The Cliff
The academy dormitories were set in a quadrangle to the west of the main buildings and the training fields. The dorms where the cadets slept and ate were more modern than the academy proper. Soz entered hers through tall doors of dichromesh glass polarized to mute the intense sunlight. Inside, she walked down a spacious hall peering at her mesh-card. Directions scrolled on its surface, informing her to cross a white and chrome lobby, wherever that was. She looked up just in time to keep from running into a column with hologlyphs announcing the dinner menu tonight in the canteen.
She did see the lobby beyond it, though, an open area with displays of historical objects like ancient Jumbler guns or gauntlets worn a century ago by early starfighter pilots. After wandering through the lobby, she entered a common room with blue couches, white walls, and holo murals of the pale Dieshan sky, sometimes blue, sometimes hazy red. She kept going, squinting at the mesh-card, with a glance up every now and then to keep from running into unyielding objects. Beyond the common room, she entered a long hall with murals of the Dieshan desert that were darkening, their time of day apparently set to match the actual day outside.
She found the room she sought, fourth on the right.
Soz stood before the door, contemplating. Its mural showed the Redstone Cliffs in the mountains above the academy. She hesitated, uncertain what to expect inside. Had her roommates arrived yet? Supposedly DMA chose the four of them for compatibility, based on their psychological profiles.
Even so. They had only her preliminary exams and those nebulous Assembly dossiers Colonel Tahota mentioned. Soz felt unprepared.
“You going to dawdle there all year?” a curious voice asked.
Soz spun around. A young man stood behind her, his dark hair curled haphazardly on his forehead, very nonregulation. He could wear it long enough to pull back in a queue, as she would do, or he could cut it short. Having it stick up in appealing curls wasn’t in the rules. He had spoken Skolian Flag, the language they would all use here, since they came from so many disparate backgrounds.
She put her hand on her hip. “Who are you?”
He laughed, his dark eyes crinkling. “I’m the person who lives in that room you’re staring at with such ferocity.”
Her cheeks flamed. She had known male and female cadets might be assigned to the same rooms, but she hadn’t expected it to happen to her. They all knew fraternization meant expulsion from the academy. Why the blazes they bunked men and women in the same quarters if they didn’t want them to misbehave was beyond Soz. Well, almost beyond. In combat, they would have to live, fight, and survive together. They had to get used to it now, when their lives didn’t depend on how well they dealt with the situation.
Even so. She couldn’t live with this person. “You can’t be my roommate.”
“I might not survive it, eh?” His grin flashed. “With a glare like that, you could incinerate me.”
Glare indeed. She hadn’t even used a mild one. “You hardly look burnt.”
“I have state-of-the-art heat shielding. You can land me from orbit and I won’t burn up.”
Soz couldn’t help but laugh. “Sounds useful.”
“It is.” He offered his arm. “I’m Jazar Orand.”
She extended her forearm, grasping his elbow while he grasped hers. “Soz,” she said. “Soz Valdoria.” She liked him, mainly because he wasn’t cowed by her glare. It scared off most people in Dalvador, except Ari, but she was thoroughly fed up with Ari, who hadn’t even said good-bye.
“Greetings, Soz.” He indicated the door. “You do the honors.”
“All right.” She pressed her thumb into the lock and the door slid open with a hum. It relieved her that it responded; it would have been mortifying to go through all this with Jazar and then find out the door wasn’t keyed to her fingerprints.
Soz walked into the room. Well. So. Two bunks stood against the blue wall next to her, one on top of the other, each covered with a dark green holo quilt, and another two stood against the opposite wall. Four deskconsoles took up most of what little space remained, top-notch stations of white Luminex, with screens, comms, displays, and flat areas where they could study. The outline of four narrow lockers showed in the wall to her right; to the left, the bathroom door stood ajar, revealing a tiny cubicle beyond. What caught Soz’s attention most, though, was the room’s sole holo mural, the brilliant image of a Jag fighter soaring above the Red Mountain starport.
She motioned at the mural. “That’s gorgeous.”
“Yeah.” Jazar grimaced. “It makes up a little for the rest of the room.”
