Universe Vol1Num2

by Jim Baen's Universe

  "Second squad! Hold! Dispatch anyone who doesn't surrender!"

  I scrambled over and around bodies to get to the pier. Half the way toward the seaward end, I found them. Megaera lay on the blood-smeared stones of the pier, gashes in her leathers. Creslin lay beside her, an arrow through his right shoulder. One hand still held a blade. The other was thrown out, as if to protect Megaera. Both were breathing.

  Creslin was more slightly built than I recalled, so wiry that he was almost gaunt. He looked like a youth, almost childlike, helpless. Despite the blood on her leathers and face, Megaera looked young, too, without the anger that sometimes seemed to fuel every movement she made. For the briefest moment, I looked from the two, looking young and bloody, and somehow innocent, to the carnage around them. There were scores of mangled bodies, and burning and sunken ships. Ashes rained across the pier, along with the smoke from the burning schooner that had begun to sink.

  Hyel hurried toward me, followed by four litter bearers, two of his men and two guards.

  "They're alive, but . . . they'll need the healers," I told him. "We'll need to round up the survivors. Some of them are swimming ashore." I glanced around. "Most of your men are on the west side of the pier. You take that area. The Guards will take the east."

  Hyel nodded. "We'll do it. The lookouts say that there aren't any more ships near."

  That was some help.

  Once we finally captured all the surviving Hamorians and had them under guard, I headed back to the keep.

  I trudged up the steps, only to have one of the Montgren troopers approach and bow.

  "Guard Captain, the mage and Captain Hyel are waiting for you in the hall."

  "Thank you." I wiped the second shortsword clean and sheathed it.

  Even before I stepped into the hall, Klerris moved forward. Hyel followed.

  "How are they?"

  "Lydya is working with them. They'll live." Klerris glanced at me and then Hyel. "You two are in charge for now."

  I looked back at the mage. "Us?"

  "Who else? Lydya and I will be busy trying to patch up bodies and spirits. You two get to take care of everything else."

  It was pitch dark before I felt like I could stop, and I'd made a last trip down to the pier and back because I'd posted guards on the grounded Hamorian vessel. I didn't want the ship looted. There was potentially too much on her that we could use.

  "It's hard to believe, isn't it?" Hyel was sitting on the topmost step leading into the keep. "Sit down. You could use a moment to catch your breath."

  "Just for a bit." I did sit down, but on the other side of the wide step, where I could lean back against the stone of the walls. "What's hard to believe?"

  "People. You get two young leaders, and they start trying to make a better place for people who don't have much hope or anywhere to go, and everyone wants to stop them."

  I didn't find that hard to believe. I'd already seen enough of that as a Westwind guard.

  "You don't agree?" He raised his eyebrows.

  I laughed. The sound came out bitter. "I do agree, but I don't find it hard to believe. People are like that."

  He gestured to the north, his arm taking in the small harbor and the last embers of the grounded and burning sloop. "And all this? That's not hard to believe?"

  "It's real, Hyel."

  "How could two people—even if they are wizards—create such . . ."

  "Chaos?" I laughed again. "Creslin's a mage, and she's a white witch. They both have to prove their worth. To the world and to each other." Proving it to each other might be the hardest part, I thought. "We all have to prove things." I stood. "I need to check on the wounded and see what changes we'll need in the duty rosters."

  Hyel grinned crookedly, uneasily, as he rose from the step. "What do you have to prove, Shierra?"

  "Tell me what you have to prove, Hyel, and then I'll tell you." I started to turn.

  His long-fingered hand touched my shoulder. Gently.

  "Yes?"

  His eyes met mine. "I have to prove . . . that I was sent here wrongfully. I have to prove that I'm not a coward or a bully."

  "What if you were sent here rightfully, but you're not the same man that you once were?"

  His lips quirked. "You ask questions no one else does."

  "I did not mean to say—"

  "You didn't, Shierra. I always learn something when I'm with you." He smiled. "You'd better check those rosters."

