by K. M. Tolan
An armored blur rushed from the darkness, a Datha throwing himself across both the mother and child. That was apparently too much for the Chadrak boy. He leapt away with a shriek from another determined Qurl protector. Mikial was on him in an instant. She dragged the terrified youth down just before a hard blow rocked her senses. Stunned, she inspected the gouged tensa plate below her right breast. There was no blood this time, only the numb pain left behind by a deflected projectile.
The boy had not been so fortunate. Her hand came from his quivering body wet with blood. Pulling at her medicine pouch, Mikial shook the healing powder where dark liquid streamed from beneath the boy's armpit. The crash of battle intensified as the Strike hammered back at their unseen foe. Mikial hissed her frustration. She had to move this child to safety, but where?
The boy relaxed beneath her. Alarmed, Mikial glanced at his chest. He still breathed, although shallowly. The Strike Leader's words rang in her ears. This family must be protected. Fine. But how? Teck's Strike was pouring fire in all directions, and the only Shandi was probably dead herself. The boy would follow shortly if he did not get help. Slinging her rifle, Mikial drew him against her chest. Her hunting eyes detected the outline of yhas outside the camp. Mikial bunched her muscles and vaulted through the brush with her burden.
It took several hard slaps to bring a squealing plains yhas to its senses before she saddled with the boy. Once released, the animal was only too eager to bolt from the noise of combat. Unfortunately, it galloped full speed away from the Holding. The yhas bleated itself into a rasping cough as she fought to control it. They were leaving the forest.
Probably for the best, Mikial decided grimly. She held the boy tight, the yhas bounding toward a series of lights across the plains. Best for you, she amended to the unconscious child. Teeth bared against the futility of her situation, Mikial watched buildings approach in the darkness. She had the advantage of surprise, providing she could get this beast to slow down. Drop off the boy and run. Shoot any who followed. Shoot myself as a last resort, she mentally added to her list.
Oil lamps lit up the portico of a two-story ranch house built from thick red timbers. The yhas galloped onto the cobblestones of a curved drive leading to the entrance. The clattering echo calmed the animal with an apparent familiarity, decreasing its pace to a slow canter. Mikial's wide eyes raced beyond the lights to catch the peaked white tents of an encampment bordering the house. Her hunting eyes picked up far too many auras there. Soldiers!
Mikial swung free of the saddle. Her legs absorbed the boy's added weight as she rushed for two ornate metal doors framed between the white columns of a wide portico. Creation! Let them be unlocked! She pulled at the silver handle with a free arm, the door swing wide to release voices from further inside.
Mikial sped down a foyer lined with hanging coats. Too many of them looked like uniforms. Servants move slowly, she reminded herself. Cradling the boy close, she spun left at a broad staircase where her hunting eyes told her there were people in an adjacent room. She burst into a dining area, surprising those eating supper beneath the sparkle of a chandelier.
“Send for a Healer!” she shouted. Pushing aside a clatter of tableware, Mikial laid the child out on the table.
“BARAN!” an ivory-haired female in a green-and-brown dress screamed, her chair tumbling as she leapt to her feet. Others erupted from their seats as well. Two of them wore green-and-turquoise uniforms. They had pistols.
The female was at Mikial's side in an instant, gently lifting up the boy's arm as he cried out in a feeble voice. “Creation! He's been shot!” She turned to Mikial, gray eyes wide and pleading as she gripped her hand. “Where's Dahin?"
“I don't know!” Mikial snapped. She rested herself from the other's hold as she turned to escape.
“Lady Chadrak,” came an officer's warning from across the table as he gave Mikial a frozen look. “Get away from her ... slowly. Very slowly."
“What—” The female's eyes stared at Mikial's extended claws and traveled up to her bared canines. She staggered back in horror, shielding the boy with her arms.
Mikial leapt. Her foot easily cleared the table to send the officer's drawn pistol flying from his hand. She heard the sharp report of another gun while diving away in a desperate tumble. Bounding to her feet, Mikial dove for the hall, only to see more soldiers boil through the front door.
