by neetha Napew
lest the locals kill me on sight. They bear an unreasoning hatred for my people
and have persecuted us for thousands of years."
Jon-Tom had recovered from the initial shock of the revelation. "The way I hear
it, it's your people who have been doing the hating, trying to invade and
enslave the locals for millennia."
"I will not deny that we seek control, but we do not seek conquest. It is for
our protection. We require security of some kind. The warm-landers grow
constantly stronger. One day their hatred will overwhelm their lethargy and they
will arise en masse to massacre the Plated Folk. Do we not have the right to
self-defense?"
Oh boy, Jon-Tom thought: history and legalisms. He felt suddenly at home. "Don't
try and bullshit me. Whenever one nation claims it requires 'secure borders'
with another, that border is usually the far border of the neighboring country
and not the common one. That 'border' country gets swallowed up, and the secure
borders have to be moved outward again, and then again. It's a never ending
process. Security may never be satisfied that way, but greed usually is."
The insect's head swiveled to look up at the blond man. "Spellsinger or not, I
think this one more dangerous than useful. I do not think he will be of use to
us." Jon-Tom went cold and still.
"No, he's not as positive as he sounds." The leader turned imploringly,
smilingly back to the lanky youth. "Please tell Hanniwuz you'll join us."
"I don't see the connection between you two."
"The Plated Folk recognize that among the warmlanders only we humans think like
they do. Only we have the ability to make war with detachment and then to govern
properly. That's our natural right, and the Plated Folk are willing to recognize
that. If we help them, they will allow us to rule in their stead. That will give
them the security they seek."
"You really believe that? Then you people are either dumb or morally bankrupt.
You have no 'natural right' to rule anything. Genetics has worked out
differently here."
One of the other guards said worriedly, "Careful, he speaks magic words."
Candlelight glinted on swords and spears, a sparkling forest of death suddenly
aimed threateningly at Jon-Tom.
"Watch your mouth, stranger!... Don't try magicking us!"
"See the effect he has?" The leader turned to Hanniwuz. "Consider how important
an ally he could be to the cause."
" 'Could be' are the key words, my friend." The insect envoy lifted a hand,
turned his head sideways, and preened his ommatidia. "He remains violently
opposed."
The stocky chieftain walked up to Jon-Tom, who tensed, but the man only put his
hands on the youth's shoulders.
"Listen to me, spellsinger. You have the size and bearing of a warrior along
with your gift for magicking. You could be a leader among us, one of those who
lord it over these lands. The climate here suits not the Plated Folk. They have
need of our services now and they will have need of them when the war is done."
"So they say." Jon-Tom eyed the impassive insect. "It's astonishing how fast a
conquerer can get acclimated."
"Control your first reactions, spellsinger. Think rationally and without
bitterness on what I say. With your stature and abilities you could rule whole
counties, entire reaches of the Lands. A dozen or more cities like Polastrindu
could be under your absolute control. Anything you wanted could be yours for the
asking: riches, fine goods, slaves of any species or sex.
"You are a young man still. What future does your mentor Clothahump offer you in
comparison? A chance to go to an unpleasant death? Is it so very wrong that
humans rule over the animals? So you do not agree with the moral justification
of our cause. Can you not rationalize what it would bring to you personally?
"Think hard, spellsinger, for the Plated Folk are destined to conquer this time,
no matter who or what opposes them. It is easy to support a martyr's death for
others... but what about for yourself? Is that what you have hoped for all your
life, to die young and bravely?" His hand slashed at the air. "That is stupid."
"I don't think your victory is assured just yet," Jon-Tom said quietly, "despite
your"--he caught himself just in time, having been on the verge of saying
"despite your secret magic," and instead finished--"despite all the quislings
you can recruit, and I don't think there'll be all that many."
"Then there are no circumstances under which you would consider joining us?
Think hard! The world can be yours."
"Shit, I wouldn't know what to do with it. I don't..." He stopped.
Seriously now, what did he owe to this world into which he'd been rudely,
unwillingly, and perhaps permanently yanked? If he ever succeeded in returning
to his own place and time, what would he become? A corpulent attorney, fat and
empty of real life? Or a sour, doped-up musician playing cheap bars and
sweet-sixteen parties?
Here he could be one step above a mayor and one step below a god. Weren't all of
them, for all their veneer of civilization and intelligence, nothing more than
oversized animals? Mudge, Caz, Pog, all of them? He considered the way Flor had
occasionally looked at Caz. Was it right that he should consider himself, even
momentarily, in competition for the love of his life with an oversized hare? Was
that less repugnant than cooperation with these people?
Why shouldn't he join them, then? Why should he not look out for himself for a
change?
"That's very good, man," whispered Hanniwuz. "You think. Death, or ascension to
a throne we will create for you. It seems an easy choice to make, does it not?
The day we attack there will be uprisings of humans throughout the warmlands.
