Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two (5 page)

Saar turned at once. “What is that? What have you done?”

Asan looked directly at him. “If you want to watch the whole battle for the next several hours, then power has to be on. We can’t drain the short-term batteries.”

Saar cocked his head to one side, and his hand twitched uncertainly on his weapon. But another explosion caught his attention, and Asan eased out a breath of relief. He sagged back in the seat, wincing and lifting a hand to his throbbing shoulder. He was still cold and shaky. But three against one wasn’t too bad, provided his luck held.

The pressure on his mind was giving him a headache. He shut his eyes and began doing calculations. When the chance came he was going to have to shoot out of here by the seat of his pants. If he were too far off, he could launch himself past the safety margin of orbital approach and end up in the pull of that damned black hole. At least this ship was a corvette, known for maneuverability and quickness. He’d always wanted to have a try at one.

He opened one eye and thought about his chances of reaching one of the weapons lockers where strifers would be stored. No good.

“There! You see!” shouted a guard. “It is working perfectly. A three-pronged attack, just as the elders planned.”

Saar glanced at Asan. “Lli sees Tlar shame this day. Did you really expect us to save our strike until the Tlar’jen were on the march?”

Asan frowned, wishing he wore his mask. Saar barked and reached into his pocket.

“A wager, Vliin. Two food pouches to—”

It was time. Asan slammed his hands down on the controls, and the
Spitfire
lifted in a quick spin. The jolt of takeoff threw the three Bban’n to the deck, and Asan gave them no time to recover as he canted the ship to a forty-five-degree angle and sent it screaming into the sky. They tore through atmosphere, and shuddering g-lurch held them pinned in place.

Asan grimaced against the agony in his shoulder and blinked off dancing little black spots. He fumbled for web harness and strapped himself in. During that moment of inattention, Saar climbed to his knees and lifted the fire-rod, but Asan tilted the ship in the opposite direction, knocking the pon flat again.

“If you kill me now, you will all die!” he warned them.

The sound barrier bucked the ship, and they lifted with a new ease that set his boards blinking above nominals. His hands flew over the controls, setting in course coordinates without benefit of the astrogation computer. It was foolhardy, but he had no time to be sure.

The viewscreen blanked, then the auto-set recovered and Asan had a glimpse of Ruantl curving small and dark beneath a wisp of atmosphere as they reached space. The mental attack ceased with the distance, and Asan signed in relief.

“By’hia,”
said Saar, kneeling shakily there before the screen. He had lost his mask and his weapon, but at the moment he looked as though he did not care. He lifted a hand to mouth and forehead. “
Lea’dl
, have mercy upon us.”

A shrill keening came from one of the guards. Saar stepped over the body of the other and struck him. “
Chi’ka
, fool!”

But the noise grew louder. The guard staggered up, his mask gone, his yellow eyes glowing in terror. “
Ny! Ny!
We are in the hand of demons.” Spreading out his arms, he rushed at Asan, who tensed.

“Saar, stop him!”

The fire-rod spat blue death, and the guard crumpled just short of the console. Asan and Saar stared at each other. Then Saar thrust his fire-rod through his belt.

“For this moment, I am in thy hands, leiil,” he said. For the first time his voice held respectful inflections.

Asan showed him one palm, then returned his attention to his instrumentation, slowing the craft’s velocity by careful degrees. And now he did take the time to double-check himself with the computer. He found himself off by a dangerous margin, made corrections, and eased the ship down into a low, stable orbit.

When he switched to automatics and sagged back in his seat, Saar rose to his feet and came forward.

“The legends say thou are a god. I do not believe in legends since I have been released from the oppression of Anthi. Now, I believe again. What is the will of Asan?”

It was tempting to yank the
Spitfire
from orbit and send her out into deep space. But just as he had fought to keep this little ship, so would he fight to keep Ruantl. He couldn’t leave yet.

“I am going to park the ship here in orbit while I return to the surface.”

“Is there no fear in thee? To return is to become a Bban prisoner again. Why? Thou are a god with the ways of Beyond in thy keeping.”

“You have a lot of confidence in the Bban’jen.”

“It will win.”

