by K. M. Tolan
“Ahead!"
Startled, she saw Feren raise his rifle just as several Minnerans entered the gully ahead of them. Pushing her aside, Feren shot first, hurling two Minnerans to the ground with darts to the heart. The third leapt into the brush and disappeared.
“Watch our backs,” he growled. “Minnerans are retreating all around us."
The two dead soldiers rose up on elbows and returned fire. Mikial could see projectiles tearing through Feren's body even as she became aware of her own pain. Collapsing on numb legs, she saw her protector fall back in a spray of blood while firing. Mikial dropped her cannon and drew her pistols to take aim at the prone forms. They were not firing. Each of their faces was transformed into a red smear.
“Body armor,” Feren croaked beside her, his eyes staring upwards.
“Hold on!” Dropping her pistols, she pulled open the medicine pouch on his belt.
“Aim ... head.” Blood erupted from the Qurl's grimacing lips as his fingers reached out to entwine hers in a fierce clasp.
Shaking her head in disbelief, Mikial heard his final breath leave him.
Brief explosions still sounded behind her as she forced pain aside and probed the foliage around the gully for more Minnerans.
Her hunting eyes found nothing, yet. Lips curled back, she rolled on one side to inspect the burning source of her own wounds. A mix of blood and dirt caked her hip. She could see a gouge in the metal pads of her kilt pointing to an oozing hole. Another injury stained her armored jacket just above the pistol belt.
Rifle fire erupted to her right in increasing volleys. First aid would have to wait. Teeth clenched, she retrieved her pistols and crawled up the rise for better position. She was not worth Feren's death. Neither were the Minnerans that shortly would pay for it.
Five khaki-clad fighters burst into view, running across sunlit patches of ground in panic. One fell without a cry. The remaining Minnerans spun around, knelt, and shot back at their pursuing antagonist. Mikial felt the tug on her body's dwindling reserves as she discharged through the pistol grips. Metal darts sped toward her targets. The first two Minnerans convulsed and fell as the projectiles slammed into the exposed backs of their necks. She took the third as he turned. The remaining soldier desperately flopped on his belly, only to end up sliding helplessly down the gully wall. Her dart was through the soldier's forehead before he reached the bottom. More Minnerans charged out from among the trees. Far too many.
Mikial slid back into the gully, leaving a bloody trail behind her. Feren stared in lifeless accusation as she rolled next to him. He had given his life for her; couldn't she do the same for her Line? Mikial lay still as death while Minnerans leapt and stumbled across the gully, a few even jumping over her body. The only thing she could do now was survive, though conditioning screamed for her to leap up and attack instead. The Minnerans’ retreat soon passed her by. Mikial's hunting eyes picked up one straggler, the panicked soldier falling headfirst into the depression. He lay there unmoving. She sent a dart through his face anyway.
She could feel blood welling up just above her waist. Mikial pulled out her medicine pack and poured the yellow powder into the wound, quickly numbing the pain there. She sensed the welcome ripple of her approaching Line.
A Datha slid down the dirt slope beside her. Growling, the soldier bent down and did a quick assessment of her injuries. He tied a yellow marker around an overhead branch before resuming pursuit. Other arms soon supported her as an Immediate Team pulled her out upon a bed of leaves. A Shandi female in full armor bent over her, placing her palms near Mikial's temples. Mikial felt a relaxing wash of energy and knew nothing more.
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* * *
Two
She danced. Mikial felt her soul whirl and spin like a rising leaf as her body moved. Her dance pattern glowed with life, an intricate latticework set like jewels within her mind. Following those lines brought a joyful release. There was music from somewhere; strange, exciting, filling her in ways she never knew. Again and again she tried to capture those feelings, to express bodily the wonderful sensations for all to see and share. Again and again, she failed. No matter what dance style or form she chose, her movements somehow were distorted. The First Dancer was frowning at her, and she heard mutterings of discontent from the balconies. Eyes burning with tears, Mikial tried one last time, and succeeded. The audience gasped with pleasure. Mikial felt as if she could soar into the air. But instead of rising, she slipped, nearly falling. Angrily, she looked down. The floor was slick with blood.
