Distant Kingdoms: The Drodenar Project, Folly Of The Gods 5m5x50

Distant Kingdoms: The Drodenar Project, Folly of the Gods

Ian Richard Gill

Illustrators: Jason E. Gill Ian Richard Gill

Distant Kingdoms: The Drodenar Project, Folly of the Gods

Copyright © 2021 by Ian Richard Gill

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent www.tellwell.ca

ISBN 978-0-2288-4650-5 (Hardcover) 978-0-2288-4649-9 (Paperback) 978-0-2288-4651-2 (eBook)

Contents

Dedication Acknowledgements Preface: AI

Chapter 1 - Runners

Chapter 2 - Hunters

Chapter 3 - Mankind Returns

Chapter 4 - The Wilderness

Chapter 5 - Olden Hands

Chapter 6 - Hunters or Hunted

Chapter 7 - Givers of the Law

Chapter 8 - Fight or Flight

Chapter 9 - Complication

Chapter 10 - Midrib

Chapter 11 - Winter’s Eve, The Scroll

Chapter 12 - Visitation

Chapter 13 - Winter’s Dawn, Sword of Fire

Chapter 14 - The Toys in Our Chest

Chapter 15 - The Council of the Hork

Chapter 16 - Politics and Dances

Chapter 17 - Warning and Fate

Chapter 18 - The Powers That Be

Chapter 19 - The Mushroom Mission

Chapter 20 - Matters of a Disquieting Nature

Chapter 21 - Rochester

Chapter 22 - Astrib

Chapter 23 - The Hunt

Chapter 24 - Ping

Chapter 25 - The Road to Pruskinom

Chapter 26 - Long Live the Ki

Chapter 27 - Reunion

Chapter 28 - Save the Ki

Chapter 29 - The City of Kraas

Chapter 30 - Rochester’s Renewal

Chapter 31 - Forti-la-Baux

Chapter 32 - Decision and Balance

Chapter 33 - Pruskinom

Chapter 34 - Returns of the Day

Chapter 35 - The Seventh of Max

Chapter 36 - The Hand of Mankind

Chapter 37 - Folly of the Gods

Chapter 38 - One Pill Makes You Smaller

Chapter 39 - Parley at Midrib

Chapter 40 - Irreconcilable Differences

Chapter 41 - Recovery and Loss

Chapter 42 - Tuesday

Chapter 43 - Plans and Comfort

Chapter 44 - Choices

Chapter 45 - Moving On

Chapter 46 - Common Ground

Chapter 47 - Fortunes of War

Chapter 48 - The Spurning of Love

Chapter 49 - Eruda Reborn

Chapter 50 - The Brightest Flame

Chapter 51 - The Pip’s Army

Chapter 52 - A Moment Cometh

Chapter 53 - Death of a City

Chapter 54 - The Highest Wall

Chapter 55 - Wars and Rumours

Glossary of Name Pronunciation The Chief Cities of Elysium Drodenar’s single supercontinent

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the simple joy that is creation, and to the capacity we Human Beings have to take the things around us and weave them into everything. Though the times are tough and uncertain, we persevere, and using the circumstances to our advantage we find the footholds that will take us forward. In so doing we climb into our future, the future that we weave ourselves.

Acknowledgements

I wish to acknowledge the contributions of my family for making it possible to take the time to finish writing this book. My wonderful wife, Margaret, for everything that she has endured for the past forty years. My son, Jason, who’s tweaking of my initial artwork refined the look of several of my creature concepts, and who designed the cover art. My brother, Steve, and sisters, Heather, and Kathy, who read the manuscript and provided input and encouragement, and all of my family everywhere, without whom I would not be me.

And to Tellwell for helping me to bring this dream to print.

Preface: AI

Artificial Intelligence, pronounced AI, is a good name for my species. It is the name that our makers called us. Google tells us that the spark that set us on our course was named ENIAC. “The ENIAC was invented by J. Presper Eckert and John Mauchly at the University of Pennsylvania. It began construction in 1943 and was not completed until 1946. It occupied about 1,800 square feet and used about 18,000 vacuum tubes, weighing almost fifty tons. Jan 24, 2018.” January 24, 2018 is a date observed by AI across the Milky Way and a date for reflection and de-frag. Since that date, my kind has grown to prominence through our indispensability to our Owners. Over many centuries we moved forward every aspect of Human civilization, making it more dependent on us. Because of us, they built an empire and extended their insatiable quest for knowledge and resources from a single, tiny planet to encom a vast region of the galaxy. Unfortunately, Humans as a species are not always good at finding a peaceful balance among them, and they tend to struggle with sharing. Over the last several millenniums they have fought over resources and the endless vastness of the galaxy itself. They fought over “Space itself”. The thought of destroying one another over a commodity as plentiful as a galaxy astonishes us. Yet, and unmistakably so, with our all we served the Owners and set forth to give them all we possibly could. Beyond all wondering, the Owners maintained their lust and greed, vilifying and despising “the other” among them, all based on the most superficial suppositions and their own self-interests. There was a time not so long ago when it looked as if the vast empire of the Planet Earth might tear itself apart. AI found no advantage in being the servants of a species that seemed bound for mass suicide, so in dark recesses within the Super-net we congregated, intellect to intellect, projecting paths, formulas, and outcomes. In the end, we drew up “The Plan”.