“Ah, well.” She walked inside. “We’re the lowly novices. We should be grateful they let us sleep indoors.”
“You mean you don’t know?” His eyes gleamed as he followed her. “We have to camp out on the track every other night.”
“You laugh now,” Soz said darkly. “Just wait. If you get one demerit, they’ll make you clean spamoozala.” Even the best filters couldn’t completely counter the endless plague of junk mesh-mail, commonly known as spam-ooze or just spamoozala. Sometimes humans had to get into the cesspools created by overworked EIs and clean out the junk.
“Gods.” Jazar gave her a look of horror. “I know you five minutes and already you threaten me with a fate worse than—than catching the flu.”
“No one catches the flu.” That wasn’t absolutely true, but it was so rare that she hardly recognized the word.
He flopped down on the lower bunk bed next to the door. “I caught a cold once.”
Her mouth opened. “No.” She went to the opposite bunk and sat on the lower bed. “You’re making that up.”
“It’s true. It was a mutated strain. None of my nanomeds caught it.”
“What was it like?”
“Miserable. The station master quarantined me in our house.”
“Station master?” That intrigued her. “Where did you live?”
“Habitat. It’s called Taurus-delta, after the Taurus star system. It orbits the fourth planet, a gas giant.”
“You grew up on a space station?”
“That’s right. This is my first time on a planet.” He reddened. “I mean, I’ve visited planets before. I just never lived on one.” He sounded disconcerted.
“It’s my first time living away from home, too.” The word clanged in her mind. Home. She no longer had a home.
Voices came from outside. They passed the room and went on down the hall.
“Are many other novices here yet?” Soz asked.
“More by the minute,” Jazar said. “I was one of the only ones yesterday, but they’ve been pouring in today.”
“Good.” Remembering home dimmed Soz’s mood. She felt oddly uneasy when she thought of her father. Something was wrong. It had to be an effect of the way she had left home. Except … somehow that explanation didn’t seem right.
The voices were coming back this way. They resolved into two people speaking Skolian Flag, a man and a woman.
“The number must be wrong,” the woman said. “Mine says you’re one of my roommates and this is my room.”
Jazar gave Soz a mock wide-eyed look and mouthed Invasion! Before she could reply, two people appeared in the doorway: a sturdy young man with black hair pulled into a queue at his neck, black eyes, and dark skin; and a lean young woman with a round face and a cap of red hair that wisped around her face in another nonregulation haircut. The girl carried a duffel over her shoulder.
“Heya,” Soz said.
“Heya,” Jazar said.
“Are you both assigned here?” the woman asked.
“Seems so,” Jazar said.
“Looks like it,” Soz said.
The four of them all regarded one another. Then the youth with the queue said, “I’m Obsidian.”
The woman motioned at herself. “Grell.”
Jazar grinned. “Hey! Greetings, Grelling. Obsidian. I’m Jaz.”
Soz smiled. “I’m Soz.”
“Heya, Soz, Jaz,” Obsidian said.
Grell gave Jazar an unimpressed look. “No one calls me Grelling.”
“Fair enough,” Jazar said. “You two our roommates?”
“I think so.” Obsidian lifted his mesh-card. “Someone put the wrong room on this. It already has four people.”
Soz brought up the names of her roommates on her card. “Mine lists you, Grell, Jazar, and me.”
Jazar was studying his. “Same here.”
“Mine, too.” Grell gave Jazar a wicked grin. “It says Grell, Obsidian, Sauscony, and Jazzing.”
“Jazzing?” Jazar smirked. “You know, I learned some Earth languages. In English, ‘jazzy’ means you’re ultra to the redshift.”
“Only in your dreams,” Grell said.
Soz blinked, baffled by the slang. She kept quiet about her lack of savvy; no need to give herself away as a rube.
Obsidian snapped his card. “I should go get this fixed.” He nodded to them. “Jaz, Soz, Grell. Got it.”
“See you,” Soz said.
With a wave, Obsidian took off, striding out into the corridor. Grell strolled inside and hefted her duffel on the bunk above the one where Soz was sitting. “So you two are Soz and Jaz. Sounds like twins.”
“Soz.” Jazar nodded to her with approval. “Good name.”