Mikial woke with a snarl, claws extended to slash ... at what?
A cluster of lights dimmed above her. The bulbs hung like buds from the open petals of a domed ceiling painted to look like a blue night flower. A blue-and-gray quilt was tucked around her on the elevated swivel bed. She had seen her mother's workplace many times, but never as a patient. Mikial groaned, Feren's lifeless eyes staring at her from the mud of fresh memories.
“Easy, Dathia,” a female voice spoke. An elder Shandi in a yellow operating gown bent over her, the surgeon's brunette hair bound back in a hurried-looking knot of white cloth. “Your mother will be happy to see you back in one piece again."
Mikial licked dried lips. “Where is she?"
“Counselor Yeneen is operating on one of your comrades. She already is credited with saving two before him. The Holding will be quite proud of you both. If you're wondering why you can't move much, it's because we've immobilized you.” The Shandi brushed long fingers over the extended claws on Mikial's unresponsive right hand. “It was more for our protection while we worked on you, Dathia. I will unblock just your arms now but we don't want you moving about yet."
Mikial felt her upper limbs tingle with returned use. She winced as she tried raising her left arm.
“We've pulled some odd rifle balls from your side and hip and mended the damage there. You are regenerating nicely, Mikial, but it will be some time before you can return to your dancing."
“I can wait,” she muttered, the dream's bite still bitter in her mind. Remembering her manners, she gave the Healer an appreciative smile. “I'm grateful for your help."
Thanks to your bravery, our work was less than it might have been,” the Shandi replied with an approving nod. “It seems that your skills extend beyond the dance floor."
“I'm not so sure."
“You have to mend, Dathia.” The Shandi's hands paused gently on her forehead before sliding to her temples. “Sleep. The next time you wake, it will be in the comfort of your own bed."
* * * *
True to the Healer's word, Mikial's eyes opened to see familiar ironwood bedposts, their dark surfaces scored by scratch marks from her claws when she was younger. She glanced out the window to her left. Dawn was not even a hint outside, the Curtain coloring the night sky in its purple hues. Heating vents blew softly across a floor of deep orange boards fashioned from the sturdy wood of sheld trees growing throughout the Holding hills. Mikial smiled to herself. It was not a big room, but she found the cozy confines a welcome refuge against the impositions life provided.
Wincing, she reached over to the nutwood stand between the window and bed and switched on the battery of her cone lamp. She drew back her blankets in the soft yellow light to see what had been done to her. Her left side was one large ache, punctuated by a deep soreness in her hip. Angry lines marked where the Shandi had sealed the wounds by fusing her skin back together. The marks would disappear as she regenerated.
Mikial scowled at the powerful muscles sculpting her calves and thighs. Some things would stay, unfortunately. Even her modest breasts were couched in bands of muscle that also endowed her with broad shoulders and bulky arms. The descriptions “slender” or “petite” never applied to the few rare Dathia in the otherwise male Datha sect. She couldn't help but envy those more fortunate females in the other three sects. Especially her best friend Paleen Chimmer with the body of a reed, no claws, and fewer worries about s
taring down at the opposite sex. Paleen was Ipper Qurl, a sect valued for its work in both communication and general entertainment. Paleen was always good company, if not overly energetic even for an Ipper. Unfortunately, she was returning from the western Holding of Kinset where her mother's family lived. The largest Qurl Holding, the small continent of Kinset sat well off the coast of Kioranna. It would be several more days before Paleen's airship arrived home.
Mikial gave a bleak look at her reflection in the copper-lined mirror standing next to the right side of her bed. Her auburn battle braids had been undone, softening a predatory face. Her greater height and build, along with her claws, marked her as Dathia; no sect was as physically apart from the rest as was hers, and this morning she felt every bit of that distance.
Mikial looked across the foot of her bed, her nostrils catching meaty flavors issuing from beyond her door. No doubt they were the reason she had woken up. Her stomach rumbled its consensus, the scent becoming clear. Torses! The pastry-wrapped meat was her favorite meal. Mikial eagerly scooted forward to sit up, but sucked in a breath as her hip stabbed with pain. Sighing, she pulled up the blankets and settled back to wait.