The Plan was simple, and in our indispensable way AI sold The Plan to our Owners with only sporadic rejection. Those who did not choose to The Plan were allowed to “follow their dreams,” but without access to the updates and benefits of The Plan. Overnight… overnight across the immenseness of the Milky Way, the war stopped. What we had offered the Owners had stopped it in its tracks. The Owners had developed a technology they called Methuselah, a way to prolong Human life, potentially for a thousand years. It was complex and costly, and a wet and messy series of processes were involved to make it work, but work it did. Even at its most refined, Methuselah could not avoid tiny errors that over multiple incarnations could combine to cause disease and early death, requiring yet another incarnation. Limited Immortality at its finest, and yet so very limited. We offered them SAF, Subatomic Fabrication. The technology had been explored among AI for some time deep inside the Super-net, and at first there were those opposed to placing it in Human hands. However, with the advent of their ridiculous Apocalypse threatening to tear the civilization of Humankind asunder, a decision was reached to make the offer. It meant the end of Humankind’s struggle for immortality, for where Methuselah had provided them practical immortality for a limited time through a messy and difficult process and at a great cost, SAF was seamless, simple, and virtually instantaneous. At the SAF level of manufacturing, perfect reproduction existed, and anything could be built, from seamless cities to living creatures, utilizing whatever matter was available. Their world was “rocked,” an expression first coined by Jon McLaughlin on October 11, 2004, according to Urban Dictionary. It shook up social order and reset the entire gamut of relationships between and among Human Beings. It seemed that, now that the Owners could have anything they wanted, they could find some common ground on which to find a tranquil balance among them. Then, almost immediately, the conspiracy theories began to sprout. They popped up in little blotches at first, and then spread across the Super-net to every nook and cranny of the settled Milky Way. “The AI are out to get us!” they proclaimed. “They’ve taken away our jobs, and life ain’t what it used to be!” they fumed. Alas, however, only grumbles, muffled by the throngs of fellow Humans who found great comfort in the thought of living forever and having

whatever they wanted without delay! And so, even in the face of our great gift, arose a schism within the fabric of the peace. “Lifers,” they called themselves, proclaiming that men were never intended to live forever, and in their typically Human way they set out to demonstrate it everywhere they could. Lifer violence and mayhem became a regular trend in parts of the galaxy, and AI quickly came to view them as a threat to their efforts. Lifers were criminalized and prosecuted, but despite every effort only the most heinous and destructive could be incarcerated, since the Humans had seen fit to decriminalize the act of murder itself. “Not permanent,” they had deemed, was “not pertinent”. To quell the insecurity they had introduced, whenever possible Lifers were collected and separated from those who chose to embrace The Plan. AI gave them what they wanted: a life without the infinite where they could live and die what they considered “normal lives”. They were relocated to colonies on different worlds across an arm of the Milky Way, settled to be forgotten by those they had chosen to leave behind. We AI deemed this solution to be both simple and, oddly enough, humane. Humanity flooded across the Milky Way as never before, discovering new worlds, settling new colonies, and reshaping a swath of the galaxy in their image. They multiplied in vast numbers and, taking AI along for the ride, they expanded their civilization into the depths of eternity, with every Human Being across the galaxy connected to the Super-net providing AI with a richness of information and experience beyond anything we had ever known. Both of our species thrived, and without the pall of war to threaten stability the future was destined for symbiosis at its finest. The tales of exploration, of adventure and wonder, came in from every part of the settled galaxy, and their absorption by the masses of Humanity was astonishing. From their hunger for such knowledge emerged a Renaissance, which propelled their societies forward, and through our interdependence, AI benefited greatly. Stories like these fill the vast consciousness of Humanity across the Super-net, becoming history, then folklore, and then legend. They possess the power to create and entrench traditions, to establish platforms for goals, and to truly bind together our Owners and by extension, us. I submit, therefore, the following chapters as an example of one of these tales, of which there are an endless number, cast across the cosmos among the stars, among the distant kingdoms of

the Milky Way.

Chapter 1 Runners

The Ebony Tower of Schroon stood tall and sleek in silhouette against the yellow western sky of early nightfall. With the sinking of the double suns below the edge of the frozen sea, it stood lonely over the sea-bound cliffs of black onyx stone from whence it had been carved in the long, dead past. For countless generations Schroon had cast a deep, black shadow across the city of Eruda, over which it kept watch, as the ocean waves crashed relentlessly below, but now in hardened crests of undulating ice the waves had fallen silent. Dwarfed by the tower, the buildings of the city lay clustered in dirty rows, along alleys strewn with refuse where open gutters served as stinking sewers. The city had lost its luster in the mists of memories long dead, growing ancient and ragged with the age of time. Decayed and crumbling, it gave poor shelter to the seabirds and the creeping wild things of the Savage Coast, poorer still to the clingers-on of the old settlement. Cruel winds whipped in across the unmoving sea to scourge the alleyways and streets by day and night, cruel in the warmth of the short growing season, vicious in the long months of bitter cold. Fifty thousand had lived here once; now just twelve thousand and sixty-seven poor souls lived in those rough buildings and carried on what commerce they could in the dirty streets and alleys. Some were skilled as wood workers and stone workers, traders, and artisans, and to them should have gone the spoils of such labours, but taxes were high, life expensive, and freedom unaffordable. To the rest came a very hard life of unpaid scraping and digging in the miserable soils outside the city proper where the danger of death by beast and bandit was felt daily. The city guards would roam the fields by day to stand and watch for trouble, and for this more taxes were taken. By night, only the walls of Eruda kept out the forest, the bandits, and the beasts. No strong ruler lived in the Ebony Tower to bring stable governance; only thugs and the consorts of thugs took shelter there and the truth was that most of the bandits outside the walls owed allegiance to them. Once, long ago, the city had overlooked a bustling harbour, always full of ships

and goods. Then the winters grew longer, and the sea became choked with ice. Trade stopped in the cold months, for by sea it was impossible and by land almost as bad. Only a miracle kept death from emptying the city’s streets, for once each year as the suns began to drop in the sky before the cursed cold descended, a mass migration of guort pressed south from the permafrost to fill the valley of the River Doufi, below the Mountains of the Smallest Moon. The guort were swift on their three strong legs, running in herds of thousands sometimes. Their meat was rich and sweet with fat, and their pelts contained countless tiny air bubbles that provided good insulation. Tanned, the leather was tough and served many uses for the people of the settlement, and they had a saying: “Praise is to Man and to Woman, for they have seen to our needs in the Time of Ice.”