Twisting around, she charged the officers in the dining room before they could shoot again. Mikial saw another exit behind the table. She was through the adjacent passage in an instant. It was a kitchen. Her eyes fixed on the welcome darkness of an opened door, and she headed for it at a run. Instead of leading outside, it sent her tumbling down narrow steps in a rattle of banging armor. Mikial hit the bottom in a stunned heap. The door slammed shut behind her.
Rolling on her belly, she readied the rifle that had miraculously remained with her. Mikial aimed up the stairs where a thin sliver of light gleamed beneath the doorway. She heard yelling and the pound of feet, but no one dared to open the door. Mikial carefully moved to a crouching position, feeling the twinge of minor bruises. Grateful for the protection of her armor, she glanced around. Her hunting eyes registered nothing, but her nostrils pulled in the sharp scent of pickled meat. Trapped in a cellar like a complete fool, she realized with a growl. As if to emphasize the point, the door above her shook from a solid weight wedged against it.
The light from beneath the door was sufficient for her sensitive eyes to pick shelves out of the shadows. Hefting one of the large jars contained there, Mikial barely made out a label indicating its contents. Sausages? Well, I won't be starved out.
She reached for an oil lamp that hung from a nearby rafter. Keeping one eye on the stairs, she pulled a lighting wire from her field pouch and held it between her palms. It quickly glowed red from her discharge. Pressing it against the wick of her lamp, she was provided with an ample flame to better reveal her prison.
It was a cellar, all right, and a huge one at that. She counted a dozen rows of stocked shelves that extended to the back wall. A wall that had another exit! Rifle in hand, she ran over to a door couched within red support timbers. It pulled open with a begrudging scrape. She stared into another musty chamber with a far wall that was stacked with wooden kegs. Beer, from the smell of it. Hopes of escape diminished as she found floor-to-ceiling wine racks. Her investigation of a darkened niche resulted only in more wine, the bottles laced with dusty webbing.
Frustrated, Mikial returned to the stairs and gazed up at the door. It might give way if she kicked it hard enough, despite whatever they had wedged there. No, she thought. Let them make the first move. As far as they knew, she still was collapsed at the bottom of these stairs. Sooner or later they would open that door to find out. The moment they did, she would rush them.
Dull resignation set in as it became apparent that her adversaries were in no hurry to fight. She could barely hear them talk on the other side of the door. Mikial rested her head against the wall, fighting off despair. She should have let that boy die. It was a cold and useless thought. She had her orders, in any case. Is that what the Shandi had done to her? Made her into the perfect self-sacrificing puppet? The ugly thought occurred to her that the Servants intended to imprison her until her Passion came, then use her body to strengthen their bloodlines. Mikial's lips drew back in a soft hiss. All they'll get is my body. Perhaps that's the death the Shandi wishes for me. One my father cannot fault them for.
Mikial doused the lamp and began her wait. She tried to think of something else. Or nothing. Anything to shut out the images of those she loved and soon would bring to grief. Impatiently, she looked back into the darkness. Maybe she could dig her way out the back.
Mikial gave a start when her hunting eyes finally sensed someone approach the door. Scraping followed. They were removing the barricade. She welcomed the clear winds of instinct that flushed her mind and body with energy. Burst through the door? No. Let them open it, then rush out firing
. If only she had her cannon!
The last thing Mikial expected was a civil knock on the door, followed by someone's slow tenor voice. “Taqurl? I'm unarmed and alone. We must talk. I'm opening the door."
You're dying too, she promised to herself as a latch clicked. Her hunting eyes picked out only a single aura. Mikial aimed her rifle. The door opened in a cascade of light, revealing her prey. It was the older Chadrak with the blond beard. The one Teck said she must safeguard at all costs. Mikial spat with frustration. What was she supposed to do now?
He stepped away from the door. He wore a loose gray cotton shirt and the same boots and leather breeches she had seen earlier. He had a broad chin below a flat nose and heavy cheekbones. She observed bandages across one wide shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was thick with a drawling accent. “Bring some wine up with you since you're down there. No doubt your throat's as dry as mine."
