Heretic's Faith

by Randall N Bills

  Centuries ago, Minoru Kurita abandoned his noble name and heritage when he was adopted by Clan Nova Cat, who utilized Minoru's psychic abilities to create a powerful new breed of warrior: the Mystic Caste, a secretive spiritual branch of the Clan led by their exalted Oathmaster...

  From the moment Kisho left the Iron Womb, he has been trained in the Mystic Caste with one goal in mind: to forge his entire being into a tool—not simply as a weapon to fight the Clan's enemies, but as an instrument of strength to bring glory to Clan Nova Cat through his visions. Now he has been chosen by the Oathmaster himself to be his protege and possible successor. But Kisho's great pride masks a great deception: He does not believe any of it. He has walked the path all his life, yet he has no faith in the gifts the Mystic Caste supposedly possesses—and he is running out of time.

  For Kisho is about to be sent into battle with his warrior brethren to fight alongside the forces of the controversial Warlord Katana Tormark—and the faith he has so long denied may be the only thing that can save them...

  HERETICS FAITH

  An entire phalanx of Nova Cat warriors filled the Hall of the Nova Cat's Clan Council Chamber. Not only Khan Jacali Nostra and saKhan Niko West, along with Oathmaster Kanaye, but also a bevy of Bloodnamed warriors, from the two on-world Galaxy commanders down through a dozen Star colonels and even a Star captain or two. The leathers of their ceremonial outfits created a wash of blackness—liquid void sloshing against the bottom steps of the tiered council chamber, swallowing almost the entire bottom circle and the Khan's dais.

  Against this mighty display of Nova Cat power, a single, diminutive female entered the chamber.

  Against the black army below, Katana's outfit stood out in bright, vibrant colors, as though disdainful at such lack of originality. Black, loose pants tucked into red, knee-high boots, overlaid with a pristine white jacket, trimmed in orange down the front and on arms and cuffs, with a red belt woven into the jacket, a dragon etched into the belt buckle. The red piping on the pants and a slash of red on the shoulders denoted her status as a MechWarrior. Even at this distance, her high collar could be seen displaying the logo any warrior here recognized as belonging to a tai-shu.

  With great will, Kisho finally pulled eyes away from her serene face and searched in vain above her, waiting for the rest of her troops to arrive. She took almost a half minute to sedately move down the entire length of steps in between the various tiered, circular benches, before coming to rest on the last step, as though afraid to step down to the bottom floor and its ocean of darkness.

  HERETIC'S FAITH

  A BATTLETECH NOVEL

  Randall N. Bills

  roc

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd.. 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell. Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and RosedaJe Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 21%, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Roc. an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August 2005

  10 987654321

  Copyright © 2005 WizKids, Inc. All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK.—MARC A REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  To all my nieces and nephews, who bring such joy to all our lives: Amy, BreeAnn, Brian, Brooklynn, Cody, Devon, Dylan, Emily, Eric, Hannah, Hunter, Jeramy, Jessica, Jordan, Kelsey, Kristy, Kylie, Meghan, Seanne, and Shannie. Never be afraid to seize your dreams, but remember to include the Savior in them.

  Acknowledgments

  To my first readers for always catching those extra bits: Herb Beas, David McCulloch, Mike Miller, Jeff Morgan, and Oystein Tvedten.

  To Loren (and of course Heather) for always lending a helping hand, whether for writing this novel, writing the next one, or the one after that.

  To Sharon Turner Mulvihill, for almost ten years of friendship, a helping hand to improve my storytelling abilities and for helping draw out the true story in this novel.

  To my magnificent children Bryn Kevin, Ryana Nikol and Kenyon Aleksandr: when I fail to live up to the example of my father, thank you for your hugs of forgiveness; I love you.

  To my wife . . . my supporter . . . my best friend: it all would be blackness without you.

  Prologue

  Zane Plateau, Tengoku Mountain

  Nova Cat Reservation, Irece

  Irece Prefecture, Draconis Combine

  5 November 3135

  The ancient volcanic mountain pressed against his consciousness, until Kisho dug his nails into windwhipped palms to stay present. His raspy, torn flesh hardly resembled human skin.

  The mountain was a living entity with roots sunk to the white-hot magma flows of rock-blood at the center of Irece and a white-cold, snow-hooded cap that pierced the atmosphere itself, towering in its inhuman arrogance to 9.7 kilometers above sea level. The small, snapping flames of the fire just out of reach seemed beyond insignificant—a penlight to the endless darkness of interstellar void.

  A susurration wafted flames like a gentle fan, snapping sparks into the air—a small, burnt sienna kaleidoscope spinning and singing away on the wind—and prickling flesh along the exposed arms and legs of his ceremonial leathers, while gently ruffling his hair.