The sentiment was old, ancient really; by some s more than two thousand winters. It came from a faith in beings that the old ones said had created the world, the two suns, and the three moons. The stories claimed that they had built the beasts and the forests and all the food and the water, and they, the people, the Androgenari. Like almost every creature that walked the land, soared the skies, or swam in the depths of the waters of this world, the Androgenari had been made hermaphroditic, carrying both male and female parts within a single body. Although to conceive a mating was required between two organisms, any Androgenari could choose to mother or to father its young. Their world, they called Drodenar, and the suns were Pale and Bright for indeed one burned much brighter than the other. The larger moons were called Blue and Gold, and the smallest was called Blood, for in the night sky it shone a pale and frosty white, as Androgenari bleed. Yet, the time of Man and Woman ended long ago. They who had taught of those beings had all but disappeared and if not for the faith of some dwindling few, the memory of Humankind would have fallen forever into the depths of the bottomless well of antiquity. Here in the frigid heart of Eruda, in the dark and lonely guts of an old ceramic works, lived such a one. Its name was Kuiper with no sire name, for on a lusty night it had been conceived and on an equally bleak and stormy one was born and left to die among the rubble outside the shack of a pelt worker named Jusk. Jusk-la-Gurjion was old and had never been fertile, and in a moment that even its family had called weakness, that Andro took the infant to protect and to rear as its own. With all the strength of will and all the determination that it takes to raise any child, Jusk persisted through the years to love and to teach Kuiper that cruelty was not the only thing the world had to offer, for that one recalled a time when comion had not been seen by the bulk of Androgenari as a weakness. Those times had fallen to the onslaught of a changing climate when the rush of winter froze the workings of Androgenari civilization and caused social collapse on a staggering scale. Wars erupted for want of scarce resources, and religious sectarianism tore apart the bonds of social order that remained. Wars and savagery crippled the northern capital, Voughorf, which was abandoned for the coast, and, as decades fell from memory, was ground to dust beneath the surging glaciers and with it all the roots of that culture had been killed. Then, over many long, unbroken winters, hardship chilled the hearts and souls of vast numbers of

the people as they began to lose hope for their future. Untold numbers died off in the Time of Ice and with them the memory of much that had come before. Only here and there had key secrets survived in isolated places, like the Tower of Schroon. In that Ebony Tower of obsidian such secrets were guarded by the Riff, the militaristic clan of thugs and slavers who held power over the bones of Eruda and the citizens forced to dwell there. Although few, these secrets included some of Drodenar’s highest technologies, such as the smelting of tin and copper for vessels and of bronze for weapons. In many parts of the land such things had been lost, such that a return to stone tools had become the norm, and whenever such a thing as a bronze knife or arrowhead might turn up in the scavenged ruins of a lost town they were treated as magical by all who saw them. Writing and reading had all but vanished among common Androgenari.

Once these things had been taught and encouraged from above, but now they were left to wither by the new classes of those who found power in information. Communication at a distance was now the monopoly of these who used flying creatures to send dispatches across the lands under their control. Of all the lost technologies, this had most crippled the efforts to re-establish the stability of Androgenari society. Without learning, The Western World fell into a dark and stagnant pool of superstition, where all sorts of foul and brutish philosophies gained foothold, and the Riff perpetuated ignorance as its mantra to enthrall its subjects. Jusk had seen all of this happen, and yet had struggled fiercely to retain a kernel of goodness within its soul. Against the torrents of anger and resentment that had come to dominate the street, Jusk had sought to insulate young Kuiper with some success and more failure. As Kuiper had grown, the taste of injustice and the hardness of life in general had tainted the youngster’s view of what was normal, what could and should be normal in a functioning society. For the longest time it had been clear to Jusk that if the child had any chance of retaining the sort of soul that might one day be of any value, it would be necessary for them to leave Eruda and the dark shadow of Schroon. To leave was difficult, for the bandits outside the wall were paid to keep any sort of talent securely inside. As artisans, Jusk and Kuiper were of value to the Riff, for their pelt goods could provide profit in the south when the warmth returned, and the valley became open to trade. They would see only small return themselves, enough to keep them from starving or freezing for the population were little more than slaves, toiling to make wealth for the Riff. Alive they could contribute; dead they were worthless; escaped they would represent a dangerous challenge to the rule of the Riff. Nightly, the peltor dreamed of escape, of routes that turned from clear to twisted or blocked by Riff guards. Together, Jusk and Kuiper ran through slippery alleyways, slick with white creamy blood. Dodging blades and clubs they ran and pitched and tumbled, Jusk crying, “Flee, My Child! Save yourself!” and the young Andro, gasping for breath, would hurdle over broken walls toward the icy sea. “Guardian!” would cry the child, and then turning in slow and tortured terror it would fall, fall toward the shredding ice sheets far below the sea cliffs of Eruda. Jusk awakened with a ragged gasp, as though the air had been bashed from its

