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Without exception, every visitor to Xanetteia thought the same thing – why do the smelliest, ugliest creatures in the universe get to own and live on such an exquisitely beautiful planet? Because Xanetteia was beautiful – everyone believed so – and it had many visitors keen to bathe in the warm waters of the twelve oceans and relax beneath a sky that was forever pink and forever clear.
Perhaps it had been the beauty of the planet that enticed Petross to dally there? Perhaps he was blinded to the ugliness of its people and felt no revulsion when he raped Sytor’s grandmother? Whatever the excuse, Sytor had reason to be glad because, without Petross’ dalliance and his brief encounter with his grandmother, Sytor would never have been born and would not now be contemplating the possibility of a great future.
He recalled his time as a child on Icarrion - under the care of his great grandmother, queen Aggerron - as the best years of his life. He was treated with the greatest of respect and he soon developed a taste for the trappings of power. He was considered a prince, indulged and pampered, and – if it hadn’t been for his unnatural hunger – he would’ve stayed there and, most likely, been accepted as the heir to the throne.
He thought wistfully of his fond memories of Aggerron and, remembering her cruel words and the insensitive manner in which she banished him, he couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that he had always continued to hold her in high regard and still refused to hear a bad word said against her. He thought that he had probably broken her heart when his deviant personality and his aberrant appetite became known and, thoughts of what might have been, always put him in a foul mood.
He had begun the day inspecting the mercenaries who had rallied to his banner. There were fewer than anticipated, but they still made a fine sight standing to attention with their weapons drawn and their expressions fierce.
When he’d enquired why there was a dearth in their numbers – and been told that Damanacree and his Platton mate had secured four thousand warriors with bids outweighing his own – he’d felt the slow burn of anger crawl beneath his skin.
He frowned, clenched his fists and resisted the urge to sink his teeth into the neck of his general.
General Swazzik was a reserved, stiff-faced mercenary from Earth. He had five hundred of his best men, and a further thousand rounded up from planets across two galaxies, and he had brought them to Xanetteia in the hope of making his fortune. He’d met with Sytor briefly on Icarrion before they’d travelled to Xanetteia together, and – despite the gold the Xanetteian was throwing his way – he had decided during the journey that he couldn’t stand him. He was too full of his own importance and the stupid little slug actually believed that he knew better than he did about the strategies of war. He’d had the audacity to lecture him on siege warfare – believing that laying siege to the royal castle on Icarrion was the best approach – and then took great pains to explain his reasoning in great detail. It was actually quite painful for the general to listen to him because, quite frankly, he spoke utter rubbish.
Now, he was faced with a side of him that he despised even more – the spoiled side, the vicious side – and he had a feeling that he was being sized up to provide him with his next meal.
‘I was promised double the numbers you brought, sir,’ Sytor said through gritted teeth. ‘You should not have permitted Damanaclee to steal thousands of them from beneath your nose.’
‘He hardly stole them,’ the general returned. ‘He bought them, fair and square.’
Sytor raised his voice in protest. ‘They promised themselves to me. They had no right to...’
‘They had every right. Sell-swords make no secret of the fact that they go to the highest bidder. Lord Damanacree offered them twice what you bid.’
‘So, why are you here?’ Sytor’s voice dropped and it now held a petulant air. ‘And, the fifteen hundred you brought? Why didn’t you all sign up with Damanaclee?’
General Swazzik wondered that himself. In reply, he merely shrugged.
They eyed each other, ill at ease. Sytor set his jaw and decided to let it pass and find some unfortunate creature somewhere else to torment instead.
‘You may take your leave,’ he said stiffly. ‘See that the troops stand-by for my orders.’
Swazzik nodded curtly, turned and marched away.
Sytor watched him go and felt a moment’s envy. The planet Earth made her men tall and wide. Sytor had yet to see one less than six feet tall, and Swazzik was no exception. He begrudged the general his brute strength, razor-sharp brain and commanding presence - all the more so because the soldier’s attributes emphasised his own deficiencies – and he hated himself, just a little, for having to depend on him.
He had yet to decide on a plan of action. Fifteen hundred mercenaries – regardless of their qualities and regardless of their general’s skill – were no match for the Icarrion army. They would be slaughtered if they attacked head-on and, as Swazzik had no interest in his plan of setting siege on the royal castle and starving them into submission. So, what to do, he thought sombrely? He could, of course, seek the general’s counsel and ask him straight-out what they should do, but his pride wouldn’t allow it.
