by PJ Strebor
“Five years in Battersby is a death sentence for most Cimmerians.” Ning’s normally pallid face had turned red with fury. “Once they remove his medication, a human wouldn’t last a day in such conditions.”
“I’m sorry,” Trumper said, “but it was the best I could manage.” She stared at Nathan. “I am sorry, young man.”
Nathan nodded. “I thank you for your efforts, Madam Ambassador. I assure you, however, if I am going to die on this rock, I will not go to my grave with the taste of Cimmerian butt on my lips.”
“Eileen, there must be something you can do?” Ning pleaded.
“If there was anything, anything I could do, I assure you, Sylvester, I would do it.”
The ambassador’s aide mumbled something to her. She shook her head. “No, Hester, that is not an option.” The Cimmerian female said something else that Nathan could not make out. “No, Hester, and that is an end to it.”
“As a party with a vested interest in the current proceedings,” Nathan said, “I’d be interested to hear what Hester has to say.”
“Ensign, believe me, this is not a solution. I give you my assurance you would not like my aide’s proposal.”
“Yeah, but you get that.” Nathan leaned forward and waved for Hester to join him on the couch.
CHAPTER 39
The Cimmerian Royal Court assaulted Nathan’s sense of decency. It reflected, in its white marble columns and ornate carvings, the sort of thoughtless decadence Cimmerian royalty had become infamous for. While the majority of the population lived in squalor, the elite spent the mining royalties on this kind of indulgence.
As the six Athenians and one elderly Cimmerian entered the great hall, Hester leaned in to Nathan’s ear and whispered the words one last time. Nathan nodded impatiently. Everything Nathan had learned about this world came down to this inquisition. Courage and strength were imbedded into the Cimmerian psyche. It would be terminal folly to show weakness to any of them.
The hue from the white marble walls, columns and domed ceiling lit the room with an incandescent radiance. Hundreds of Cimmerians, dressed in the finest of Bretish hand tailoring, lined the concourse and multi-tiered gallery opposite the raised royal dais.
The others peeled off and took their seats while Ambassador Trumper and Nathan marched to the steps beneath the dais. Captain Haynes stood beside them. He glanced at Nathan and, surprisingly, did not smirk, sneer or scowl. Odd.
Three gaudily clad Cimmerians sat in ridiculously ornate, high-backed chairs; the king, naturally enough, occupied the most flamboyant of thrones. The ambassador had told Nathan that his judgment panel would consist of the king, the crown prince and the lord high chancellor.
Nathan knew the protocol by heart. Ignoring the Athenians, the chancellor nodded to Haynes. Ambassador Trumper and Haynes bowed from the waist. Survival mode kicked in as Hester’s words came to mind: “Never show weakness to a Cimmerian.”
The chancellor jumped to his feet. “You.” His finger struck out at Nathan. “You will bow before the rightful monarch of Cimmeria.”
“No thanks.” Nathan crammed as much of his lethargic Kastorian into the two words as he could muster.
“It is protocol that must be observed,” the chancellor yelled. “You must bow.”
Nathan threw his head back and laughed so loudly his voice echoed around the enormous chamber. The ambassador grabbed him by the sleeve. “For God’s sake, Telford, do the fucking bow.”
“You must bow,” the chancellor repeated.
Nathan yanked his sleeve from the ambassador’s grasp and glared directly at the king.
“Who’s going to make me!” he shouted.
“Ambassador Trumper, this is an outrage,” the chancellor screamed.
Trumper looked ready to yack.
“The outrage,” Nathan said, “is this pretentious excuse for a court.” He turned to face the crowd. “Cimmerians, you walk erect?”
“We walk erect,” a few of the crowd responded.
“Then why doesn’t your legal system. I am to be judged by three Cimmerians whose only legal standing is their self-appointed positions? Really?”
A mumbling from the gallery, some with dissent, most with curious approval.
“The posture of your judiciary is anything but erect. More bent, if you follow my meaning.”