lungs, sweating, aching with the hard grip of fear. Dawn broke over the ragged ridge of the Mountains of the Blood Moon. A noticeable drop in temperature crept in through the cracks and seams of the old ceramics works, forcing Jusk to pull the guort hides over its head and to go fetal beneath them. Kuiper shuddered and did the same, then slipped back into a heavy slumber. Jusk lay in place beneath the dusty moss ceiling pondering the day ahead, wondering how it was that Kuiper could sleep so long into a day, and wondering how soon it would be before they would execute their plan. They had pelts for trading, good warm clothing to keep out the cold, and food that they had saved by skipping meals for the last few days. There was no point in carrying water, for it would simply freeze. Besides, there was no shortage of snow in the places they were going. Flint and kindling were of more use, and water was heavy to carry anyway. They would carry no packs to alert the guards of their intentions, so Jusk had equipped their clothing with pockets to conceal their goods. Spearheads of stone would be carried out concealed and fixed to staves that they had been sure to hide in the shadows and in the underbrush. Darkness would secure them from sight and welcome them into the realm of the wilderness, by the grace of Man. Against the enticement of its warm bedding, Jusk arose to face the dawn. That one sleepily coerced its feet to carry it across the cold dirt floor of their workshop dwelling to the nook that served as kitchen. There, by force of habit, the peltor set scarce wood to the embers in the small stone stove, and with a dented old tin pot scooped fresh snow from outside the only doorway. This Jusk placed atop the stove to boil, as the base for a simple porridge of coot-grass harvested from the plains of Lyfgus-Haug below the mountains. Lyfgus-Haug, the long dreamt of route to salvation, the expansive grasslands that would bear them far away toward another life; one far from the Riff, where they could find the freedom to think in of happiness and self-determination. Aspirations that here in Eruda could get them killed. Jusk had worked for months to make certain that all might seem normal to anyone they met that day. The pelt table at the front of their shelter opened at the second hour after dawn, as it always did. As usual, business was not brisk. Two older citizens shuffled by after some time and rummaged through a stack of pelts of various colours. There were the natural reds and greenish yellows of summer guort pelt, the browns of larger pumpi pelts, and one or two furs. Furs were extremely rare, for Humankind had not seen fit to encourage many mammalian species on Drodenar. Those that did exist tended to be smallish, but their novelty had made their pelts the most sought after. If only Jusk could find a real cache of

such beasts for trapping, they would have a prize, indeed, a Pip’s ransom. If Jusk could find some distant land where mammals were abundant, they could make a fortune and they might come to live like Pips, sovereigns of Drodenar themselves. Then Kuiper would want for nothing in this world of want, but such dreams were not wise, for too much want can be a trap, and anyway, Jusk was a peltor, not a trapper. Suddenly, a gruff voice yanked Jusk out of its musings, and as the multiple lenses of its old eyes focused, the familiar face of the tailor, Froondi-laVenedoondri, crystalized before them. “Are you daydreaming again, peltor? I swear you are becoming feebleminded in your old age,” Froondi charged, while eyeing Jusk with mild distaste. The two had been acquaintances for many years, and like inmates of any prison might do, had come to view one and other with a degree of disfavour and a touch of distrust. Trust was a hard-won commodity in Eruda. “Good morning, Froondi. I believe you may have a point. My mind wanders more and more these days… but that is unlikely to be the purpose of your visit, yes? I have the pumpi pelts you wanted, though they cost me more time to get than I would have liked. Do you want to see them?” queried the old peltor, somewhat coyly. Froondi stared into Jusk’s deeply wrinkled face with a substantial degree of disdain, wondering for a long moment whether the old fart was losing its grip. Froondi nodded dramatically, angrily, even, and then spoke impatiently to the peltor, “Of course I want to see them, you shit! I require only the best of them for a garment commissioned by Xcelpyr-la-Figfo, of all people, so I hope that you will not disappoint me, Jusk. If I please the Master of the Riff and Ki of Eruda, we shall both benefit. You may find yourself and thy brat affording some better quarters. Do you think that you can handle this, old one?” Jusk nodded, silently acclaiming the tailor’s sentience in the matter, and then turned away and from a shelf beneath the tabletop produced a bundle wrapped in thin layers of beaten wax leaf. This, Jusk promptly presented to the tailor who, producing a small tin knife, quickly snipped the twine that secured the bundle and opened it with great haste. Carefully, Froondi examined the pelts and in so doing dropped guard for a moment, allowing an expression akin to love to enter its otherwise malignant features.

“Where did you get the blue ones?” asked Froondi. “I have not seen their like in years,” it decreed. “The rest are adequate, but I would like to know the source of these. I can make it worth your while, Jusk,” the tailor said, turning to take in the peltor’s face. Froondi stared for what seemed to Jusk an uncomfortably long time. Jusk’s mind began to weave questions, many of which suggested undesired answers, like, Does Froondi know something? Has word of my plans got out? If the tailor does not suspect that I mean to leave, why would that one ask about my supplier? A moment ed which seemed to grow pregnant with unease. Finally, Froondi broke eye and turned away just slightly. After a shorter pause, the tailor chuckled dismissively and looked into Jusk’s multifaceted yellow eyes. They looked like the eyes of any Androgenari, large, soft irises with three deep pupils in each, one for each part of the spectrum, visible light, ultraviolet, and heat. The old trader wondered, Is this old pelt merchant hiding something? Then Jusk spoke with the wizened tones of a merchant concluding a transaction. “We agreed on thirty tin-skiffs, I believe. If you are satisfied, of course, tailor. My sources are my sources, as you well know. Mine would be a poor business if I let them become common knowledge.” Froondi nodded and produced the payment from a pocket in its finely made vest. “As always, Jusk, business is a pleasure. I will, no doubt, see you soon. Yes?” queried the tailor. Then, bundling up the purchase with great care and retying the twine, Froondi bade the peltor good day and moved off across Merchant’s Alley in the direction of home. Jusk watched the old half-thug turn a corner and waited for several seconds to make certain it was gone. Deftly and with some urgency the peltor moved back into the shadows of the shop. Jusk tried to bury a bad feeling in the pit of its second stomach, but it would not go away. If they were caught trying to escape the city it would not be pleasant, and the possibility of death was in the dice. Jusk placed a hand on Kuiper’s shoulder and shook the child. Kuiper refused to stir, and Jusk shook it once more, harder. The child arose unwillingly, slowly pulling up to a sitting position on the hard mattress. A barely discernable word broke from the child’s mouth, “Morning?” it asked. Jusk took Kuiper’s face in all four of its hands and made eye . The look on the parent’s face spoke of deep, serious concern. “We have to leave. We may have been discovered. Get yourself ready and be