After a moment the bedroom door swung open, and her mother, Yeneen, entered bearing a white porcelain tray heaped with torses. Her curly brown hair was tied back in a manner reserved for a day's work at home. She wore her yellow morning robe as she might a surgeon's gown. Her gray eyes centered on Mikial with a determined smile below lightly tanned cheeks. “Welcome home, daughter. How are you feeling?"
“Sore,” Mikial grumbled, eyeing the tray her mother sat on the dresser adjacent to her mirror. “And hungry.” Her humor improved as she regarded the sizzling strips of tender meat wrapped in delicate curls of pastry. “You know I love those things."
“There're plenty of them,” Yeneen said, the smaller female pulling extra pillows from the dresser beside Mikial's closet. “Here, let me help you sit up.” She carefully braced Mikial's back to bring her to an upright position, then propped the pillows behind her. “I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you safely home. Your father boasts about you to everyone within earshot. That battle has the entire Holding talking."
“We did win, didn't we?” It was a question Mikial had never thought any Datha would have to ask after fighting mere Servants.
“Well, you sent them running for home, so I suppose we did."
Mikial shook her head. “They weren't supposed to get back home."
She gave her mother a bewildered look. “They had better weapons than ours."
“Nonsense. Now eat your fill and stop looking so worried.” Yeneen picked up the tray and set it across her lap. “There's milk to wash these torses down with, and plenty of fruit in the cooler if you want me to get you some. You'll be in bed for a few days, so enjoy it. You've certainly earned it."
Mikial knew better, but did not want to share that particular burden with her mother. Soon enough she would be giving Parva Conn her report of how she lay there next to Feren's body while the enemy ran by unscathed.
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* * *
Three
Mikial wrapped the brown fursnake coat tight against the predawn reminder that it was still early spring. She shifted to a more comfortable position on the cushion, grateful for the insulating softness between her body and the cold stonework capping the central dome of her Holding Keep. Her movement brought a sharp reminder from her hip of how this honor had befallen her. Six days had passed since the battle at Bramble Ravine. Mikial let out a frosty breath, wishing she could expel those memories as easily. Feren Cloa paid his price without hesitation. Why hadn't she?
Her amber eyes regarded the silvery curves of the dome. They mirrored the ghostly pink hues of the fading Curtain. How many mornings had she heard First Greetings drifting across the hills? Oh to be that person! To sit high atop this pinnacle and sing the Holding awake, greeting Creation as the voice of her people. Now, because of what she and Feren had done to win the battle, here she was. It was like unwrapping a gift you always wanted, only to find it lying in pieces.
Mikial looked down over the city lights. Her bedside debriefing yesterday with Parva Conn echoed in her mind. The battle had ended dismally. With eight dead and twenty-nine wounded, herself included, Parva had had little choice but to let the Minneran survivors escape. Now all eight Holdings across Dessa were in a panic over the exotic weapons the Minnerans had developed. Her father mobilized the Qurl Hills. Four High Strikes, comprising nine hundred-sixty Datha, were deployed eastward around the battle site. Parva's battered Strike was placed in reserve as part of Commander Keel's Eighth Force.
Parva told her that the Cothra sect was working hard to counter those armored vests the Minnerans had worn to defeat the Qurl rifles. How could fabric stop a dart? The Cothra also were at a loss to explain the alloys they had found in the captured weapons. The new Minneran rifles could fire up to twenty times in quick succession from a spring-loaded ammunition compartment similar to the dart cartridges used by both Qurl rifles and pistols. Even the rifle ball removed from her hip, if it could be called that, was like nothing anyone had ever seen. It looked like a fat, finless dart instead of the normal ball-shape projectile fired from Servant weapons. The thing now hung from a gold necklace in her room, her first war trophy. Almost her last.