A few subdued chuckles. Nathan took in the sea of faces. Some grimaced at his audacity, some smirked at his courage and some, more than he could have imagined, nodded their approval.
“I am Nathan Telford and I bow to no man, no Cimmerian. If Captain Haynes, who has brought these charges against me, wishes me to bow, then he should make me bow.” Weakened from his recent ordeal, Nathan fought back a giddy spell. “I evoke Kan nok tui.”
A hush fell over the assembly. The king jumped to his feet and marched to the edge of the dais. “You will not speak those words, outlander. They are sacred words from the old time, only to be used by Cimmerians.”
“Bullshit!” Nathan roared. “According to Na Guin, the greatest of all Cimmerians, Kan nok tui is to be used to settle disputes between rivals. Not Cimmerians, not humans, but rivals.” He glared at the monarch. “You are a student of the great one’s words, yet you lie for your own means. I have evoked Kan nok tui and you will accede to my challenge or you will disrespect the memory of Cimmeria’s greatest leader.”
King Everett appeared to be beside himself with rage, and if it were possible for a Cimmerian to turn redfaced with infuriation, he would have.
“Captain Haynes,” the king cried, “do you accept the challenge?”
Haynes glanced at Nathan and shook his head ever so slightly. “I do, Your Majesty.”
“As the challenged party, you may choose the weapons.”
“I choose swords.”
Nathan’s heart leapt. His small hope faded when two of the enormous broadswords were placed on a bench.
Haynes removed his long-tailed jacket, handed it to an attendant, then selected one of the swords. He swung it about with practiced ease.
Nathan barely managed to get his hands around the hilt and pull it from its scabbard. When the blade slipped off the edge of the bench, it dropped to the marble floor with a sharp clang. A few laughs echoed from the balcony seats. Try as he might, he could not lift the sword. Grasping the hilt with both hands, he swung it across the smooth floor and used its momentum to swing it into the air and drop the flat side onto his shoulder. His knees trembled and he straightened them. Under normal circumstances he could handle the sword, but within Cimmeria’s unforgiving gravity, he had no chance.
The king had regained his seat, an expectant smile forming on his thick lips.
“Your Majesty,” Haynes pleaded, “he can’t even lift the sword.”
“He made the challenge,” the king said around a smile. “Do your duty, Captain.”
The chancellor faced the opponents, a satisfied expression replacing his previous fury. “The challenger will face the king’s champion.”
King’s champion?
“Captain Haynes, Ensign Telford, you may commence at your pleasure.”
Haynes held the sword with the blade facing away from Nathan and stepped in close to him. “I want you to know, before I kill you, that this tribunal was not of my choosing. You fought bravely. Don’t move and I’ll take your head cleanly.”
“Very decent of you.”
Apparently, Haynes didn’t get sarcasm.
Haynes stepped back, swung the sword through the air several times, held it in both hands behind his right shoulder, then stepped forward and swung it at Nathan’s neck. The blade passed over his head so close it shaved hairs. The tremendous momentum carried the massive blade past him. Nathan applied every gram of tensioned muscles to slide the flattened blade along his shoulder. Haynes’ head snapped around in time to catch the hilt of the sword directly between his eyes. Nathan’s hands stung as if he had struck battle armor. Haynes staggered back, but did not go down. Nathan struggled
against the weight of each step as he closed with the stunned Cimmerian. His vision began to blur, and his knees threatened to buckle. Digging deep within himself, he summoned that part of his stubborn resolve that refused to yield. With one last mighty effort, he slammed the hilt onto Haynes’ forehead. The captain’s head snapped back and he fell. Compelled by his forward inertia, Nathan followed. He staggered to the floor next to the Cimmerian, his sword clattering onto the marble floor.
A great cheer erupted from the gallery.
Nathan rested on his knees until his breathing slowed and his vision cleared. Resting his hands on his knees, he forced himself to stand and face the king. His focus kept fading in and out.
A pall of deathly silence descended over the palace.
The chancellor spoke into the king’s ear. The monarch nodded.
“Finish this.”
“What?”
“Kan nok tui is to the death.”