  I could have avoided Hyel's question. He wouldn't have pressed me again. He'd answered my question and not demanded my answer. After a moment, I managed a smile. "I have to prove that I didn't make a mistake in choosing to come here. I have to prove that I've escaped an image."

  "The image of a Westwind Guard?"

  "Partly."

  He nodded, but didn't press. This time, I wasn't ready to say more. "Until tomorrow, Hyel."

  "Good night, Shierra."

  XVI

  Over the next three eightdays, something changed between Creslin and Megaera. I didn't know what, or how, but after they recovered, they both slept at the Black Holding, and occasionally they held hands. They still bickered, but most of the bitterness had vanished.

  Our meetings didn't have the edginess that they had once had. Not that there weren't problems and more problems.

  A second tax notice came from the Duke of Montgren, and there was no pay chest, either, although the Duke had promised them for a year.

  "What about the cargo?" I asked, looking around the table in the keep hall.

  "It's paid for," snapped Creslin.

  "Did you have to pay, since the ship is the Duke's?" I didn't understand why that was necessary, since Creslin and Megaera were his regents.

  "The captain's acting as a consignment agent. If he doesn't get paid now, when would we get another shipment of goods? Would anyone else trade with us?" He went on, pointing out how few wanted to trade with such an out of the way place.

  "So they're gouging the darkness out of us?" asked Hyel.

  "That's why we need to refit the Hamorian ships for our own trading."

  "We can't afford to refit one ship, let alone others," observed Megaera.

  "We can't afford not to," snapped Creslin.

  Then after a few more words, he stood and strode out. Megaera rose. "He's worried."

  After the others left, Hyel looked to me. "He's acting like we're idiots."

  "Sometimes we are," I pointed out. "He's paid for most everything we have personally, and he doesn't have much left."

  "What about Megaera's sister, the Tyrant? At least, the Marshall sent you and equipment and supplies. The Tyrant hasn't sent anything. Neither has the Duke."

  Why hadn't the Tyrant sent anything? Sarronnyn was rich enough to spare a shipload of supplies now and again. Did Megaera's sister hate her that much? Or did she regard her as a threat? How could Recluce ever threaten Sarronnyn?

  XVII

  Whether it was the result of Creslin calling the storms against the Hamorians or something else, I didn't know, and no one said, but the weather changed. Day after day, the clouds rolled in from the northwest, and the rains lashed Recluce. Fields began to wash out, and we kept having to repair our few roads. No one had ever thought about so much rain on a desert isle, and most of the roofs leaked. After nearly three eightdays, the worst passed, but we still got more rain than the isle had gotten before.

  Megaera, once she had fully recovered from her injuries, and once we did not have to deal with rain falling in sheets, continued her sparring and working with me on improving her blade skills. One morning she did not bring her practice blade. Instead, she sat on one of the benches in the courtyard and motioned for me to sit beside her. Her face was somber.

  "Shierra . . . something has happened . . ."

  What? It couldn't have been Creslin, or Megaera would have been far more distraught. It couldn't have been Hyel, because I'd seen him a few moments before, and enjoyed his smile.

  "Creslin . . .
he sensed something last night. Something has happened at Westwind. He doesn't know what it is, but . . . it's likely that the Marshall and Marshalle are dead."

  "Dead? What about . . . all the others?"

  Her fingers rested on my wrist, lightly. "We don't know. We don't have any way of knowing, but we thought you should know what we know. You're the senior Westwind guard here. Creslin and I . . . we thought that perhaps you could tell the guards that you've had word of hard times at Westwind, and that the Marshall and Marshalle have been hurt, but that you don't know more than that."

  I found myself nodding, even as I wondered about Fiera. Had she been hurt? Or killed? Would I ever know, with Westwind thousands of kays away?

  "I'm sorry, Shierra." Megaera's voice was soft. "I know you have a sister . . ."

  For some reason, hearing that, I had to swallow, and I found myself thinking of Megaera as much as Fiera. How could her sister have been so cruel to her?

  After Megaera departed, I did gather the squads, and I told them something similar to what she had suggested.

  But the eightdays passed, and we heard nothing.