“Look, Saar,” said Asan, switching tactics. “Your elders refuse to trust me, but I am the one who released your people from Anthi’s oppression. I’m not interested in waging war with the Bban’n. Instead I want to organize this planet into utilizing its natural resources to the fullest. And I need Bban metallurgists and miners.”

Saar growled. “I am a warrior, not a smith!”

“The
n’kai
who came in this ship, why do you think they came here?” asked Asan.

“It is not of reason. A
n’ka
surrendered his life to be the catalyst of thy resurrection. Perhaps these are also—”

“No! They are not. They will make Tlar domination under Leiil Hihuan seem as nothing if they conquer Ruantl. They possess all the ways of Beyond. They have a whole fleet of ships such as these. And ships that are even larger. They are our enemy. We must fight them together if we are to preserve our world for ourselves.”

Saar turned away, his jaw clicking. “This is talk for the elders.”

“Then help me make them understand that we must ally ourselves together. Will you do that, Saar?”

“What trick is this? Thou wish to go to the elders?”

“Yes. And it is no trick.”

Saar drew his jen-knife and held it at Asan’s throat. For a moment Asan did not even breathe. The sharp blade of green corybdium pressed against his jugular. Saar’s ugly face moved only inches from Asan’s. The stench of his musk hung between them.

“Thou are full of tricks. Thou has killed all my men, and dishonored me. Thou has taken me off the sand of my fathers into the realm of the gods. I look into thy Tlar eyes, and all I see is deception.”

“I could kill you with a glance, Saar.”

The pressure on his throat increased just enough to break the skin. Blood tricked down into Asan’s collar, and for a moment the sting of the minor cut overcame the deeper ache in his shoulder. Then Saar moved away.

“Kill me, great one. I am dishonored. I am nothing.”

“I am going to seizert off this ship back to the planet’s surface,” said Asan, choosing his words carefully. “I can return to the Tchsco stronghold to fight beside my men. But I would rather appear in the dara of your elders. I wish to speak with Uxe Ookri and Uxe Ggil. Will you be dishonored if you bring me there? I cannot find it without a sharing of your mind.”

Saar glanced sharply at him. “Share with me? A Tlar share minds with Bban?
Lea’dl
, what lie is this?”

“No lie, Saar. Just true Tlar honor. Bban’n and Tlar’n must join together. Unless we do, we are all doomed. I need your help. Will you give it?”

Saar drew himself to attention. “I will take thee to the elders. I will serve their decision. And if they say to kill thee, leiil, then I will do so. I do not help thee because thou has asked. And I shall never trust thee.”

“That is your choice,” said Asan. “You’ll regret it.”

Torchlight flamed into the night sky, throwing the rocky foothills below the Tchsco Mountains into stark images of stone and shadow. The air was still as though the desert held its breath. Asan’s cloak hung limply from his shoulders as he trudged behind Saar. He panted inside his mask, hot from his exertions of crossing the Outerlands and climbing up into the foothills. Now and then, however, as they paused for Saar to take his bearings, the cold temperature of the night sank through Asan’s bones and he would shiver. His legs felt leaden and awkward. He knew it was the loss of blood that made him weak although he had closed the wound before they seizerted from the ship. Stumbling just before he crested a ridge, he bent his knees to keep his balance and slid perhaps two body lengths in the soft black sand.

He stayed put for a moment even after he stopped sliding, drawing in deep breaths of the dusty air. It was cold enough to sting his nostrils, and he sifted through the night scents of Bban musk, distant fire smoke, and animal spoor.

At the crest of the ridge, Saar stopped and glanced back. His tall spare frame was silhouetted against the ruddy glow tinting the night sky. “Tlar?”

His growl was pitched low for Asan’s ears only. Asan sighed. An hour ago he’d still been addressed as leiil. The closer they came to the Bban dara, the less respectful Saar became.

Saar released his musk in a nauseating cloud and took big, sliding strides down the ridge to Asan’s side. Dislodged, fist-sized stones rolled past Asan. He reached out and caught one, then tossed it away. His mind felt clouded with uncertain images of a past that were not his. How many centuries ago had this body lifted its face to another night sky, one crowded with stars, and breathed in a softer, sweet-scented breeze while the soldiers sang of victory?

They were close enough now for him to hear the exultant chants of the Bban’jen. The weird ragged noise surged up and down the scale.

