that - "
Suddenly from outside, Calhoun heard metal slide against metal, and an abrupt female shriek which Calhoun recognized instantly.
"Eppy!" he shouted, and immediately pushed past his father.
The blinding brilliance of the sun didn't bother him. Instead he skidded to a halt and focused, to his horror, on the body of Elizabeth Shelby. She was lying flat, her arms and legs flopping about like a stringless puppet, her head to the side with a face of permanent surprise etched into it. There was a sword lying near her, having just slipped out of her lifeless hand. Standing over her was a burly master at arms, gripping a sword still dripping with blood. He was looking down at Shelby with mild frustration and, even as her blood pooled around her, turned to Calhoun and said - with amused annoyance in his voice - "Slow learner, but she'll get the hang of it."
Calhoun did not hesitate. He strode quickly across the ground to Shelby. He gave her no outward sign of affection, did not kneel over her, shut her sightless eyes, cry out, beat his chest, rend his garment, or in any other way, mourn her. Instead he simply picked up her fallen sword, turned it around, and ran himself through with it.
"You lasted long enough to see a sunset!" Gr'zy told him approvingly, taking a step back. His voice was so boisterous as to be deafening, and his breath smelled like burnt animal flesh, since Gr'zy usually preferred his meat thoroughly charred. "That's good! That's good!
And that, as you know, entitles you to an eternity of sunrises!" "Father, I... " Suddenly overwhelmed by emotion, Calhoun took a step toward Gr'zy, his arms wide. But immediately his father retreated, his face darkening. "Father, what... ?" "Are you insane?" his father demanded.
"What? I don't... " "Look at you," and this time there was no jest or gentle jibe in his father's voice. "About to embrace me? Me? Has this Federation of yours made you softer than I thought?"
For a moment, Calhoun felt anger bubbling within him, but he suppressed it. "No, sir," he said firmly.
The clanging of swords outside was getting faster and faster. Gr'zy ignored it. For some reason, though, it caught Calhoun's attention. He wasn't sure why, but he was quite positive that it was... important somehow. "Good," said Gr'zy. "Because this is Kaz'hera, my son.
Such... delicate emotions are inappropriate here. Softness of body and spirit are not rewarded, as you well know. For that matter," and he took a step toward Calhoun, his voice low and confidential, "I am concerned about the female you came with." "Shelby?" He hadn't been thinking about Shelby for the past moments, but now that her name was mentioned, it hit him with such force that he wondered why she wasn't uppermost in his mind.
"If that is her name, aye. The simple fact is that she may not fit in here, M'k'n'zy. She may not fit in here at all." "I... I don't understand. She - "
All at once Calhoun stopped talking. And he wasn't sure why, but he suddenly knew, beyond any question, as sure as he had ever known anything, that Shelby was in mortal danger. With a cry of warning - although he didn't know what he was warning against - Calhoun charged toward the tent flap just as a high-pitched scream came from outside the tent.
Calhoun dashed outside... and skidded to a halt.
Shelby was standing there with a bloody sword clenched in her hands and a look of pure fury on her face. She was breathing hard, and was covered with sweat. Facing her was the master-at-arms, minus one of those arms. It was lying on the ground next to him, the hand still clutching its sword, and blood was pouring from the ruined arm.
"Then again," said Calhoun's father appraisingly, "perhaps she'll fit right in."
Shelby's wolfish grin of pleasure lasted for as long as it took to fully register upon her what had just happened. Then, slowly, her eyes widened as she focused upon the master-at-arms. He had dropped to his knees and was rather comically, and absurdly, trying to reattach his fallen arm by shoving it against the shoulder from which it had been severed. He was having about as much success with the endeavor as one would expect. The only thing he was managing to accomplish was to amuse the other Xenexians who were pointing and laughing at his hapless antics. Shelby gasped, unsure of what to say or do, at which point Calhoun walked to her quickly and pulled her away. The laughter of the Xenexians followed them as Calhoun distanced himself from them. Within moments they had left the encampment behind.
Shelby's face was turning the color of paste, and her eyes were wide with confusion and horror. "Mac... Mac, what's happening, what's... " "We're in Kaz'hera," he told her matter-of-factly.
"Of course!" she said as if that explained everything. "We're in Kaz'hera! I mean, up until now, I was confused becaus
e I was operating under the mistaken belief that we were in Tuscaloosa, but it turns out we're in Kaz'hera - !" "Eppy... "
She whirled and gripped him by the shoulders with such force that he was sure he was going to have a permanent imprint of her fingernails in his flesh. "Where the hell is Kaz'hera!" "Eppy... " he started again.
"Why did I wake up in some tent, only to have some bruiser drag me out into the morning air and start giving me sword lessons?! And why, when I chopped his arm off like it was a piece of goddamn mutton, was I happy about it?!?" She was trembling with agitation.
"Where... what is... how... " "Are you going to let me tell you?" "No!" she said, trembling, and then she put her hands to her face, breathing in deeply to steady herself. "Okay... go... tell. Now.
Hurry. Before I crack up." "All right." He let out a slow breath, tried to figure out the best way to explain what was essentially inexplicable. "Does the name _Valhalla' mean anything to you?" "Uhm... " She ran her fingers through her hair. "It's, uh... a starship.