  I kept wondering about Fiera. Was she all right? Would I ever hear? Would I ever know?

  Then, one morning at the keep, as Hyel and I waited for the regents, Creslin burst through the door. "There's a coaster porting." He hurried past us and down the steps to the hill road that led to the pier.

  Hyel looked at me. Then we both followed.

  "That's a Westwind banner below the ensign," I told Hyel. "That's why he's upset."

  "Upset?"

  I didn't try to explain, not while trying to catch up with Creslin. "We're going to have more guards." Would Fiera be there? If she weren't, could someone tell me about her?

  "More—?" Hyel groaned as he hurried beside me.

  "Don't groan so loudly."

  We finally caught up with Creslin as the coaster eased up to the pier and cast out lines.

  "Do you want to explain?" asked Hyel.

  Creslin pointed to the Westwind guards ranked on the deck.

  "I still—" Hyel didn't understand.

  "I hope they aren't all that's left," I said. Please let Fiera be there . . . or alive and well somewhere.

  "The Marshall's dead. Llyse is dead, and Ryessa has been moving troops eastward into the Westhorns," Creslin said.

  I hadn't heard about the Sarronnese troops. I wondered how he knew, but perhaps the mages or the trading captains had told him.

  "If Westwind still existed, there wouldn't be three squads coming to Recluce." His words were hard.

  Once the coaster was secured to the pier, the gangway came down, and a blond guard—a squad leader—stepped down and onto the pier.

  My heart almost stopped. Fiera! But I had to take her report as she stepped past Hyel and Creslin and stopped before me.

  "Squad Leader Fiera reporting."

  "Report."

  "Three full squads. Also ten walking wounded, five permanently disabled, and twenty consorts and children. Three deaths since embarkation in Rulyarth. We also bring some supplies, weapons, and tools . . . and what is left of the Westwind treasury."

  Hard as it was, I replied. "Report accepted, Squad Leader." I turned. "May I present you to Regent Creslin? Squad Leader Fiera."

  Creslin did not speak for a moment. He and Fiera locked eyes. The last time they had met, she had kissed him, and now everything was different.

  Then he nodded solemnly. "Honor bright, Squad Leader. You have paid a great price, and great is the honor you bestow upon us through your presence. Few have paid a higher price than you . . ." When he finished, his eyes were bright, although his voice was firm.

  So were Fiera's, but her voice was hard. "Will you accept the presentation of your heritage, Your Grace? For you are all that remains of the glory and power of Westwind."

  "I can do no less, and I will accept it in the spirit in which it is offered." Creslin looked directly into her eyes and lowered his voice. "But never would I have wished this. Even long ago, I wished otherwise." He tightened his lips.

  Even I felt the agony within him.

  "We know that, Your Grace." Fiera swallowed, and the tears oozed from the corners of her eyes. "By your leave, Regent?"

  "The keep is yours, Squad Leader, as is all that we have. We are in your debt, as am I, in the angels', and in the Legend's."

  "And we in yours, Regent." Fiera's voice was hard as granite or black stone, but the tears still flowed.

  "Form up!" I ordered, as much to spare Fiera as for anything. "On the pier."

  "What was all that about?" Hyel asked Creslin.

  Whatever Creslin said, it would not explain half of what had happened, nor should it.

  Carts had already begun to arrive. They had to have been sent by Megaera, and at that moment my heart went out to both my sister and to Megaera, for both suffered, and would suffer, and neither was at fault. Nor was Creslin.

  With all the need to accommodate the unexpected additional guards, consorts, and children, I could not find a time when Fiera was alone until well past sunset.

  I watched as she slipped out the front entrance of the keep and began to walk down the road. I did not know what she had in mind, but I had to reach her.

  Following her, I did not speak until we were well away.

  "Fiera . . . ?"

  She did not respond.

  I caught up with her. "I wanted to talk to you, but not . . . not with everyone around."

  She stopped in the middle of the rutted road, under a cloudy and starless sky.

  "Why?" She asked. "Why did it have to happen this way?"