They will flock to our cause. Together we shall force these bloated, soft,
smelly creatures back into the dirt where they belong... aahhh-chrriick!"
"I'm not sure--" Jon-Tom began.
Yells and shouts from the other side of the door and all eyes turned in that
direction. Then the opening was full of flying bodies, blood, and steel. Talea
darted in and out of the crowd, her sword taking bites out of larger and more
muscular bodies. Caz wielded a rapier with delicacy but far more ferocity than
Jon-Tom had suspected him of possessing, a furry white demon in the candlelight.
Mudge charged into the thick of the fray, his energy and activity compensating
for his usual lack of good judgment.
Dim light was reflected from fast-moving metal. There were screams and curses
and the sound of flesh hitting stone. Blood hit Jon-Tom in the face, temporarily
blinding him. Flores Quintera towered above the mob, her black mane flailing the
air as she cut with mace and her small saw edge at anyone who tried to get near
her.
Above them all, clinging precariously to a chink in the roof and occasionally
tossing a knife down into the milling cluster below, was Pog.
That explained how the others had tracked him. When the fight in the street had
broken away from Jon-Tom, Pog had thoughtfully left the battle to shadow Jon-Tom
and his captors. Then he'd returned to lead the others to the rescue.
A large, spiked mace rose in front of Jon-Tom's gaze. The man hefting it was
bleeding badly from the neck and sanity had left his face.
"Die then, otherworld thing!"
Jon-Tom closed his eyes and readied himself for oblivion. There was the shock of
concussion, but it was in his right shoulder instead of his forehead. Opening
his eyes he found the mace-wielder sprawled across his legs. As he watched, the
dying man slid to the floor.
Talea stood above the corpse, a knife in each hand, her clothes splattered with
the darker stains of blood. She looked back into the room. Another door had
opened in the far corner. His few surviving captors were retreating via the new
exit. Of Hanniwuz there was no sign.
The redhead was breathing heavily, her chest heaving beneath the shirt. She had
a wild look in her eyes. It became one of concern as she focused on the slumped
shape of Jon-Tom. He blinked at her as he held his throbbing shoulder.
"I'm all right. But just barely. Thanks." He looked past her. "Pog? You
responsible for this?"
"Dat a fact. Sometimes da coward's course is da best. When I saw da fight all
revolving around you, I knew it was you dey were after. So I held myself in
reserve in case I had ta follow or bring help."
"I'll bet you 'eld yourself in 'reserve,' you sanctimonious 'ypocrite!" bellowed
Mudge from across the room. The last of Jon-Tom's captors had fled or been
dispatched, and the otter was walking toward the table, wiping at a cut across
his chest.
"Near ruined me best vest, bugger it! Cost me thirty coppers in Lynchbany." He
smiled then at Jon-Tom and let out a pleased whistle-whoop. "But it don't matter
much, mate, because you're awright."
"Your vest's in better shape than my shoulder." Jon-Tom sat up with Talea's
help. She felt of it ungently, and he yelped.
"Don't be such a cub. It's not broken, but I wager you'll have the devil of a
bruise for a few weeks." She cleaned one knife on a pants leg and used it to
point at an overhead set of iron bars. Jon-Tom walked beneath them. They'd been
invisible from his seat on the cot.
"Crawl space up there. We heard you talking with this bunch before we
interrupted the party." She looked back at him interestedly. "What were you
talking about?"
"Nothing much." He looked away. "They wanted me to join them."
"Huh! Join them in what?"
"Sort of an outlaw band," he muttered uncomfortably.
"And what were you going to do?"
He looked angrily at her. "I didn't give it a thought, of course!" He hoped he
appeared suitably outraged. "What do you take me for?"
She regarded him silently for a moment before saying, "A confused, stubborn,
naive, brilliant, and I hope sensible guy."
With that she left him, joined Flor in inspecting the escape door to see if any
wounded remained.
Caz was at his back, undoing his bonds. "Rather awkward situation, my friend."
" 'Ere now, it were bloody well more than 'awkward,' flagears!" Mudge had
adopted a familiar swagger, now that the fight was won. "When I shot into the
room and saw that mace comin' down I was afraid we were goin' t' be a second too
late. Good thing sweet flame-top's as fast with 'er 'ands as she is with 'er
'ips," and he glanced around quickly to make certain Talea hadn't overheard him.
"I'm okay, Mudge." The ropes came loose. Circulation stabbed back into his
wrists. Rubbing them, he stood, towering once more over his rescuers.
Mudge, Caz, Pog. Not only were they not "annuals," he decided, they were a hell
of a lot more "human" than the so-called humans who'd kept him prisoner. The
thought of betraying their trust on behalf of the Plated Folk now made him
almost physically ill. As for dreams of power and mastery, they vanished from
his thoughts. Not because they were unattainable, not because they were morally
repugnant, but because Jon-Tom had always been utterly unable to do less than
the Right Thing.