Had he misunderstood the instructions?
Nathan stared at Haynes’ unconscious body, feeling sick with fatigue. He doubted if he could lift the sword again. Then he saw the bone-colored handle sticking out from Haynes’ belt and retrieved his missing knife. What had Hester said about the challenge? Nathan felt nauseated by what he was about to do but saw no option. Unsheathing his blade, he began his grisly task, relieved that Haynes did not awaken.
Nathan pushed himself to a shaky, standing position and held the guard captain’s right ear up to the waiting audience. They gasped.
“Kan nok tui is to the death,” the chancellor said. “You must finish your opponent off or lose the bout.”
“Once again you lie,” Nathan spat. His vision blurred and he took a deep breath. “In a dispute, Kan nok tui does not call for death. It calls for an appeasement of honor.”
“The son of Telford speaks the truth.” A loud voice from the gallery.
“Honor has been appeased,” said another.
A rumbling of dissent echoed throughout the palace. This could go either way. Stepping up the stairs, he glared at the king and threw the bloody ear at his feet. “There is your tribute ... Your Majesty.” Turning on his heel, he walked unsteadily down the stairs.
“Stop, you cannot—” the chancellor began.
“The son of Telford speaks the truth.”
“Honor has been appeased, as the teachings demand.” Another voice.
“The son of Telford shows mercy to a fallen enemy.”
Within a growing cacophony of shouted protests, Nathan staggered to his group. His knees gave way and he fell into their arms.
CHAPTER 40
Date: 22nd March 322 ASC.
Position: Royal Navy destroyer Ascot. Patrolling hyperspace within the outer Cimmerian exclusion zone.
Status: Alert Condition Three.
“Contact, Captain,” the tactical officer said.
Captain Imelda Thorpe turned from the conversation with her first officer.
“Hyper or normal space?”
“Hyper, Captain,” the tactical officer said. “A large displacement wake. Fading behind.” He collated readings before making his report. “More than one vessel. They are on a heading toward Cimmeria and appear to be slowing.”
“Very well,” Captain Thorpe said. “Helm, roll us over, begin emergency braking and prepare for egression. Comm, contact Commodore Dilley at the outer marker picket. Apprise him of the situation and advise that we are investigating.”
“Captain, the bogie is definitely slowing for egression.”
“Very well. Navigator, what’s out there?”
“Nothing but clear space, Captain.”
“Comm, inform the picket of the coordinates. Request that additional vessels converge on our location. Action stations.”
The sleek destroyer took twenty-two minutes to come to a full stop, reverse course and egress to the bogie’s last estimated position.
“Egression complete, Captain,” the helm officer said.
“Helm, keep us close to the egression point and be ready to get us out of here.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” the helm said.
“Tactical, full active scan.”
As the T-O acknowledged, Thorpe wondered what the mystery ships were up to. If they were enemy vessels, they would not have egressed this far out from Cimmeria.
“Captain, I have them. Transferring coordinates to the helm. I show five heavy battleships, configuration unknown. We are within their torpedo envelope.”
“Helm, are the hyper generator buffers fully charged?” Thorpe asked.
“Yes, Captain, we can egress within ten seconds.”
“Very well.” Thorpe took a long breath. “Comm, open a channel to the bogie.”
“Channel open, Captain.”
“To unidentified ships, this is Captain Thorpe of the Royal Navy destroyer Ascot. Please identify yourself.”
Ascot’s bridge tingled with anticipation as the communications lag time ticked by. Would they receive a reply to their hail, or a salvo of torpedoes? Finally her comm bleeped.
“Captain Thorpe, thank the maker. I am Admiral Didak of the battleship Righteous Hand, Fifth Fleet, His Name’s Talgarno Navy. We seek asylum.”
Alistair Hodges, Thorpe’s first officer, raised his eyebrows.
“Admiral Didak,” Thorpe began cautiously, “Talgarno has refused all contact with League representatives for the last thirty years. Now you are requesting asylum?”