Mikial stared at him disbelief. Did the fool realize how close to death she had him?
His bushy eyebrows furrowed at her silence. “Make your mind up. Talk or shoot."
She thought of dashing past him, but the Servant did not appear to be as stupid as she had been this night. The next room was probably an armed encampment. Was he honestly wanting to talk? There seemed to be only one way to find out. She gave her enemy a measured look. So he wanted wine, did he?
Using her hunting eyes to watch her back, Mikial returned to the dark niche in the back room. She pulled out the most time-crusted bottle she could find. One way or another, this little chat would cost him dear.
Cautiously, Mikial climbed the stairs, the wine crooked under one arm while her rifle pointed at him from the other. She slowly moved into the doorway, her eyes glancing toward the other exit from the kitchen. The door was shut. More than that, it was barricaded from the inside by a large chopping block.
“I thought you might like the privacy,” her captor explained. He brushed flecks of lettuce from a preparation table. The plainsman slid a chair from beneath a row of hanging pots, motioning her to a seat across the table from him. His steel-blue eyes gave her careful scrutiny as she walked out. “You're the female we saw watching us. Why not point that rifle of yours somewhere else? From the looks of you, I suspect you can kill me without it."
“No doubt,” Mikial growled. She placed the weapon within easy reach against a table leg, but did not sit in the proffered chair. He was a barrel-chested male about her size. Large arms suggested someone who would have no trouble managing what hardships a ranch might bring. His beard was flecked with silver hairs, the Servant's tanned skin indicating many years under the sun.
“Well, so you can talk, too,” he observed casually as she stared at him. “Can you sit as well in all that feathered armor of yours? My name, if you're interested, is Dahin Chadrak. I'm the father of the boy whose life you saved."
Glowering, Mikial took the chair he offered, poised for the instant the encounter turned violent. It would not be against orders to use him as a hostage. She set the old wine bottle between them with a thud.
Dahin's eyes wrinkled with consternation as he pulled the bottle near. “Itsa! You would pick that.” He flashed even white teeth, a deep chuckle rumbling up from his chest as he brushed off the label. “Yes, you certainly would. One final jab, eh?"
“Not final,” she warned. “I will not be your captive."
“I don't want you as my captive. I won't use you for a Return Child either, if that's what's on your mind."
“Return Child?” Mikial bared her teeth. “Is that what you call the result of raping someone in Passion?"
“That's what we call getting a child back in exchange for the ones we give you.” He kept his eyes on her while drawing a cork from the bottle. “Relax, Taqurl. We have an understanding with your kind that includes not taking your women.” Dahin gave her a jaundiced look. “You seem to have no trouble with ours."
“We're not the ones sending them to fog the hills with their scent,” she countered.
“You're not trying to keep your villages from disappearing either.” He rested his large arms on the table. “Are we done trading accusations?"
“Talk, then."
“As I said, my name is Dahin Chadrak. My family has been sending children to your hills for years. Until tonight, I'd thought we'd had an unspoken agreement with your kind. Tell me why that's changed, Taqurl, and you can go home unharmed."
“Qurl,” she corrected. “We're Qurls."
He leaned forward. “I don't care what you call yourselves. Why did you attack us?"
“We were both attacked by Minnerans."
Dahin slowly rose, turning to pluck two goblets and a bottle opener from a cabinet. “Since when did Minnerans shoot the kind of rifles I saw last night?"
“I've seen them use worse. You must have seen our Shandi fall. Are you suggesting that we'd kill our own Healer just to trick the likes of you?"
His eyes narrowed. “You risked your own life for the likes of us, Taqurl. Why?"
“Qurl!” Mikial fumed, barely keeping her seat. “Has history passed you by?"
Eyeing her, Dahin uncorked the bottle. “Whose history?” He filled a glass with deep amber wine and pushed it toward her. “This wine's older than the both of us, and probably worth more.” Dahin poured himself a drink. “You have a name?"
“Mikial Haran."
The Servant paused in mid-sip, studying her more carefully before continuing. “Mikial, eh? Simple enough name. Most of the babies we handle are normal-looking, too.” His gaze fell to the extended claws curling about her glass. “Some, like you, are more like beasts."