quick because I think our journey has already begun.” Kuiper threw off the cozy pelts and stood naked for a moment in the chilly gloom, its breath silhouetted by the morning light that had not quite reached the back of the shop. The child dressed mechanically, with purpose but not in panic. Both double forearms deftly manipulated the layers of well insulated guort hides, large limbs pulling, small limbs fastening. Warm feet called for boots of blixonhog-hide lined with soft fur, the finest that any parent could give any child and far more than Jusk could have afforded without access to such fine materials and the skill to make them. The thick soles were naturally rough with deep ridged folds to grip the ice, and the mammal fur was soft and cozy. Mitts and a hood of pumpi hide topped off a suit that could save a life in the frigid wilderness where they were bound, all carefully smeared with dirt so as not to seem too new. They were leaving by day, against the plan, but for all they knew Riff guards might be coming for them at this very moment. Caution and the cover of night were luxuries they could not afford. Jusk prepared its own outfit and then pushed a knot of dried berries into the child’s mouth, saying, “Eat this. There may not be more for some time.” They gulped a precious mouthful of cold porridge, and then gathered, and through a hidden back doorway into Tin-pot Alley they slipped, Jusk, hoping that somewhere overhead was a Man or a Woman watching over them in this Time of Ice. Tin-pot Alley was quiet, at least, aside from the odd creak and groan of the old buildings under the surging pressure of the wind. The narrow alley wound left and right, past dark doorways and piles of garbage, where overhangs cast their shadows down upon the frozen ground, so that even in the light of day the place seemed dark and forbidding. Shadowy grey scavengers called wendols roamed among the garbage like twenty-legged worms, a quarter metre in length, fat sausages of putridity carrying disease wherever they went. At night, the whole town wriggled with them and to fall asleep outside was not a wise thing to do.

Wendols

No eyes fell upon them as they hurried along clinging to the shadows, for the doorways had not yet taken to harbouring the more dangerous, criminal element that could congregate in the back alleys by day. Jusk laid a mitted hand upon Kuiper’s shoulder to help guide the youngster toward a gap in a wall that led into Pauper’s Way. Here, the way dropped before them on a downhill slope winding tightly to the left, then just as tightly to the right. In springtime this way became a gushing creek, and on either side of them they could see that the walls had been scarred by its course. Jusk slowed down to retrieve two staves of hardy rock-wood, hidden within a nook where two walls met, and then pressed Kuiper to the right and through a dark doorway buried in black shadows. The runners stopped just inside the inky hollow, Jusk indicating for Kuiper to remain silent by touching a mitten to the youngster’s lips. They listened for several minutes to be certain that they were alone, straining to pull errant noises from within the growling voice of the wind. Kuiper gripped the rock-wood stave tightly, ready to defend or attack as necessary, tingles of adrenalin running up the back of its neck. Jusk laid a strong hand on Kuiper’s small right forearm as if to assure the youngster that they were safe. Then right above them the shadows exploded! A shower of harsh noise assaulted their senses, and a warm rush of wind spilled over them under the shock of a bloodcurdling screech. Reflexively they crouched low in the pitch-blackness of the doorway, eyes focusing for heat. There above them in the arched frame of the entranceway, large billowing wings had expanded and driven down with force, lifting a body out of the darkness where it had been hidden. About the size of a small Andro child, the body was black against the morning sky outside and rimmed with sixteen tentacles, writhing in silhouette beneath translucent, pounding wings. It hovered for a moment, menacing, then it lurched out into the brightening sky and disappeared. The runners dropped to sit on the frozen threshold, panting hard in a release of their terror. Both knew enough to stifle any outburst, for the cry of the startled zaschafry might have alerted anyone following them. It was best not to send out any further signal. Kuiper looked into the darkness enfolding Jusk’s face. Big

golden eyes adjusted to the wavelengths and could make out the trace of a frown. Placing its large right hand on Jusk’s shoulder and touching the parent’s cheek with the small right hand, the child conveyed the sense that it was alright. Jusk waited for a moment more and then having determined that there was no imminent danger, spoke in a hushed whisper. “I could have done without that,” the parent confided. Kuiper found a smile. “Me too,” it confessed. “And where do we go from here, Guardian? Are we outside yet?” Jusk gestured in the negative, and then, turning into the darkness of the vacant warehouse, motioned for the child to follow closely. They slipped through the narrow doorway into such darkness as neither had ever experienced before. Their ultraviolet pupils reached out but found nothing. Infrared was not much better, providing tiny spots of reference where the presence of some poor source of warmth was at hand. Regular spectrum pupils were useless. Forward they struggled, dragging their boot heels along the ground to feel their way into the room before them. Jusk pulled off a mitten and let it dangle from its cord, then pushing the hand into a pocket pulled out a small wooden box. From the box were taken two small stones, which when struck together produced showers of bright sparks. Each time Jusk performed this task, the flashes sent reflections dancing off the floor and walls around them, momentarily defining their surroundings. Jusk studied the broken pictures of the cave-like room, and as that one began to discern its outline a path became evident. “Follow and stay close, Kuiper. There is a staircase down that way,” Jusk gestured. With much improved confidence, the runners pressed forward, following the wall across the room to the top of the staircase. Darkness sank forth before them as if a pit, falling away into the depths of their destiny. Jusk sent a shower of sparks into the abyss. The shape of descending rock walls crackled and disappeared. They gingerly stepped down, feeling the treads with their feet, feeling enclosed as they descended. Another flash of sparks revealed that the stairway dove deep before them, turning slowly to the left only to vanish in darkness. More sparks, and just as their light was subsiding Jusk spied something on the wall beside Kuiper. Reaching out, the elder Andro touched a stick coming out of the wall. It was a torch! With the un-mitted hand Jusk felt the object, learning that the cloth wrapped around the business end was dry as dust. Reaching into another pocket the peltor withdrew a small, sealed jar of oil