He grit his teeth, feeling the anger begin to chew at his insides. Life was so unfair. He had royal blood pulsing through his veins and, yet, his dominant Xanetteian genes had ensured that he inherited no physical Icarrion traits. It meant that he garnered no respect from any species other than his own. No Icarrion, or Plutonian, or Earthling would stand downwind of a Xanetteian and neither would they dream of showing them any form of affection, such as a handshake, a hearty slap on the back, or a hug. No wonder I eat the bastards, he thought to himself, ignoring the fact that he ate far more of his own kind.
Being surrounded, moon in and moon out, by mirror-images of himself constantly brought it home to him that he was little more than a pariah. His obsession with attaining the Icarrion throne would, in some great measure, be an antidote to his self-loathing and, if they still didn’t love or respect him, he would, at least, have their fear.
The sky was a deeper shade of pink than normal as he made his way from the make-shift mercenary camp back to his home, which foretold a storm. Sytor hated the rain. It always left the atmosphere humid and that caused him to sweat more than normal – and, with increased perspiration, came increased body odour. Most Xanetteians didn’t smell their own stink, but Sytor was only too aware of it. No matter how often he bathed, or how much he doused himself in sweet-smelling perfume, his nose always found the underlying stench leeching from his pores. The smell of those around him often made him nauseous and that was one of the reasons he had never found a mate. He could bear the odour wafting from the females much less than he could the males and the thought of touching them made him retch.
He had abandoned his mother and his sisters when his father died, and he inherited his title and his lands. From that time on, he refused to have females in his home, and it gave him not a moment’s grief that he never had to bear the sight, smell or touch of any member of his family again. He was surprised, therefore, to see his older sister loitering at the gates to his house.
He stopped several paces from her and held the corner of a sleeve to his nose. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came with news,’ she replied. ‘It’s about mother.’
‘I have no interest in news of her, Syrrolla. You’ve had a wasted journey.’
She shook her head and stared sadly out onto the street. ‘I don’t know why I thought otherwise, brother.’
He stared hard at her. ‘You were always an optimist and always ended up bitterly disappointed. I’m sad to see that you never learned.’
She had no comment to make on that.
‘Just give me the news of mother and then leave. I’m busy.’
‘Will you be too busy to attend her funeral?’ she asked, looking at him once more.
He waited a beat, then said, ‘She’s dead, then.’
‘Two moons ago. Her heart just stopped. It was sudden.’
‘There was... there was no pain?’ His voice faltered.
‘No.’
With mixed feelings, he said, ‘Wait here and I’ll fetch gold enough to pay for the funeral. Get her a stone and flowers... she liked flowers.’
‘She loved orrillia blooms. Do you still have them in the gardens?’
‘A few, I think... blue ones.’
The unpleasant smell emanating from her caused his nose to twitch and his expression wasn’t lost on her.
‘I bathed before I came,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘I couldn’t afford to purchase perfume. I know how my smell offends you.’
He turned his back on her and pulled open the gates. ‘I’ll send a servent out with the gold. Farewell, sister.’
‘You won’t come to the funeral?’ she called after him.
‘No,’ was his curt reply.
He dreamed of his mother that night and woke with wet eyes. She had been kind to him and, even after she realised that he had cannibalistic tendencies, and even though he threw her out of the house with nothing but the clothes on her back, she’d refused to condemn him.
He didn’t fully understand why he’d acted so cruelly. She had only ever shown him love. He thought it was because she had always refused to acknowledge his royalty or accept his ambitions. And, then, of course, there was the smell.
‘Lord?’
He snapped out of his reverie and hastily wiped his eyes. His body servent stood in the doorway to his bedroom, a letter in his outstretched hand. ‘Just delivered, Lord,’ he said. ‘The seal says urgent.’
‘Bring it here, fool. Would you have me climb from my bed and walk to you?’
‘No, Lord.’ The servent approached fearfully. Sytor had been known to smite more than one servent and take a quick bite without warning, so he was careful to maintain a safe distance and almost threw the letter onto the bed before backing hastily away.
It was a note from Swazzik, requesting his immediate presence at the camp. Damned impertinence, Sytor raged inwardly, having digested the words. It was just as well that his servent had been cautious or he would have found himself missing a few fingers.
He decided to take his time. There was no way he was going to go scampering over to the camp just because his general... his general had the audacity to summon him as if he was of no import.
It had rained the night before and the sky was still heavy. The scent of wet grass was sweet in his nostrils as he made his way through the town, heading east to the forest where the soldiers were camped.
The soldiers were relaxed. They sat in groups or lay sprawled next to small fires, snoring and farting, and there was no sense of any form of military discipline. No one paid him any heed as he stepped around and over them and, when he enquired as to the whereabouts of the general, he was met with blank stares.