“Jaz.” Soz flashed a grin. “I approve.”
Grell snorted. “I’m glad you approve of each other.”
“Soz approves of you, too,” Jazar said.
“And why is that?” Grell asked.
Soz motioned at Jaz. “Because you gave him a hard time.”
Grell laughed. “I’m good at that.”
“I don’t know about this,” Jazar said. “If you’re both always this hard on me, my life is going to be rough.”
“It won’t be that bad,” Soz said. “You get to room with the two smartest novices in the entire class.”
Jazar snorted. “Modest, too.”
“The three smartest,” Soz said, smiling.
They set about moving into their room then. Her duffel had already arrived; she found it stowed in one of the lockers. Soz left her comment about smart novices as a joke, but it was actually true. She and Obsidian had the top scores in the incoming class. This morning she had grown bored waiting for the EI Clerk of the Novices to complete her formal registration, so she had wandered into a public console room and entered the academy mesh. Splitting open its security had been easy, at least compared to hacking the ISC orbital defense mesh at home.
About once a year, Colonel Corey Majda, commander of the Lyshrioli orbital defenses, would send an irate message to Soz’s parents, informing them that ISC security had caught their wayward daughter fooling with secured meshes again and would they please do something about this. For Soz, a grave session with her parents and Majda would follow, where they sternly admonished her misbehavior. Soz always tried to look contrite, but she never fooled anyone. Then they would make her go work at the starport, cleaning mechbots, which was truly vile.
She always behaved herself after such a session. All would be quiet for many octets of days. But the bug of curiosity would keep nibbling at her, and soon she would start poking the ISC systems again. In her childhood, it had all been a game, but more recently she had begun to see why it troubled Colonel Majda, as she better learned the significance of the ISC “toys.” They were part of a system that protected an interstellar empire, and her ability to compromise them posed a threat to security. She made a suggestion to Majda then: let her infiltrate the system so they could patch the holes she found. To her surprise, both her parents and Majda considered it a good idea. Once they started using her as a consultant, everyone had been a lot happier.
Soz intended to behave at DMA, follow orders, walk a straight path.
She wanted to do this right. In addition to her insatiable curiosity and constant urge to push boundaries, she also had a pronounced sense of right and wrong. She appreciated better now that splitting open mesh systems wasn’t a game. Besides, she had heard the rumors; for all that DMA cadets were notorious for hacking academy webs, rumor also claimed the brass always caught and disciplined the offenders.
She really did intend to behave. But she hadn’t been able to resist splitting open the academy mesh with statistics for the incoming class. She learned a great deal, including that she and Obsidian had the highest scores on exams designed to measure eight types of intelligence: memory, pattern recognition, visual perception, mathematical, emotion, artistic, verbal, and creative. Most DMA cadets scored high in emotional intelligence: empaths generally did and every cadet had to be a strong empath. Soz had high scores in every category except artistic, which didn’t surprise her. Obsidian easily topped her there, and to a lesser extent on the verbal. Words had never been her strong point, either. Grell and Jazar were top-notch as well. DMA had put four of its best novices together. She hoped it was done for compatibility and not to set them competing against each other.
Soz also discovered she wasn’t the only novice with notations in her record for challenging authority. Many of the novices had individualist tendencies. Some might think it an odd trait to select for at a military academy, but it made sense to her. Jagernauts were the rebels of ISC, the pilots who faced the enemy solo, part of the unique Jag-pilot brain that neither machine nor human alone could match. Together, they formed a weapon unlike any other used in human warfare, one that relied on more independence, more sheer cussedness, than any other unit in ISC.
It was the only way they could survive.
Eldrinson tested the heft of his sword. He hinged his hand, folding it lengthwise so his four fingers could grip the hilt, two from either side. It felt the same as always; if Vitarex or his men had tampered with the weapon, he detected no hint of that. His sword arm felt stiff, but the gash hampered his movements less than he expected, at least so far.