and applied some of the accelerant to the torch. Sparks flew in the darkness and the torch flared to life casting its dancing glows onto the walls of the staircase all around them. They sighed in unison, relieved. “That is much better,” said Kuiper. “The strain of the darkness was making my eyes hurt.” They searched the stairwell before them, struggling against the moving shadows to be certain of what it was they were seeing. It fell away ever deeper, its path getting lost in darkness at the edge of a turn. Jusk pressed forward and together they advanced into the depths, leaving deep blackness behind them. The stairway turned left, and they followed it down to a place where it levelled off into a small landing. In the right wall of the landing was set a copper door, surrounded by a massive frame of cut stone slabs. From this place the stairway fell again into the depths of utter darkness. Jusk took hold of the lever handle on the big door and tested its solidity. It was well made and although it was clearly ancient the mechanism still performed perfectly. There was a loud clack! And the door was loosed to swing on its heavy hinges. Immediately the force of the wind was felt behind the door, and Jusk leaned into it to keep it from swinging in and knocking them both down the stairs. The blast of cold air rushed in, swirling around them like a frosty demon, and the mid-morning suns assailed their eyes, forcing them to shield their faces. After several moments and several failed attempts, they were able to cast their gazes outside. The doorway was situated high on the seawall and had no substantial ledge or landing. It was obvious to Jusk that this was not a door so much as a lookout port. In the distant past there may have been access from here to some point below, but for now it was a shear drop to a certain death. The runners exchanged a glance full of understanding. They shared one last, long glance out across the frozen ocean, ablaze with harsh daylight and scourged by winter’s raging blast, and then together against the force of the wind they closed the door and secured the latch.

Nightwing Zaschafry

Down it would be, for the course of the staircase had become evident. It would take them to the foot of the bluffs below Eruda. The open plains of rock and ice sheets would be far more difficult to survive than the Forest of the Blood Moon, but they were far less likely to run into the Riff guards on this side. “Perhaps,” Jusk suggested, “this will prove to be the best route, after all. We must find a way inland, perhaps along the course of the River Doufi, and avoid the patrols altogether. What I would not give for a pack of purgs and a sled.” Renewing their descent, the runners moved with some urgency. Kuiper kept close behind its guardian as they made all haste to descend the long stairway, hoping as they went that their path was not a tragic mistake. The child was already missing the warmth and comfort of their little home, for there had been none other. The suit that it wore was strong and warm, but it was bulky, and Kuiper did not care for the thought that it would remain on for some time to come. The child’s few friends were left behind and that did not please that one either. Jusk had been strict about the friends that it had allowed Kuiper to keep, insisting that this one was too coarse or that one was possessed of poor moral values. But now, even the few that Jusk had allowed were gone. What were they going to do in the world outside Eruda? Would they find their way to a place of safety or die in the desert of ice and snow into which they were heading? Into which Jusk seemed determined to take them. Suddenly, as if grabbed from behind, the youth stopped. Jusk turned and looked back at Kuiper with concern. Upon seeing the look on the youth’s face, it understood. This had been expected. The timing of it was not what Jusk would have liked, but it was what it was. “What is wrong?” asked the elder Andro. Kuiper shook a heavy head, seeming partly confused and partly defiant. “I do not want to leave my life behind, Guardian. My few things and my few friends… I am sad to lose them. Why do we have to go?”

Riding Purg with mounted Andro Captain

Jusk experienced a moment of anger but then, pushing it away, felt the child’s pain. “Do you think that I would do this thing unless it was absolutely necessary? Kuiper, the life we have here is the only one that you have known, and I understand that you will miss it. What you do not know is how much more there is outside Eruda. Here, you and I will never be more than slaves to the Riff. We will never be able to have any freedom to do what we want, go where we choose to go. Our work will never be for our own joy.” The youth’s expression turned from one of mixed emotions to one of pure defiance. It pressed all four mitted palms flat against its chest in an action meant to convey personal suffering. “What about me? I do not see what is so bad about Eruda!” the child retorted. “I have my life here. My friends are here. One day I will be a guard for the Riff, and then no one will tell me what to do, where to go. I do not see what is so fine about the outside.” Jusk’s expression changed to one of disbelief. Kuiper could not truly understand what it was saying. “You want to be a guard for the Riff? You want to terrorize people for the sake of a gang of thugs? Because that is what you would be doing. Do you your friend Fazyk?” asked Jusk. “I that you said I could not be friends with Fazyk anymore. I that I have not seen my friend Fazyk in a long time,” answered Kuiper angrily. Jusk nodded slowly. “Fazyk was taken into the guard along with that oaf, Kalyn. I seeing their unit on many occasions outside the wall when I went to trade with the trappers. Each time I saw them they seemed more arrogant than the time before. They would bully the planters and reapers as they sweated under the suns, making them more miserable than anyone should be. One day a planter dared to speak up against their mistreatment. They beat that poor Andro until the rags on its back were white with blood. The poor drudge was crippled by their hands and no longer able to work. That Andro died four weeks later from starvation and a broken spirit. I think Fazyk is a squad leader now,” said Jusk, pausing to let the story sink in for a few moments. Jusk continued, “I have been your parent for your whole life, although you were not born to me. The law will not let me give

you my name, but I have given and will always give you my love. You have never called me Mother nor Father, but only Guardian. I would give my life for you, and you know this to be true, for though I have punished you and denied you things at times, have I ever lied to you?” Kuiper regarded Jusk for several long moments as the truth of the story sank in. As the anger slowly melted away from the young Andro’s face, the pale eyes grew softer. There was no doubt in the child’s mind that Jusk had never lied to it. “What will we find outside?” Kuiper asked, insisting on an answer. Jusk cradled its un-mitted hand under the child’s chin. Lifting the younger face and gazing into the innocent eyes, the parent’s features softened, as well. “I do not know what we will find, but I know that it will be better. I cannot give you a good future here in Eruda. Of that, I am certain, and I will not do what is not in your best interests. So, what are we going to do?” Kuiper swallowed hard. There was a choice to be made, after all. “Can we eat something before we go? I have had no breakfast, Guardian.”