“We prefer to be called Datha Qurl,” Mikial coolly answered. “I'm a Dathia. Most of those in my sect are male."
Dahin gave her a sardonic look. “Found that out myself when one of your big friends fell across me out there. “They had orders to protect me?"
She nodded. “As did I, much to my misfortune. What of the baby?"
“Alive, judging from its squalling when your Taq ... Datha ran off with it. His mother is wounded and the father's dead.” He gestured to her glass. “Drink it. You won't taste better."
Mikial took a sip, savoring a flavor richer than anything she had sampled in the Holding. He hadn't made an idle boast. “We did not attack you."
Dahin nodded. “I'm inclined to believe that.” His face hardened as he set his drink aside. “Have your people been raiding ranches near the frontier?"
“You can accuse us of all the lies you wish, Servant,” she hissed, getting up.
He stood in turn, face reddening. “Servant? Is that what you call us? Still?” Dahin's voice took on a dangerous rumble. “Do I look like a servant to you?"
“As much as I do a Taqurl,” Mikial growled back. “What am I supposed to call you?"
Dahin gave her a withering look. “What I am. A Kiorannan. As was the family I helped bury some days ago.” He pointed a finger to the circle-and-dagger symbol that formed the buckle of her utility belt. “All of the dead had that branded into their foreheads. Even the children."
Dumbstruck, Mikial could only look at him. “Never!” she said, ears pasting against her skull. “We haven't set foot on your miserable soil! My sect doesn't kill children either, let alone mutilate them. Don't look to my Holding as an excuse for someone else's barbarity."
“Then stop a war, Mikial."
She gave him an incredulous look. “Why? Better for us if you tear yourselves apart."
Dahin sat down with a grunt. “It won't be us being torn apart.” He pointed meaningfully at her. “There's an army approaching, the likes of which hasn't been seen since the Freedom War. It's led by a very ambitious member of the Kior Household who's looking to be the next Steward. One who's hoping for a fight. That's what you've an opportunity to stop, Mikial. Your Datha won't be able to."
Mikial bit back her rejoinder. Her sect could easily draw in and cut apart any mass attack, but on two borders? “The Minnerans. This is exactly what they want."
To her surprise, he nodded his agreement. “Manwal Kinn weakens us without losing a drop of blood."
“Who?"
“Manwal Kinn,” Dahin repeated. “Protector of Minnera, and head of what he calls the Eastern Union. A Union he wants Kioranna to join, or be forced into."
“Kioranna?” she sneered. “It's my Holding they're after."
“Let's just agree that they want us fighting each other,” Dahin returned testily. “Tell this to Alad Kior, our Steward. He just might listen."
“To me?” Mikial sat down and took another drink. “To a Qurl?"
Dahin's voice softened. “No Steward's had a chance to listen to something like you in hundreds of years."
Mikial shook her head at such madness. “And of course I'll change all that, right? You think I'm insane enough to believe what you're telling me? Why do you care if our Holding is attacked?"
“I have to live here,” he stated flatly. “I want my sons and their sons to live here too. And much as I wish otherwise, we need your blood mixed with ours. Otherwise, Kioranna will be little more than empty houses. War would end that."
“It would,” she agreed.
Dahin drained his glass. “Mikial, I'll give you the hospitality of this house and safe passage, no matter what you decide. All I ask in return is that you think before running off."
Mikial's canines gleamed in the lamplight. Out narrow kitchen windows to her left, the first light of morning shot through gray clouds. It was past time to test this promise of safety. “I will leave. Now."
“Captain Teer!” he shouted, glaring at her. “Pull your men back to their tents, and get me a fresh yhas with saddle!” Dahin stood up. Walking over to the dining room door, he slid the chopping block aside.
Mikial heard the sound of retreating footsteps. Her hunting eyes confirmed that the other room had been emptied. Picking up her rifle, she followed Dahin back outside. Soldiers were gathering in front the tents she had seen the night before. As she watched, an officer motioned a couple of them to drop the long rifles they held at ready.