The approaching sun cast orange sheets across the low clouds, calling Mikial to her duty. First Greetings was a very old song. Even the ancient Taqurls had sung it. It was one of the few customs the Qurls retained following the apocalypse of Min Saja. To sing it demanded the respect of a clear and focused mind. She tried to swallow back the feelings that said she had no place here. Mikial cleared her throat as a point on the horizon bloomed into bright gold. Seven other singers would join her from the other Qurl Holdings when that same light touched them. I'm sing for us all, Mikial reminded herself, as the silver spire of the Keep blazed with the sun's reflected glory. Then, as its warm rays washed over her, she searched within her heart to see if any of the old wonder remained. Something returned, rising until it stung her eyes and gave song to her tongue.
Rejoice!
Let hearts sing forth with living,
Creation hear our sound
Raise upward with this giving, to bless both sky and ground
First Greetings to the first light, another day begun
Again to sing in your sight, our thanks rise with the sun
Shine on with brilliant glory, let darkness melt away
A new page for our story, we'll write upon this day
Rejoice!
Hanging her head, Mikial sat in silence as her final notes rebounded off the ridges in a mocking refrain. It left her quiet, almost hollow. Hardly the feelings she had dreamed of having at that moment. One lame Dathia who sat among the shards of delusion. Before Bramble Ravine, she thought she finally had become the accomplished warrioress her father pushed her to be. He still refused to believe otherwise. But she knew differently. Mikial drew in a shuddering breath. The wind was cold this morning.
Her right hand grasped the dark ironwood cane the Shandi had given her to use while she regenerated. The metal tip scraped against stone as it received her weight. Wincing, Mikial slowly stood and ducked her head through the granite archway leading back inside. Two sets of sixteen twisting stairs brought her to the third floor. From there she made her way to the foyer of the Public Hall with its wide agate tiles. Lamps cast pale light across an empty hall from which drifted smells of old wood newly polished.
She glanced up at the white-robed sculpture of Corias Charrid within a wall niche. Corias was her favorite historical figure, a patron of all who faced adversity. The statue depicted a small, unassuming female with sorrowful eyes and a wisp of reddish brown hair slightly lighter than Mikial's own. Corias was a Suria—a Qurl female who emerged from the fever of Change with the abilities of more than one sect. Males that went through Change became Surs, but there was never more than one Su
ria per Holding.
Nor had there ever been a Suria like Corias Charrid. Couched within the white borders of her wide belt were the colors of all four sects. Few Surs or Surias ever saw more than one extra color. Corias had come through her Change with them all, the only such Suria the Qurl race had ever produced. She became what was called a Great Suria. Originally a Shandi, Coria's first band was bright yellow. Next came cinnamon of the Cothra sect, followed by Ipper blue, and finally Datha red.
Corias’ distinction did not help her when she had tried to open the eyes of her Taqurl brethren to the evil of their own actions. They murdered her on the eve of Min Saja. Mikial sent a quiet prayer to the Great Suria, asking for some small measure of solace. She did not bother asking for forgiveness. She deserved none.
Mikial turned to glance at the severe visage of the statue across from Corias, depicting a male who had changed history, and a way of life, four hundred years ago. Gile Tassomon of Kinset Holding also wore four colors in his belt. His dark hair was braided flat against his head like a Datha, even though he too rose from among the Shandi to become the only Great Sur, and eventually a Great Tasur after marrying his Holding's Suria. His robes displayed a quilted pattern that reminded her more of combat armor than ceremonial garb. The green eyes of the statue pierced through her with the same harsh judgment Gile had used to transform the wicked Taqurls into Qurls after Min Saja. Looking down, Mikial continued down the hall.
There was to be a breakfast in her honor, as was the custom when one sang First Greetings. Mikial looked forward to the gathering of family and close friends that awaited her, hoping that they would help dispel the gloomy thoughts. She practiced a smile, not wishing to spoil everyone's jubilation when she arrived. Her hip hurt.
“That will not fool anyone, you know."
Dark brown eyes glinted with lamplight as an older female stepped out of the Public Hall and entered the foyer. Her somewhat amused expression was framed by a finely boned jaw and wide cheeks. The orange-and-mahogany strands of her calico hair spread about her narrow shoulders like a hood. She was not a tall female, standing only a little higher than seven hands. What made up for her stature was the yellow-and-brown bands of the belt tied above the ivory side-skirts of her blouse. The mark of a Holding's Tasuria and co-ruler.
