Mechwarrior: Dark Age #27

‘‘This place called you?’’ Kev Rosse’s disembodied voice flowed on the heat eddies of the mammoth bonfire eating voraciously at the wood.

Rikkard jerked backward, nearly overbalancing before recognizing the humor hidden in his Galaxy commander’s words. He resettled into his cross-legged stance with exacting precision, ceremonial leathers bunching, and then stretching. ‘‘I am no Visionmaster. ’’

‘‘Of course you are not. Yet you return here. How many years since you first sought answers in this canyon? How many since you departed to attack Ozawa?’’

Rikkard looked around the place that had been known as Desolate Pass since Mallory’s World’s first colonists landed. Though he could not see them, the force of the mammoth rock walls that towered around them called to him as surely as did this spot; he glanced up, a river of stars a thin ribbon against the overwhelming blackness of the canyon walls. ‘‘Not enough. Too many. It does not matter. I seek answers where I might find them. Find strength where it may be found. And I find strength here.’’

Rikkard’s eyes bored into the flames, demanding answers, yet none came. He clenched a will as hard as ferrocarbide armor around his frustration; knew that his refusal to answer was petulance. He placed his hands upon the sandy bottom of the canyon as if to evoke the spirit of Ian Davion.

Startled by the question, Rikkard delayed answering; he drew in a deep breath of the aromatic scents of the burning juniper tree he’d dragged into the depth of the canyon. He looked up again to see his Galaxy commander looming over him.

‘‘That is what you seek, is it not? Ian Davion’s blood washed this sand more than a century ago. You wish to evoke the spirit of The Hound.’’

Rikkard nodded slowly, unable to articulate his need, the visions that drove him. ‘‘Strength,’’ was all he could manage.

‘‘What?’’ Rikkard’s anger coalesced and found a target at Kev’s demeaning of Ian Davion. ‘‘House Kurita’s Second Sword of Light was on the verge of destroying the Fourth Davion Guards. Ian Davion sacrificed himself that day to save his command. He held off and destroyed a host of enemy ’Mechs in this very canyon, before the Kurita commander himself, Yorinaga Kurita, killed Ian. What more could be asked of a warrior?’’

If possible, Kev seemed to loom larger, his eyes abruptly blazing in the night. ‘‘You are so un-Clanlike at times,’’ Kev began, stoking Rikkard’s anger ever higher, just as the sparks from the bonfire leapt and danced into the night sky on currents of heat. ‘‘Clansmen are not known for studying history.’’

‘‘Clansmen study military history,’’ Rikkard shot back. His right fist dug into the sand in frustration, as though he might dig up a shard of armor from that centuries-ago battle.

‘‘Clansmen study military tactics. They rarely study the generals involved. You reach deeper than most. You dig for the truths hidden in the generals and leaders behind the tactics that shaped the great battles of history. When first we came to Mallory’s World, you immediately set about studying the most significant military history that shaped this world, particularly the leaders involved. Which led to Ian Davion. I applaud such un-Clanlike initiative. Of all those who follow me, I see myself most in you.’’

Rikkard glanced up from the sand slowly spilling between his fingers, found Kev still looming. Hearing the words of praise, but also the tone of reprimand; braced for it.

‘‘Yet despite the eyes that see so much that other Clansmen do not, you miss a critical element of Ian’s performance. He was never just a warrior. He was the leader of his people. The Clans for too long have failed to recognize that while a leader should be a warrior without equal, he should be a warrior willing and able to place the honor and safety of his Clan before his own honor. Ian forgot that simple truth— a simple truth his brother never forgot. As you seek your answers, perhaps look to The Fox, rather than The Hound.’’

Rikkard’s mind reeled as he tried to absorb the words. While they’d discussed such things before in theory, never had his Galaxy commander spoken so plainly of the faults of the Clans. He latched on to Kev’s final comment, defensive words spilling before he could stop them. ‘‘Hanse Davion ruled using a level of treachery and trickery Ian would never have condoned. How can you say he is a man to emulate?’’

Kev’s voice hissed, eyes flashing again. ‘‘I did not say emulate. But you fixate on a single strength of a man, lauding his glorious death, when you should take that element and make it your own.’’

‘‘Hanse fought at the end of the Fourth Succession War.’’ The darkness hid the flush that spread across his cheeks at such a weak response.