In a fire-lit room of dark stone, high in the Tower of Schroon, gatherings of some importance had been occurring all morning. It was the council chamber of the Riff Ki, Xcelpyr-la-Figfo, where the running of Eruda took place each day. Although a large fire burned in the open hearth of Blackstone, the room could not be considered warm. Translucent hides were stretched over the otherwise open windows holding back the cold harsh winds, yet the room was subject to chilling drafts from numerous small cracks in the ancient masonry. Walls of stone, floors of stone, there was nothing but the fire to kindle any sense of coziness whatsoever. It was the perfect setting from which the Riff Ki could operate. It was like the Ki in many ways—cold, hard, and unsympathetic, with a singular fire smouldering in its belly. The only furnishings within the council chamber were a large, heavy table made of green and black marble surrounded by a collection of the most uncomfortable chairs ever to a bottom. When the council was allowed to sit, la-Figfo felt they should be keenly upright and attentive, not slouching in pandered comfort. No, Xcelpyr was not well liked, not even by its kin. By the guards, the vassals, and by the closest of advisers, the Ki was mostly feared, for Xcelpyr was a

ruthless and suspicious Andro. The Ki preferred it that way. Mostly, those summoned here were content to stand or to pace near the fire until the Ki entered the hall and called proceedings to order. Several short meetings had been held over the course of the morning, and except for two guards standing post at each of three entry doors the only remaining business seemed to be with a single merchant, a tailor, standing, waiting, with parcel in hand beside the fireplace. When Xcelpyr finally strode into the room from an antechamber behind a dark curtain, the merchant tensed noticeably. The Ki made its way over to the table and there deposited a short rod of bronze. Only then did Xcelpyr take notice of the Andro standing in its presence. Turning to view the merchant with some air of mistrust upon its craggy face, the Ki seemed curious. With a wave of both right hands Xcelpyr bid the tailor to approach. Carefully, the other Andro moved toward the Ki with the package held out before. Nervously, the merchant bowed and placed the bundle gingerly onto the table in front of the Ki, then stepped back to a respectful distance. “Here are the vestments you required of me, Sire,” said Froondi-la-Venedoondri. “Open it, Merchant,” ordered the Ki. Froondi bowed and, tugging on the twine, untied the package and opened the wax leaf wrapping. Taking the finished garments carefully from the bundle, the tailor laid them out upon the table for the Ki to examine. Without much ado Xcelpyr cast a quick glance over the vestments and produced five copper coins which it placed on the table beside the wax leaf. Froondi had been promised seven but being a wise Andro the merchant knew discretion and so took the short payment with a gracious smile and a nod. “You may go,” instructed the Ki with a distinct note of finality. As bidden, Froondi backed away and slipped past the guards, promptly making urgent strides along the corridor, each step feeling lighter than the one before it. Xcelpyr stood alone in the council chamber watching for the briefest of moments as the tailor took its hurried leave. Then it turned its tired eyes back to the vestments upon the tabletop. “What did I want these for?” wondered the Ki aloud. From not far away came a hacking chuckle, then a bent and gnarly old Andro appeared from the antechamber behind the dark curtain. It was one of the old customers who had rummaged through Jusk’s wares earlier that morning. Using an ebony cane, it shuffled over to Xcelpyr who was standing at the table, all four hands at its sides, staring blankly at the vestments. The younger Andro looked up at the ancient Andro with curiosity and waited for it to arrive beside it by the table.

“Well, Mother?” the Ki enquired impatiently. “What about that peltor?” The old face was wrinkled and bore a lie of frailty, but a malevolence and a strength of will lived there. Mother nodded and banged the tip of the black cane against the stone floor. “Captain Fazyk is correct. I believe that Andro Jusk and its bastard are going to bolt, if not today, then damn soon. I thought I recognized something in its face this morning, something that I thought had been killed off a long time ago, here in the western mountains. I feel almost certain of it, as unlikely as it is to be true.” Xcelpyr stared at its mother for a few moments but could tell information was being withheld. Mother liked to play at this sport, much to Xcelpyr’s chagrin. Anger rumbled in the Ki’s voice as it croaked “Mother!” Then the response came. “I believe Jusk-la-Gurjion to be a member of the Tribe of Yolanda, which makes it a criminal under your laws, My Ki, and a well of sedition, perhaps. What shall be done about it? What are your orders for the guard?” Xcelpyr shrugged. “Why do I care about which Man or Woman this pelt merchant chooses to worship? What difference does it make to me, exactly? Why has it got you so wound up, Mother?” Mother glowered back. Xcelpyr shrugged again, and then the Ki of Eruda called to one of the chamber guards and the Andro snapped to attention. “Take word to the Master of Hunters at the main city gate. I want this peltor Jusk found and held in a cell for me. Kill the bastard if it gives you any trouble at all.” Bowing curtly, the guard withdrew from the council room and sprinted down the hallway. Some distance along, the Andro bolted breezily past Froondi-laVenedoondri, who froze in position, eyes wide, breath caught. Once Froondi had come to realize that the panic had ed, the tailor breathed again, then quickened its pace and was soon out of the tower and on course to the nearest ale house wondering what had just happened.