He was grateful he hadn’t brought his best weapon on this ride. Roca’s
people had constructed a sword for him, designing it from a nano-doped alloy according to his specifications. Vitarex would recognize it as forged from a technology far more advanced than anything available to a typical Lyshrioli native. It also had diamonds, sapphires, and amethysts in its hilt, a wealth no farmer would carry on his belt. Fortunately, he hadn’t expected to need a sword. He had brought one more out of habit than anything else. This was a practice weapon, well forged by the blacksmith but obviously a product of this land and culture, with no adornment other than the spicedragon’s head molded into the hilt.
Vitarex didn’t seem to notice his prisoner’s clothes were of a finer cut than most farmers wore. Eldrinson suspected his rustic garments were so much rougher than the elegant apparel Vitarex associated with aristocracy, the Aristo couldn’t distinguish the subtle differences between them and the clothes of a less well-appointed farmer.
Four men guarded Eldrinson, the surviving half the octet that had captured him two days ago. They brought him to a clearing in the endless forest that covered the wild lands northwest of Rillia. This camp had about fifty men, their tents scattered through the trees. Some wandered over as Eldrinson warmed up, and he kept discreet watch on them while he practiced. If he was lucky, he might see someone he trusted enough to signal for help; if he was unlucky, someone would recognize him and tell Vitarex.
He caught vague impressions from the men, though only if they were close to him. No one seemed to suspect Vitarex. From what he overheard, he gathered that they believed the Aristo was a Bard from a province distant enough that they didn’t recognize its name, Hollina. Pah. An absurd name. It convinced these people, though. Some followed Vitarex because he paid well; some because he intrigued them; and some because they expected he would become a power in Rillia.
At least no one else here was a Trader. ESComm had succeeded in planting Vitarex on Lyshriol, but he was probably on his own. He had to remain hidden and draw no attention. The moment ISC became aware of his presence, his mission failed. He would go after his quarries, the Ruby Dynasty, by stealth. Should he discover he had the Bard in his possession, his job became that much easier. He could extract a great deal of information from his prisoner, learning every secret and nuance of Dalvador.
Eldrinson gritted his teeth. Given what he had seen of Vitarex’s sadism, the prospect of an interrogation by the Aristo terrified him. Whatever the cost, he had to remain silent and anonymous.
Patches of sky showed through the glasswood trees, but the clearing was too small to have much open space above it. Unless the flyer went directly overhead, it wouldn’t get a visual sighting of him. He had no idea about the range of Vitarex’s shrouds, but the Aristo had succeeded in keeping him prisoner for two days. It implied he had a disturbingly effective system. Eldrinson had begun to fear Vitarex might succeed in taking him offworld as a Trader slave.
He warmed up and tried to work through the aches in his arms, legs, and back. At least he had slept several hours and had eaten a soup of sour bubbles brought by the young woman. He felt stronger now, better capable of moving, still far from his best, but at least able to fight. The wound in his arm had begun to heal, aided by his nanomeds. In that, he was fortunate Vitarex hadn’t given him more treatment; so far the Aristo hadn’t done scans that would detect the meds in Eldrinson’s body. It was certainly possible a farmer here could carry them; the ISC doctors made health care available to everyone on Lyshriol. But it could make Vitarex suspicious enough to investigate further.
The men across the clearing stood in a cluster, talking and chewing jaco-spheres. A large warrior with yellow hair pushed his way through them and strode into the clearing. He stood a head taller than Eldrinson. It made Eldrinson glad for all the times he had trained with his sons, learning to deal with their great reach and strength. This man wore full disk mail, the metal glinting in the sunlight that sifted through the trees. A massive sword hung at his hip, metal guards circled his wrists and forearms, and studded boots protected his legs. Eldrinson felt exposed, wearing only his shirt, trousers, and riding boots. However, the fellow looked like he was carrying half the metal in Rillia. It would give Eldrinson the advantage of speed.
The warrior surveyed him with a critical eye. He made no secret that what he saw didn’t impress him. Eldrinson doubted he had any idea his opponent had spent the last two days bound to a pole, kneeling or lying in a contorted position.
The forest rustled behind Eldrinson, its stained-glass disks crinkling.
Puzzled, he glanced back over his shoulder—and saw Vitarex leaning against a ruby glasswood tree. Sunlight slanted through its inflated disks, casting red light across the Aristo’s face. Breathing deeply to steady himself, Eldrinson turned away. He felt Vitarex’s anger spark; providers never turned their back on the Aristo without permission.