I'd make a lousy lawyer, he thought. And if I can't help thinking about power
and mastery, well hell, I'm only human.
Maybe if I work real hard, he told himself, I can manage to overcome that.
"There was an insect envoy with them," he said. "One of the Plated Folk. They're
trying to find allies among the locals. We have to inform the authorities."
"We'll do that for a fact, mate," said a startled Mudge. "Cor, t' think o' one
o' them great ugly bugs a-sneakin' about in this part o' the world!"
"How could he get in here?" Caz wondered.
"He looked as human as any of the others," Jon-Tom told them. "Clothahump should
know."
Talea and Flor crawled back out of the secret doorway. "No sign of the one
Jon-Tom says he saw here, nor the scum that got away."
They moved cautiously to the main door. Jon-Tom gathered up his belongings. It
felt good to have the smooth bulk of the duar under his arm and the staff in his
hands. While his companions formed a protective cordon around him, Mudge checked
the stairway. It was empty now.
Then they were racing up the hallway toward the street, Jon-Tom and Flor taking
the steps two at a time. Mudge and Talea burst outward into the mist, one
looking right, the other left.
"All clear," Talea called back. The others soon stood on the cobblestones.
They started back up the street. Eyes searched windows for drawn bows as they
walked rapidly between dark buildings. Pog overflew alleys in search of ambush.
But there was no sign of any attempt to block their progress.
Jon-Tom stumbled once as his shoulder flared with pain. Talea was alongside. She
remained there despite his insistence that he was all right.
"This outlaw band," she inquired, still warily inspecting the street ahead, "you
sure you didn't consider joining up with them? They might do real well if they
have Plated Folk support."
"Why would I do an asinine thing like that?" he snapped. "I've no love for the
insects."
"They've done nothing to you or yours. Why should you not be as willing to join
with them as with us?"
How much did she overhear through that grating? he wondered. Then it occurred to
him that she was nervous, not angry. The unaccustomed expression of
vulnerability made him feel suddenly and oddly warm inside.
"I didn't like those people," he told her calmly. "I didn't like that envoy
Hanniwuz. And I do like you. And Caz, and Mudge, and the others."
"As simple as that?"
"As simple as that, Talea."
She seemed about to say something more, lengthened her stride instead. "Let's
hurry it up." She moved out in front of them and the others, even the
long-limbed spellsinger, had to hurry to keep pace.
A disturbed Pog suddenly dipped low overhead. "Jon-Tom, Jon-Tom! There's
something wrong up ahead!"
"What? What's wrong, Pog?"
"Big commotion, boss. Many people running like da Naganuph's after dem. I can't
see a cause yet."
They turned a corner and were nearly trampled. Dozens of citizens poured down
the wide street, bumping into the new arrivals and each other. Anxious raccoons
cuddled masked infants in their arm
s, squirrel tails bobbed hysterically, and
nightgown-clad anteaters stumbled into panicky simians. All were screeching and
yelling and bawling in fear, and all were obviously running away from something
utterly terrifying.
"What's wrong, what's the matter?" Talea demanded of one of the fleeing
inhabitants.
The elderly bobcat beat feebly at her with her cane. "Let me go, woman. He's
gone mad, he has. He'll kill us all! Let me go!"
"Who's gone mad? What... ?"
In her other hand the feline carried a heavy purse, weighed down perhaps with
the family gold horde. She struck at Talea's wrist with it and tore free of her
grasp.
Humans in night clothes and sleeping caps were among the mob. With their smooth
strides they were outdistancing some of their shorter-legged neighbors, but they
were equally panicked. Only the occasional roos and wallabies bounded past them.
"Falameezar. It's got to be," Jon-Tom said fearfully. "Something's gone wrong at
the barracks."
"Maybe it would be better," Mudge said, slowing slightly, "if some of us waited
'ere. Pog and I could stay in reserve in case of..."
"Not me," said the bat forcefully. "My master may be in trouble. I've got ta
help him if he is."
"Loyalty from you, Pog?" Jon-Tom couldn't help saying aloud.
"Loyalty my airborne arse!" the bat snorted derisively. "Dat hard-shelled senile
old turd and I have a contract, and he's not gonna get out of it by getting
himself stepped on by some berserk overheated lizard!" He soared on ahead above
the foot traffic, darting and weaving his way around the panicked birds and bats
that flew toward him.
For a while it seemed as if they'd never make it back to the courtyard.
Eventually the crowds of refugees started to thin, however. Soon they'd vanished
altogether.
Ahead the evening sky was glowing brightly, and it wasn't from a rising moon.
They turned a last corner and found themselves in the open square on the
opposite side from the barracks. That massive structure was a mass of flame.
Orange fire licked at the sky from several smaller buildings nearby, but the
blaze had not yet spread to the large, closely packed residential structures
lining the courtyard. The city wall was solid rock and immune to the flames,
though tents and banners and other flammables stacked near it were twisting