His temper worsened with each step that he took. It was obvious that not a single soldier knew who he was or – if they did – they obviously didn’t care. He was handsomely lining their pockets with gold and they didn’t even have the decency to answer a simple enquiry. Well, he thought... let’s see what the lash will do to their manners. He would order Swazzik to set an example by flogging one or two of them and then he was sure he would see a change in their attitude.
Swazzik, of course, wouldn’t hear of such a thing. When
Sytor found him poring over a map of Icarrion in one of the hastily erected tents pitched on the banks of the river, he paid his grievances no heed and disabused him of the notion that flogging was acceptable.
Disgruntled, impatient and more than a little humiliated, Sytor was forced to listen as the general rattled off a series of demands that left him speechless.
‘I can’t just summon up atomfire weapons,’ he blustered. ‘And, how many ships are you demanding... four? Impossible.’
‘We need four because I want to split the troops and land at four different points on the planet. See here...’ he pushed the map forward. ‘One ship can land behind the hills to the east of the capital, a second...’
‘Yes, yes... I can see that you have thought about it and made your plans, but you’ll have to reconsider. I can get you two ships, but not three and not four.’
Swazzik stared at him open-mouthed. ‘Are you serious? You want to invade a planet, go up against not one, but two armies, and all you can muster is two ships?’ He shook his head. ‘I think you might be a little out of your depth.’
‘Perhaps at this precise moment, yes, but what if we wait until Damanacree takes a swipe at Serillia? Serillia will swipe back and both their forces will be reduced. Then... then we lay siege to the royal castle and it won’t matter how many ships I have.’
‘Do you have siege engines? Without ships to lay down fire and offer protection, a siege won’t work. You need ships, or engines... preferably both.’
‘Are... are you saying it’s hopeless?’ Sytor frowned. ‘Have I no chance?’
Swazzik cleared his throat and took his time to answer. ‘We need ships... that is a given. We also need atomfire and siege engines. None of these things are impossible to attain, surely?’
‘I... I could make enquiries of my allies here on Xanetteia, but there is only so much support that they are willing to give.’
‘Well, without the ships and the atomfire and the engines...’ He shook his head sombrely. ‘Without them then, yes... it is hopeless, and you have no chance.’ He met Sytor’s aggrieved face with hot eyes. ‘These allies of yours... you have to convince them that half-measures are not acceptable. They either go all in, or...’
‘Or, I walk away from them?’
He nodded. ‘You can find allies elsewhere... perhaps those who would prove to be less expensive to you in the long-term.’
They stared at each other, wordless now that it was clear what was required.
‘You cannot wait too long,’ Swazzik eventually said. ‘You will begin to lose your army. Many will slip away to join Damanacree unless...’
‘Unless?’
‘Unless you pay them to stay.’
‘I pay them to do battle, not to sit idly around their campfires.’
‘Then, you know what you need to do.’
Sytor licked his thin lips and furiously wracked his brain for a solution. He had received no true confirmation that his patron - the Lord Palovier - had struck a bargain with his counterpart, Lord Vensawaa, and, even if they had, Sytor was beginning to understand just how expensive their alliance would be to him. Swazzik intimated that allies found elsewhere would be less demanding and, should he find them - and should he convince them to join with him - he was sure that they wouldn’t demand the same compensation from the rape of Icarrion land.
‘Do you know where I might find allies?’ he asked at length. ‘I’ve yet to discover any species who would choose to work closely with a Xanetteian.’
‘You forget yourself, Lord, for am I not here? Are my soldiers – who I found from across the far-flung corners of the universe – not here?’
He drew a long breath. Swazzik was right. Why was the damnable man always right? Gold bought allies just as well as it bought mercenaries.
‘You could consider romancing your cousins on Asson.’
‘Those imbeciles?’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘What could they give me? What could they offer?’
Swazzik tried not to show his disappointment. Sytor was really quite ignorant and his lack of knowledge was mind-blowingly frustrating. He’d heard that the Xanetteian had a network of spies to rival even that of the Icarrion, Cantor, and, yet, he had no understanding of what his Asson cousins could offer him. He contemplated leaving him in ignorance. He was now quite unsure as to whether he wanted to remain in his employ.
‘You are silent, Swazzik. What holds your tongue? What could my cousins offer me?’
Set-faced, he deigned to reply, ‘Atomfire, my Lord. Both cousins own atomfire mines. And, ships. Granted, they are not war ships, but cargo vessels, but they have room enough to transport many thousands of soldiers.’
Sytor’s mouth worked and he felt a crushing humiliation. He realised that he should have known that about his cousins. His ignorance astounded him, and he couldn’t find the words to absolve himself.