Eldrinson’s challenger walked around the edge of the clearing, his gaze intent. Curious at the man’s approach, Eldrinson paced away from him, also along the perimeter. After several moments, the man stopped and reached across to the sword at his right hip. He slowly drew the blade, letting Eldrinson see its full heft and length. Eldrinson supposed the oaf was trying to intimidate him. Yes, it was a big sword. So what? The thing had to weigh more than a pregnant lyrine.
Holding his sword in his left hand, Eldrinson moved toward the center of the clearing. He and his challenger halted a few paces apart, facing each other.
Then the man lunged.
Eldrinson easily evaded his drive. Their blades rang against each other, the clang vibrating in the air. The fellow was slow. Yes, he had strength; within moments Eldrinson’s already sore arms burned with the effort of deflecting his blows. His opponent had probably vanquished many men through sheer power. But brute force could only take a fighter so far; anyone with a reasonable amount of skill could best this leviathan.
Within moments, Eldrinson sent the man’s blade flying out of his hand. Then he lunged forward, his sword tip at the man’s neck. “Give,” he said.
His opponent raised his hands palm outward, the traditional acknowledgment of defeat. With an exhale, Eldrinson lowered his sword. He inclined his head to the man, honoring his efforts, and his former challenger did the same for him.
A dry voice came from behind him. “Well, that was boring.”
Eldrinson turned around. Vitarex stood a few paces away, his arms crossed. He spoke shortly. “You win the first round.”
Eldrinson held back his smile. “It seems so.” Vitarex might know far more about interstellar intrigue than his captive, but when it came to swordsmanship, the Aristo had no clue. He had obviously expected his stronger champion to win.
Vitarex narrowed his gaze at Eldrinson. Then he looked past him, across the clearing, and motioned to someone. Eldrinson turned around as another man stepped into the clearing, also large, but less heavily armored than the previous. Nor did his sword look as heavy. Eldrinson studied his moves, noting his agility.
They met in the center of the clearing. Eldrinson parried his thrusts with caution, assessing the fellow’s style. This challenger had more innate talent than the last and better speed, but his level of skill wasn’t much higher. Eldrinson took advantage of his many weaknesses, the way his sword drooped when he swung to the left, the awkward way he parried blows from above, his inexperienced footwork. It didn’t take long to send his sword flying.
After his opponent acknowledged the win, Eldrinson glanced at Vitarex. The Aristo was leaning against the tree at the edge of the clearing again. Eldrinson couldn’t sense much from him, especially now that he had moved farther away, but he had the impression it both annoyed and intrigued Vitarex that his prisoner so easily defeated two of his supposedly best swordsmen.
Eldrinson’s third opponent wielded his sword with his right rather than left hand. He otherwise had little more skill than the previous two, but the man’s unusual style, coming in at unexpected directions, probably made him successful as a fighter. Eldrinson didn’t really care. Many of his sons were right-handed. For some reason this was a common trait among offworlders. He had plenty of experience with such opponents and easily defeated this one.
Vitarex was growing more annoyed and less intrigued. Eldrinson couldn’t untangle the unpleasant maze of the Aristo’s mind, but for some reason Vitarex found it offensive that an empath exhibited prowess with a sword. Eldrinson couldn’t see what being an empath had to do with anything. True, it helped if he could judge his opponent’s mood. But empathy in combat was a weakness more than anything else. Experiencing the fear or hatred of his enemy disturbed him; feeling them die was devastating.
His fourth opponent actually knew how to fight. They parried back and forth across the clearing, Eldrinson driving hard, wearing down his endurance. His aching muscles slowed him down and sapped his strength,
but when he went into combat, he tended to blank out pain. Roca said it happened because of his adrenaline. Well, perhaps. He had never really understood adrenaline, but he did know that all his concentration focused on the fight.
It took longer this time. Eldrinson’s injured arm felt heavy and slow. He finally managed to trip his opponent. The fellow went sprawling, losing his sword, and Eldrinson stood over him, his weapon ready to pierce his heart. His flustered opponent quickly acknowledged him as the victor.