“Captain Thorpe, Talgarno has fallen to the heathen forces of the godless Pruessen Empire. We were ordered to surrender without firing a shot.” She paused, then said, “We chose not to obey. Captain, we have our families aboard, together with several thousand Talgarno citizens who refuse to live under Pruessen oppression. Can you grant us sanctuary, or must we turn toward Athens?”
“Stand by, Admiral Didak.” Thorpe turned to her first officer. “What do you think, Alistair?”
“I don’t think a force of that size represents a major threat, Captain. If they’re who they say they are, we can tuck them away somewhere for the regulation quarantine period, then let the bureaucrats sort it out.”
Thorpe nodded, deep in thought. “If they are who they say,” she repeated.
“Weapons officer, load one probe torpedo and configure for a slow circuit of the bogie.”
“Comm, put me through to Admiral Didak.” The comm panel beeped. “Admiral Didak, this is Captain Thorpe.”
“Yes, Captain Thorpe.”
“I am sending a probe to your location. This is not an attack. We simply need to ascertain that you are who you say you are.”
Again the communication lag time dragged. “Very well, Captain. I would do the same thing if I were in your position.”
“Thank you, Admiral. Please stand by.” Thorpe nodded once to the weapons officer.
“Probe away, Captain,” she said.
“Very well. Tactical, put it on my screen.”
Initially, only the sight of dark space and the odd flitting star greeted her. Then, slowly, the shape of the six warships began to form.
“Slow it down, and give me a three-sixty rotation.”
As the image sharpened, the state of the Talgarno squadron became apparent. None of the massive vessels was without battle damage. Two of the once-powerful warships displayed massive, elongated hull breaches that gave the impression of ships torn asunder, then hastily patched back together.
“Good Lord, Skipper,” Alistair gasped. “They must have been in one hell of a fight.”
“Admiral Didak, you have sustained battle damage.”
“The Pruessens did not like the idea of us leaving.” A pause that had nothing to do with lag time. “But, if you think we look bad, you should see the other guy.”
Alistair chuckled.
“Admiral,” Thorpe said, “I would love to send medical assistance to you, but under quarantine regulations I am unable to do so.”
“I expected as much, Captain. We will manage somehow. We are Talgarno
s. We always manage. How long is the quarantine these days?”
“Forty-five days, I’m afraid.”
“Well, it can’t be helped. At least we’re not slaves, like the rest of our people. That’s something … I suppose.”
“Yes.” Thorpe wanted to say more, but could not bring herself to do so. Others, further up the chain of command, would decide what to do with the last of the free Talgarnos left in Tunguska.
CHAPTER 41
Date: 22nd March 322 ASC.
Position: Athenian Consulate. Capital city of Panthera. Planet Cimmeria.
Status: Recuperation.
Nathan stared through the environmental force field at the night sky. He locked on to the brightest star, which hung high above the western horizon. The spot between his shoulder blades throbbed.
“How are you feeling, Nathan?” Doctor Ning asked.
“Better, thank you, Doc. Whatever you shot me with is bringing me back to life.”
“Glad to hear it,” Ning said. “But I can’t keep pumping you full of stimulants, so try taking it easy.”
Nathan nodded. From what the others had told him, he owed his life to the old quack. During their incarceration, if Ning had not kept him upright he would have suffocated. He still hated doctors, but would give Ning a pass.
“What is that?” Nathan pointed toward the brightest star in the sky.
Ning followed his pointing finger. “That, Nathan, is the King Charles Battle Platform.”
Nathan nodded. Of course it is.
“So what’s the word?”
“The word, according to Eileen Trumper, is indeterminate. The charges against you have not been dismissed. That is only thanks to public opinion. You made quite an impression, young man.”
“The ambassador wasn’t impressed.”
“She’s a good woman, but a political creature. After we leave Cimmeria, she will have to clean up the mess.”
“The mess was here before we arrived,” Nathan said. “How do people tolerate such corruption? Why don’t they fight back?”
“Perhaps one day they will,” Ning said wistfully. “Maybe all they need is a leader to get behind.”