He had no friends; early in his life he had learned to make none, for friends died and friends became enemies. And yet, each time he looked up at the mighty peaks of Tchsco standing dark against the night sky, a terrible cry rose in his heart.

What of Fflir? he wondered. Fflir had been the first Tlar to swear allegiance to him. Fflir had ignored the lapses committed so often at first when Asan was trying to adjust to this new body and its unfamiliar abilities. Fflir drilled him in seizerting and other battle techniques. Fflir saved him from boring meetings.

And what of Ggolen and Llor and Yvn? What of Hoyee, the ancient Henan slave who woke him in the mornings? What of the arms master, the technicians, and the acrobats? What of the human prisoner Daro, whom he needed?

His fist clenched until its gauntlet stretched tightly across the back of his hand. Damn these Bban fools!

“Tlar?”

Saar tapped him on the shoulder and jumped back as Asan sprang to his feet. They faced each other in the shadows of the night, tensed and hostile in spite of their truce.

“I slipped,” said Asan after a moment, relaxing. “That’s all.”

Saar turned up his palm. “The wastes are our place.
An
. We are very close. Hear them?”

“I hear.”

“It is the song of victory. Bban’n are free. At last they have conquered the hated ones.”

Asan frowned inside his mask, wondering if Saar knew the true reason for such hatred, the reason that stretched all the way back through time to the Duoden Conflict and even further than it.

“Revenge is wasteful.”

Saar barked in Bban laughter. “Thou are angry, Tlar leiil. It is hard to lose.”

“We have all lost!” snapped Asan. “How many men died today without purpose?”

“To spread Tlar blood upon the sands is always to the purpose. For too long we have lived degraded under Tlar rule. Now we are free!”

“You fool, have you forgotten the humans already? They will make all of us slaves if we don’t band together and forget this stupid feud.”

Saar reached for his jen-knife, his musk filling the air. But although Asan tensed, Saar did not draw his weapon.

“Again you speak matters for the elders’ ears.
An
.”

“Someday, Saar, you will have to learn how to think for yourself,” said Asan bitterly. “Whether the Tlar’n control your mind or your elders, you still aren’t free—”

“Chielt,”
said Saar in scorn, and strode away.

They crested that ridge and another, then suddenly they were surrounded by a dozen or more Bban sentries, running up to them in silence. Javelins rattled in their hands. Saar flung up an arm and spoke one word sharply. The sentries fell back into a circle around them. Red eyes and yellow glowed at Asan from the shadows. He could feel the hot desire to spill his blood.

Beside him Saar drew a breath of pride. Asan could almost guess the words he would speak.

Swiftly Asan flung open his cloak so that the dim light from the sickle-shaped moons overhead glinted off the bronze insignia upon his chest. He drew his jen-knife and focused his rings into a shield about himself that shimmered a faint blue.

“I am Asan,” he said in commanding tone. “I will speak with your elders.”

They fell back, clicking to each other. Saar hissed in fury.

“Thou robs me of pride, Tlar,” he growled. “Thou—”

“I rob you only of falsehood,” said Asan. “You are not bringing me here as a prisoner. I come of my own desire. Let’s go.”

This time he was the one who strode forward. The sentries melted aside to let him pass, then followed as Saar fell in at Asan’s heels.

If he had to enter the enemy dara as leader of a defeated army, Asan supposed this was the most impressive way to do it. Head high, cloak flowing back from his shoulders, he strode down a beaten track into a valley ablaze with torchlight. He held his jen-knife over his heart to make it clear he came of his own volition and not as a prisoner. And as he passed through the tall metal stakes bearing severed heads of the tattered Slitk monks who had come during season for asylum and proclaimed him a god in a ceremony so acutely embarrassing Fflir had teased him for days afterward, Asan pretended he saw none of the spoils of war.

He stepped onto leather mats covering the trail, occasionally kicking aside a mask or gauntlet or untidy stack of fire-rods that had spilled from the large piles of loot on either side. There were more metal stakes and more heads. He kept his mask facing forward, but his eyes flicked from side to side in sick recognition. No one had been spared.

He gripped his jen-knife so hard his knuckles ached from the strain. His eyes burned hot with the urge to blast these Bban curs from existence.