  Flames grant sight

  To eyes wide shut

  Visions unfold

  Purified in soul

  Need to cut my hair. If he concentrated hard enough on such mundane minutiae, he could ignore Kanaye’s almost inaudible recitations of ancient script. Could ignore the gentle wind that felt like the sleeping breath of the gargantuan mountain, waiting to be awakened, startled up from slumber to a frenzy of hate and heat an
d destruction as it spewed forth violence to sweep away all before its path.

  He shivered, though not with cold. The purifying bath an hour past in the icy springwater hadn’t even raised goose bumps. Yet he almost leaned forward with palms outstretched to the fire, but caught himself before violating the ceremony.

  What is the matter? Too close for comfort? Too close to what they try so hard to awaken within you?

  His stomach rumbled. Kisho closed his eyes—locking interior blast doors, sealing off such thoughts down deep—shamed at having been distracted so easily by the hunger pangs of fast snapping at his stomach like razor-caws to fresh kill. He breathed deeply—the burning scrub tree branches of the rite (found, never cut) filled with hints of dark cinnamon and freshness eons in the making—and tried to set aside all consciousness. Tried to merge into the moment, to be one with the mountain that could not possibly feel his presence, much less care about the puny humans perched so precariously on its hardened, patchy skin.

  He’ll be done soon. This idea usually snapped him into a light trance, but this time it failed. Regardless of the reprimanding look from Kanaye (he always knew!), Kisho floundered like a fish out of water, flopping wetly from one side to another, frantic to find the cool reassurance of the watery depths of trance, but knowing Death would strike with his steely scythe before he might plunge back to safety.

  Or in my case, the scythe of Kanaye’s disappointment.

  Kisho just managed to keep the sigh of his own discontent within. They’ll be starting the feasting soon. Tables would be laden with fresh fruits grown in the agro-domes (denying Irece its rightful due of winter’s barren lands); meats from cattle, lambs, pigs, and even horse; an abundant flow of liquor (even warriors will douse themselves into oblivion this night); sweetmeats, rolls, sugar cakes and more. The air would be filled with smiles and good cheers to celebrate the Exodus of the Great General centuries ago.

  What, three hundred and fifty years ago? He quickly ran the math and corrected. No, three hundred and fifty-one. Three and a half centuries ago and now we are back, different and yet the same. And we Clans celebrate this great event as though we journeyed the depths of space to the Clan homeworlds, leaving a dying Star League to destroy itself; as though we colonized those hellish, barren rocks; as though we survived the horrific wars that killed millions and lived through the reforging of the very bedrock of human society from the ground up into a new warrior society: one that returned to the Inner Sphere to conquer . . . and failed. And now we Nova Cats live on our reservations in the Draconis Combine, beholden to oaths of fealty sworn to House Kurita, having defected from the Clans once we saw the writing on the wall. Having followed the visions that caused our brother Clans to fall on us and kill us by the millions. Until now I sit on this mountain, cold and hungry from fasting, wondering when Kanaye will awaken and proclaim his visions that will lead us down some new path. Some new path that must lead us to a better tomorrow. Because, by the Founder, the Clans have been corrupted. And if we do not—

  “Kisho.”

  His eyes snapped open, meandering thoughts sundered like a laser punching through ’Mech armor. He immediately averted his eyes, bowing deeply in his sitting position. He held it for several moments in an attempt to recover, then raised his eyes to Kanaye’s.

  Knowing eyes burst like halogens across him, stripping away all pretense. Shame and anger mixed liberally. But Kisho kept his aplomb, as he had trained himself for long years to do, in spite of Kanaye’s best attempts to slip past his defenses.

  “Oathmaster.” The word hung on the precipice between them, shredded in the wind. Their eyes locked in a probing stare.

  The wind began to gain strength, as though the battle of wills had begun to disturb the sleeping mountain. The fire giant adjusted in his repose, dreams troubled. Liquid shadows ran across Kanaye’s features, conveying an otherworldly feel. Kisho could not shake the feeling that Kanaye was an incarnation of the spirit of the nova cat, a corporeal manifestation from some spirit world. A world to which Kisho would never have access.

  Right. He shook himself out of it. Spirit world!

  Kisho’s lips quirked ever so slightly, though he hoped he managed to keep most of his reaction covered. Yet something sparked within Kanaye’s age-old eyes and he nodded imperceptibly.

  What did you see, old man? He knew better than to ask—the mountain would cough up a straight answer before Kanaye would.

  “What do you see?” Kanaye uncannily echoed.

  My stupidity. He breathed in the scent of burning wood and that hint of dark cinnamon once more, playing for time. He finally responded, without raising his eyes. “I see young bloods from a dozen tribes, their anxious eyes failing to shield burning desires.” He fell easily into the game, executing his flimsy reflection of the old man’s true abilities.