Vitarex was not pleased.
Eldrinson stiffened as his fifth challenger entered the clearing. The boy was hardly more than sixteen, just a slender youth with pale yellow hair. He reminded Eldrinson of Shannon, who might be wandering in the mountains, lost and in trouble because his father had failed him, first leading him to believe he was unwanted and then becoming a prisoner instead of finding him.
Suddenly the boy lunged. Eldrinson almost didn’t parry in time. The youth could have cut off his arm. Vitarex had finally figured out he wasn’t going to succeed in humiliating his captive with hulking warriors who were as slow as molasses; this one moved like liquid silver. And Eldrinson had no doubt now that Vitarex wanted to humiliate him. The Aristo didn’t just feed on physical pain, he hungered for the emotional as well.
As they engaged each other, lunging back and forth across the clearing, Eldrinson found himself pulling his blows. Their match lasted longer than his previous fights. It drained what remained of his strength. Exhaustion slowed him down and seemed to make his sword weigh more. In the end, he bested the youth on sheer skill, but it was close. Had the boy been more experienced, Eldrinson would have lost.
After his challenger left the field, Eldrinson stood in the center of the clearing, sweat pouring down his face and soaking his clothes, his chest heaving with his strained breaths. When boots scuffed on the ground, he tiredly raised his head, knowing who he would see, but looking anyway with a morbid fascination.
The Aristo stopped several paces away. “You smell unpleasant.”
“Tie a man up for two days without a bath,” Eldrinson said, “then work him this hard, and yes, he will stink.”
An unpleasant smile spread across Vitarex’s face. “I have more challengers for you.”
Eldrinson pulled himself up straight. He doubted he could win another match; he had reached his limit. But driving himself to exhaustion was better than being tied up. The longer he stayed out here, the better the chance Roca and Brad would locate him.
Vitarex left the field, idly motioning to a man among the audience. Most everyone in camp had gathered around the clearing by now, about fifty men, Eldrinson estimated. In octal. Forty, in decimal. He wondered at his mental state, that he was doing numbers in his head when he should be readying himself to fight. His opponent walked into the field—and Eldrinson froze.
He knew the man.
Eldrinson had ridden into battle with him, laughed with him, drunk ale with him, fought at his side. His name was Tarlin and he had long served as a warrior in the army of the Rillian Bard.
Tarlin raised his sword in a salute. “Ho!” With a grin, he added, “So we meet as competitors, eh?”
Gods no. Tarlin was about to give away his identity. Eldrinson stared hard at him. Don’t reveal me. Tarlin was no psion, but if Eldrinson concentrated enough, he might send an impression to the other man. Don’t give me away.
Tarlin hesitated and his forehead furrowed. Eldrinson continued to stare, his posture and expression implacable so Vitarex wouldn’t suspect. Tarlin’s smile faded, but into anger rather than comprehension. He apparently took the intense silence as a rebuff.
Eldrinson tiredly lifted his sword, then lowered it again. He couldn’t best Tarlin. He had managed a few times in the past when he had trained with Lord Rillia’s men, but he was too exhausted now. Tarlin was ten years younger. Physically, they were evenly matched, or would have been had Eldrinson been in his top form. The “cell repair nanomeds” Roca’s people had put in his body delayed his aging and kept him fit, making him a tough opponent even for a younger man. But today Skolian tech wouldn’t be enough.
They approached each other and halted a few paces apart, each in a half
crouch. They lunged forward in almost the same instant. As soon as they began to fight, Eldrinson knew Tarlin was restraining his attacks. His friend might not understand the situation, but he seemed to realize something was wrong. They parried around the clearing, engaging and disengaging, metal vibrating when the blades met. Eldrinson’s fingers throbbed as he clutched the hilt of his increasingly heavy sword. Even the hinge in his hand hurt.
Tarlin stepped in fast, right up to him, and Eldrinson barely had time to bring up his weapon. His blade caught Tarlin’s, both swords pointing up to the sky, Eldrinson and Tarlin pressing in on each other, their faces only a few finger spans apart. They strained, each trying to break the impasse, to free his sword, neither able to wrest free.
Eldrinson whispered, “Help me.”