‘‘Hanse Davion fought because rogue units attacked New Avalon. Attacked his home world, his capital. There could be no other response than for him to marshal his troops and annihilate such a despicable act as that treacherous invasion. But unlike Ian, he never marched into war on the front lines.’’

With a suddenness that took Rikkard’s breath away, Kev fell into a sitting position at his side, the looming specter of a Galaxy commander and his vision for the Spirit Cats set aside, leaving two warriors, old friends, to share in the intimate renewal of seeking visions in fire.

‘‘You have never spoken so plainly before,’’ Rikkard finally managed, after swallowing additional useless arguments.

A long pause. Out of the corner of his eye, Rikkard could see new lines of strain etched into the contours of Kev’s face, while his right index finger seemed to trace a pattern of its own accord in the sand.

Rikkard closed his eyes again, hands resting on folded knees, his palms turned up. He soaked up the emotions of the night. Tried to sense what Kev might be feeling . . . found . . . a hint of darkness . . . and nothing. He let out a pent-up breath, willing frustration aside. It was his constant battle.

Kev’s words drew open Rikkard’s eyes. He stretched his neck until it popped. ‘‘Because I hoped . . . My visions haunt me.’’

While sharing and potentially interpreting visions fell under the purview of Visionmaster Davik, Rikkard shared a bond with Kev—forged when Rikkard saved his life in battle and sealed by ritual—that allowed him to disclose such a sacred event.

‘‘I see a predatory bird astride a tornado moving across an endless, hot and dry landscape. It has come to me at every Rite of the Vision and Ritual of Battle, and has even saturated my dreams of late. I know it is a key to finding sanctuary for our people, but regardless of the worlds I raid or conquer, the vision remains. And I continue . . . unfulfilled.’’

Kev leaned forward and placed both hands firmly on the fine sand. The light and shadows of the dancing flames painted his face in unkind colors. You look old, my friend. Even as a Spirit Cat, a member of a Clan that looked upon age in a different light than any other Clan, Rikkard was shaken by the thought.

The companionable silence stretched, and soon Rikkard mimed the Galaxy commander’s position, pushing his hands smoothly into the rough grains. A light wind blew through the canyon as the night wore on, driving the flames higher and casting a shower of sparks like an offering of light to the ever-present darkness.

Muscles rigid with stress smoothed and relaxed under the soothing hands of the cool breeze. In the presence of Kev’s utter relaxation, the frustrations Rikkard kept banked like the embers of a cooking fire flowed away, as though enticed into the open through patience and dedication of spirit.

He opened his eyes. Looking down, he saw he’d slumped forward until his forehead rested in the sand. As he slowly straightened, his eyes slightly widened when he saw how far down the fire had burned. He turned to find Kev regarding him with his head cocked to the side. ‘‘How long?’’

He considered for several long, deep breaths as he stretched his tired neck and shoulder muscles. His skin pimpled hard, the cold night air sucking away his body’s warmth. ‘‘No, not nothing. Peace.’’

Kev smiled. ‘‘All too often warriors—Clan or spheroid, we all fall prey—lack patience. You have the vision, the key. You simply need to find the door. And I know you will.’’

Rikkard glanced at his longtime friend in surprise. ‘‘I did not think there was humor in my statement.’’

Rikkard’s eyebrows rose questioningly, drawing a laugh from Kev that cut through the night. At the sight of his friend—his Galaxy commander, who carried the weight of the Spirit Cats on his shoulders as the Clan tried to find sanctuary in a universe at war—laughing, Rikkard left his confused thoughts unspoken.

Warriors’ eyes met for long seconds; then Rikkard nodded firmly. From Kev Rosse, that was all that was needed.

He stood slowly, testing tired muscles. From here he would walk to the hoverjeep that would take him to the waiting DropShip; once a decision was made, there was no need to wait, no long good-byes for friends, for warriors.

Yet he paused in midstep, glanced down and made a quick decision. Traveling to Prefecture VII would take him a hundred light-years and more from this world, whose history seemed to draw him like a moth to flame. And abruptly, with a conviction that matched his epiphany, Rikkard knew he would never visit this world again. Success or failure, my path will not lead to this place.

With firm motions he grabbed his small canteen, took a long swig and dumped out the rest of the water before filling it with several scooped handfuls of sand. Regardless of the truth of Kev’s words, Ian Davion epitomized the strength of will that any warrior could wish to emulate. If that is the only thing I take from Ian, I will take it.

He grasped the canteen firmly between both hands. ‘‘Strength.’’ He nodded once and strode off into the night.