  "You gave him his future. You gave him what will save us all," I told her, and I knew it was true. I also knew that, at that moment, it didn't matter to her.

  She said nothing.

  "Fiera . . . ?"

  "What?" The single word was almost snapped. "I suppose you have some great suggestion. Or some reason why everything will be wonderful."

  "No. I don't. I don't have any answers. For you or for me. Or for us." I rushed on. "I know I didn't do everything right, and I know what I did must have hurt you. I didn't mean it that way. I only wanted to help . . ." I swallowed. "I love you, and you are my sister, and you always will be."

  We both cried, and held each other.

  There were other words, but they were ours and for us alone.

  XVIII

  Late that night, I sat on the front steps of the keep. Fiera was sleeping, if fitfully, and Megaera and Creslin doubtless had their problems, and I . . . I had my sister . . . if I could keep her, if I could avoid interfering too much.

  "Are you all right?" Hyel stood in the doorway of the keep.

  "I'm fine."

  He just looked at me with those deep gray eyes, then sat down beside me. For a long time, he said nothing. Finally, he reached out and took my hand. Gently.

  Love is as much about wisdom as lust and longing. Fiera had loved Creslin, not wisely, but well, and out of that love, she had brought him the tools to build a kingdom. He would never forget, for he was not the kind who could or would, but he loved Megaera. So he would offer all the honors and respect he could to Fiera, but they would not be love.

  Megaera had loved her sister, also not wisely, but well, while I had loved my sister wisely, carefully, I had not shown that that love, nor had the Tyrant, I thought. Unlike the Tyrant, who would never show any love to her sister, I'd been given the chance to let Fiera know what I felt, and I, for once, had been brave enough to take it.

  As for the future, I could only hope that, in time, Fiera would find someone who matched her, as Creslin and Megaera had found each other, as Hyel and I might.

  ****

  L. E. Modesitt, Jr. is the author of many books and stories.

  To see this author's works sold through Amazon, click here

  As Black As Hell

  Author: John Lambshead

  Illustrated by David Daniel

  "For
I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night."

  Sonnet 147, William Shakespeare

  Gaston was used to waiting. The unofficial motto of the British Army was 'hurry up and wait.' Gaston had reached the rank of sergeant in the 2nd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment—the Queen's own Royal goon squad, not bad for the illegitimate son of a Charing Cross streetwalker. He had joined up after his mother's pimp had beaten her senseless with a red-hot coat hanger. Gaston had taken a white-hot poker to the pimp in retaliation. The local police had found the incident hilarious but a kindly bobby had suggested that Gaston should join the Queen's colours for a while to keep him out of circulation. The pimp was connected to one of the more vicious Kosovan white slaver gangs that imported teenage girls for the sex trade in Central London.

  In Afghanistan, Gaston had come across something much older and far more dangerous than the Taliban, something that stalked and killed his section, one by one. Gaston had survived and even fought back. The Commission team that finally put down the beast had been impressed enough to recommend that the soldier be recruited. His mother was dead by then so Gaston was footloose and free. He was quietly discharged from the ranks on health grounds and disappeared into the Commission's tender arms.

  Gaston sat on the floor in the back of a battered van with three others. "For Christ's sake stop drumming your fingers, MacDowell," he said.

  "Sorry, Sarge," MacDowell said. He guiltily placed his hand in his lap.

  Gaston closed his eyes again. The one thing a soldier learnt was to sleep when he could. You never knew when the chance might come again. The spearmen who followed Achilles knew this, as did the legionnaires who marched behind the Caesars. The important things never change.

  The mobile vibrated in Gaston's pocket. He pulled it out and checked the message. It read simply 'She's in.' "Okay, boys," said Gaston. "It's on." He would have preferred to wait for daylight to deal with a Code Z but his orders were precise.

  The van might have looked old and battered but the side door slid back in well-oiled silence. The four men debussed and moved purposely towards the cottage carrying bulky equipment. Two of them moved to the front door while the others knelt down in the garden. Gaston inserted a device into the door lock. A light flashed on the equipment, briefly illuminating black body armour, topped by a helmet with a reinforced visor.