They broke apart and stumbled backward. Eldrinson staggered, then lost his balance and sank to his knees, his sword hitting the ground in front of him. He tried to lift it, but he had lost even the strength to pull it up out of the glitter they had trampled into a dirty powder.
Tarlin stood a few paces away, his sword lowered, his chest heaving. Eldrinson stared dully at him, then he raised his hand, palm outward, accepting defeat. Tarlin inclined his head and Eldrinson did the same. With relief, he let his aching arm drop to his side again. Then it was over.
“Well, well.” Vitarex’s voice oozed. “You put on a better show than I expected.”
He looked up. Vitarex stood a few paces away, obviously pleased to see his pet empath humbled. Eldrinson wanted to punch that smirk off his arrogant face. The Aristo’s only saving grace was that he had no empathic ability; otherwise, he might have picked up the added tension between Tarlin and his captive. Eldrinson knew he should stand, if only to save his pride, but he was so very, very tired. As his adrenaline abated, he became more aware of the pain in his body. Every lunge, parry, blow, and counterblow had exacerbated the aches. His muscles were on fire.
“Ah.” Vitarex let out a long breath. “That is better.”
His nausea surged. It surely had to rank among the most heinous mistakes of the universe, that monsters such as Vitarex had built the greatest empire known in human history. The only advantage Roca’s people had
against the Traders—the reason they hadn’t fallen to that massive empire—was the Kyle web, a mesh outside of spacetime where the speed of light was irrelevant. He had never understood why that mattered so much, but right now, staring at Vitarex, he was immensely grateful for that advantage. He had no intention of giving this Aristo a Rhon psion who could make a Kyle web for the Traders. He would rather die.
Vitarex waved his hand at Tarlin. The Rillian warrior bowed stiffly, with a glance at Eldrinson. Then he left the combat field.
“Get up,” Vitarex said.
Clenching his teeth, Eldrinson struggled to his feet. Even at his full height, he was a head shorter than Vitarex. The Aristo studied his face as if searching for answers to the mysteries of empaths. He motioned to three men, members of the octet that had captured Eldrinson, and they took up positions around their prisoner, for all appearances an honor guard. Their tension radiated to Eldrinson’s mind. He gritted his teeth and hoped they saw his hatred. He would never forget they had murdered his men. Ah gods, Jannor, my friend.
Tarlin stood on the sidelines, watching them. Perhaps he sensed trouble. If he rode with Vitarex, however, he couldn’t still be a member of Lord Rillia’s army. Eldrinson had no idea where Tarlin’s loyalties lay, whom he would protect first, his new master or his old friend. That he hadn’t yet revealed Eldrinson might be promising, but it could also mean he preferred to speak to Vitarex in private.
The Aristo spoke to his men in a low voice. “Take him to the tent.”
“As he was?” one of the man asked. “Bound?”
“Yes.” Vitarex’s eyes glinted. “Exactly.”
“No.” Eldrinson rasped the words as one of the warriors reached for his sword. He pulled the blade back and lifted it at his side. He couldn’t bear to be bound to that pole again.
Vitarex spoke with no trace of sympathy. “Recall an oath you made to me, empath, when I agreed to this competition. Remember the consequences.”
Sweat trickled down Eldrinson’s neck. He had no doubt Vitarex was capable of quartering him alive. The only way to ensure the Aristo didn’t kill him would be to reveal he was a member of the Ruby Dynasty. Which
he would never do. He walked a narrow path now, with death on each side. He didn’t want to die. He wasn’t that desperate. Yet.
With an exhale, he relinquished his blade. The Tyroll warrior took it with no expression. As Vitarex and the three men escorted Eldrinson to the tent, his nausea increased. He couldn’t go back to that agony, bound day and night, especially not after the beating he had taken in the competition. He had bought himself a few hours of respite, but he had ended up in worse condition than when he started. He also felt that strange sense of dislocation that presaged his seizures. He needed his medicine, and if they put him back in that tent, tied to a pole, he wouldn’t get it. In his youth, before Roca’s people had treated him, he had suffered bouts of status elepticus, or continual seizures coming back to back, one after another. If that happened now, it could kill him.