  “Ah . . . the trip to humanity’s cradle. And what did you learn?”

  “Learn?” Nothing. “I do not know. But I know the universe is falling back to war. War has already started and will only escalate. That regardless of the long decades of Stone’s peace, with the continued loss of rapid interstellar communication and without Stone himself, his cult of personality is fragmenting quicker than the homeworld Clans during the Wars of Reaving.”

  A log shifted, snapping loudly and disgorging a shower of sparks that momentarily lit the immediate region, before whipping away on the now steadily blowing wind. As the Clans were stripped down and torn away so brutally during that time.

  “All from the Founder till now, slowly ground down and ripped away.”

  “All?” Kanaye rejoined, his soft voice smothering the anger of Kisho’s words.

  Kisho raised arrogant eyes to impassive ones. “Aff.”

  “Neg.”

  “What?”

  “Why did the Founder create us?”

  I am not a five-year-old crèchekin, old man! Arrogant eyes locked with cool ones and the silence stretched, while the wind played fits with the small fire. Finally, as the silence became unbearable, Kisho answered, the weaker one as always. “To return and establish the Star League. To save the thousands of Inner Sphere worlds from themselves and the Great Houses that rule them. Quiaff?”

  “Aff.” Silence once more descended.

  Kisho knew how to play this game, had fine-tuned his participation over the years, acting the role of something he didn’t feel. The well-played game used to give him a feeling of self-satisfied conquest. But lately, the hollow ring of his participation had begun to make him weary. And with his weariness came anger and impatience.

  Wishing to bring this round to a conclusion, he broke the silence for a second time. “But we failed. There is no Star League and the Clans are half their original numbers. And those of us here . . . are half what we were.”

  “Aff.” Kanaye’s lips barely moved and the now dying flames of the fire cast his features further into darkness.

  I can never read you in the fullness of noon, much less now, old man. Frustration gnawed, warring with hunger pains. “Then how is all not lost?”

  “Because there is always tomorrow.”

  Kisho opened his lips for a hot retort, then swallowed, knowing only more riddles would ensue. He forced himself to take several deep breaths of the crisp air. Then he centered, despite the situation. He thought through several permutations of what the old man might be saying.

  Kisho finally responded, under control once again, his voice a match for the best prophetic tone Kanaye could offer. “The Star League can be founded tomorrow and we have achieved our goal.”

  The flames flickered down to coals, lambent crimson casting no real visibility, heightening the mystical feel to the entire encounter.

  “I have a vision,” Kanaye finally responded.

  Of course you do. The harshest of inner silence met Kisho’s sarcasm. He struggled to keep his body from telegraphing his sense of defeat.

  “The Dragon has taken flight.”

  Kisho jolted imperceptibly. T
hat is your vision?! Of course the Dragon’s taken flight! His memories of the long trip to Terra came rushing back. He saw the funeral of Victor Steiner-Davion and the plethora of old and young bloods, all scheming to use the event to their own best advantage, and the assault of the Benjamin Warlord on The Republic—an assault the coordinator disavowed. Surely he isn’t referring to the warlord. Then what?

  His facial features slackened momentarily, as he drew lightly upon his years of training—modeling and scenarios running through his mind, the shape of his perceptions forming and reforming in cycling permutations. In a flash, he realized there could only be one person fitting that description. He came back to the present, his face resuming its usual arrogant cast.

  “Katana Tormark.”

  “Aff.”

  Kisho leaned forward as though to capture the meager heat of the dying coals and ran it through slowly. “You refer to the information passed to our Watch by the Order of the Five Pillars, quiaff?”

  “Aff.”

  “How can you mean Katana when she has had her wings cut?”

  “She has?”

  “Scooped from battlefields in The Republic by the heir to the Dragon and even now in route to Black Luthien? Considering she just killed a warlord and took worlds in the Dragon’s name without his sanction . . . House Kurita has never been known for its kindness. A dank cell, or a parting of her head, quiaff?”

  “Neg.” The single word fell softly, but behind it Kanaye’s eyes thrust straight through Kisho.

  A challenge, old man? Kisho’s more frequently surfacing anger overcame the shame at his growing disrespect. This time he drew fully on all the years of his training—going deeper while still keeping the lid firmly shut on the pervading fears he kept at bay—and his face fell into the blank expression of deep mystic trance. He took the tidbits of information and began to plug them in and rearrange, mind spiraling through dark space and across the reach of infinity until a pattern slowly emerged. One so delicate and gossamerlike, it might rend if touched. Instead, he fed it additional bits of information, allowing them to fall where they might on the framework, until the shape solidified, the outlines becoming clear and sharp. He slowly withdrew, his face sloughing the deep trance and returning to humanity’s facade.