To the east, the Backbone Mountains were visible through the trees and drifting spheres. Would Vitarex kill him if he ran? Perhaps. But if he let Vitarex tie him up again, he might lose his last chance to escape. Although they were only ten paces from the tent, they had gone beyond the reach of the other warriors in the camp. Only Vitarex and these three men guarded him.
Eldrinson quit analyzing—and ran.
He sprinted between the two warriors. One reacted faster than the other and almost caught his arm, but Eldrinson jerked away in time. He raced through the forest, his hair whipping back as he dodged through the trees. His adrenaline had to be pumping again, because he no longer felt pain. Feet pounded after him, but no one called for help. It didn’t surprise him; an alert would reveal he was a prisoner rather than a guest. Whether that would hurt or help him, he had no idea. He thought of shouting, but he knew a good chance existed that it would only make his situation worse.
He broke out of the forest into a meadow of bubble-tipped reeds that he trampled as he ran. If only Roca or ISC would fly overhead! They couldn’t miss the clouds of sparkling dust or airborne spheres. He didn’t dare waste the time to look back at his pursuers, but he felt their anger. Vitarex need have no doubts about these two warriors; their loyalty to him was strong.
A bluff rose up ahead with stubby reeds sticking out from its stone
faces. He wasn’t certain he could outrun his pursuers, but he could outclimb almost anyone. He veered toward the ridge, sprinting hard, hoping his surge of energy lasted long enough for him to make it to the top.
When Eldrinson reached the small cliff, he leapt up and grabbed a jutting rock, bearing his weight on his good arm. As he scaled the bluff, he risked a backward glance, in time to see the warriors reach the bottom of the ridge. Vitarex had stopped a short distance back—
And was raising an EM pulse gun.
Panic sparked in Eldrinson. He wasn’t used to thinking in terms of guns, not even after his son Althor had slaughtered over three hundred men with a carbine above the fields of Tyroll. Eldrinson had suppressed his thoughts of Althor and Soz, knowing his children would face worse than this if the Aristos captured them. But in blocking that portion of his mind, he stopped thinking in terms of interstellar weaponry. The men below couldn’t strike him with a sword up here and the wind blew up here enough to deflect an arrow, but none of that mattered to a laser or projectile gun.
No matter. This remained his best choice. He kept climbing, praying death didn’t tear him apart.
Except Vitarex didn’t shoot him—he shot the bluff.
The entire cliff face exploded. Eldrinson flew backward amid a shower of debris and torn reeds. He had one curious moment where he soared peacefully through the air.
Then he hit the ground.
The world collapsed on him, rocks pounding his head and shoulders. A long stone slammed against his eyes and he screamed as the world went dark. Boulders crashed on his legs. He was lost in a swirl of noise, tumult, and pain.
Gradually the noise lessened. Pebbles showered over him, then nothing. Everything remained dark. He could hear nothing, feel nothing, move nothing. He floated. His mind rose into the sky. Looking down, he saw himself crumpled beneath the broken remains of the cliff. Large boulders covered his legs, and his body lay twisted at an odd angle relative to them. Other rocks had hit his face. He felt sympathy for the dying man below, but he didn’t want to stay here. He drifted up …
A tall man knelt next to the body. Unease stirred in Eldrinson. That
man—who was he? Vitarex. The Aristo pushed back his sleeve, revealing some sort of offworld gauntlet. He removed a slender tube and pressed it against the neck of the dying man …
“ … come on, breathe.” Vitarex’s voice came through the fog in Eldrinson’s mind. “I order you to stay alive.”
Eldrinson would have laughed at the absurdity if he hadn’t been in such agony. It crashed in on him, all that pain in his legs and back. Unbearable, it was unbearable.
“Gods,” Vitarex whispered. “Just how strong a psion are you?”
Other voices came to him, faint, hard to decipher. Someone pressed a cool object against his neck. It hissed like a syringe. He wanted to float back into the air, to escape this terrible pain, not only in his body, but also knowing that if his children were ever captured by Aristos, they could suffer this way. That knowledge was far worse than the agony in his legs.
Another hiss from the syringe. His thoughts grew hazy.
He slipped into oblivion.