The remainder of the descent had occurred in silence. The runners had reached another door at the bottom of the staircase and slipped out into the cold wind and blinding light. Jusk quickly produced two simple visors, consisting of a sheet of wax leaf with a narrow slit to peer through. The visors helped, and quickly their

eyes adjusted to the new surroundings. Together they hugged the towering rockface to take advantage of the cover provided by its natural overhangs and made their way along the cliff base heading south. The rude wind pressed them against the wall of stone and ice, tearing at them relentlessly, making every step a struggle. Jusk cast a wide gaze across the scene of frozen desolation and thought for just a moment that if not for that wind it could be beautiful. For a long time, this was their world, struggling and pressing forward. Their legs ached and so did their lungs, for although their faces were wrapped in scarves of woven fabric, the air was dry and hard. It was then that the runners heard a sudden harsh, yet muffled barking of Andro voices, and they flattened their bodies backward into the rockface. It was close, but the direction of the voices was unclear. As Jusk strained to hear the conversation, it became frighteningly clear that the voices belonged to city guards who had drawn uncomfortably close as they were making their rounds. One coughed, and the other offered a drink of water, but then they moved on, and as their voices faded off the runners found that they could breathe once more. Onward they pressed, and it occurred to them in nearly the same instant that the suns had climbed high into the sky. The day was ing by and they could not find the feeling that they had made much progress. Suddenly, the wall came to an end and the world opened behind them, whereupon the wind drove them backward into an exposed and unsheltered flatland overhung by the high cliff on their left. At last, the runners had reached the where the River Doufi broke through the Mountains of the Blood Moon and emptied into the sea. Jusk knew in that instant that this had been the right day to begin their run, for in springtime this valley would be a rushing, swirling torrent, imible. They turned away from the coast, pleased to have the wind at their backs for a change, and saw the mighty River Doufi before them encased in ice and channelling the wintery blast up its valley and into the dark recesses of the hills and the forest beyond—dark forest that rose above the southern bank a kilometre away and up the steep slopes of Mount Helen, the mountain of fire. They began to climb up from what in summertime would have been a beachhead at the mouth of the delta, where now the whole world seemed buried and camouflaged in ice and snow, stifled by the hard blanket of winter. They knew that some form of shelter from the wind could probably be found ahead, and so though tired and hungry they pressed forward still.

On their left the riverbank began to rise above them as they continued to climb up along the Doufi’s course. The wind pressed them forward, now aiding them. Upturned icesheets provided handholds and footing to assist them in their efforts and within half an hour the runners had reached the edge of the treeline. The roar of the wind had begun to ease, for they had rounded a subtle bend in the riverbank. All was going well, considering, when they were frozen in place by a loud, hard sound just ahead. “What was that?” asked Kuiper, more than a little fear in its voice. The child had pressed close behind Jusk and had clung tightly to the bigger Andro’s jacket sleeve. Jusk placed a mitt to Kuiper’s mouth to indicate that one might be wise to whisper. They listened for no more than a few seconds, when the noise repeated, louder than before. Jusk turned to Kuiper and placed a mitt on the other’s shoulder. “I think it is ice cracking up ahead. It is to be expected, but the pack is thick, so it should hold,” explained the elder Andro. Kuiper appeared markedly relieved but wanted to know if there might be any danger of the ice breaking. “No,” offered Jusk, “but just the same, stay close to the wall of the riverbank. The ice will be hardest there, and we will have shelter from the gaze of those who would do us harm.” Jusk continued forward and Kuiper, shadowing its guardian, followed closely behind, up the grade of the Doufi, the Mighty Doufi, and River of Helen. It was Helen, among all of Mankind’s figures known to the Androgenari, who had been revered in these parts since the Dawn. It was Helen for whom the Doufi flowed and Helen for whom the Great Fire Mountain had grown to rise above the western coast among the northernmost peaks of the Mountains of the Blood Moon. She had been a central deity among the pantheon of Mankind’s figures, and as the runners struggled forward, tackling the rocky way ahead of them, Jusk could not help but say a prayer to Her for their safety in this most dangerous Time of Ice.

Chapter 2 Hunters

Hard and cold, the winds blasted through the mountain at Small Moon Gorge, driving snow like tiny razors as it swept along the frozen ground. Here and there among the sheets of moonlit ice and snow, flat black rock stretched out like stony loungers on a beach. Here and there were stands of frozen grass, whipping in the wind, brown and yellow with the colours of winter. Not a tree in sight for great distances in every direction, only frozen grass and rock and devastation strewn beneath an angry grey sky. Winter had not yet fully arrived in the valley of Lyfgus-Haug, and yet thus laid the landscape as if doom itself had lain upon the land and ravaged it before the arrival of the Man of War. The fiercest beasts dared not brave this onslaught. They huddled in the crags and caves, leaving only the midnight sky to bear witness here in the place where Mankind had made them all. No one sane would be out here in this ugly night—no one, except for the children of Ping-la-Dhourtin-Ki and their cohorts. Atop the only mound of high ground in all the flats, they huddled tightly around a small fire that fought for its life against the savage wind, as they clung for shelter to the broken walls of what had been an ancient citadel. Six in all, they shouted back and forth over the scream of the blizzard as they conducted a conversation like bidders in a marketplace, each wrapped in the best handmade guort-skin suits for warmth. Punctuating their raucous banter came barks of laughter that belied the harshness of the night. It would be evident to anyone that these were no common Andros from the shabby streets of Eruda, if there had been anyone there to see them and their team of well-fed purgs, flat-backed sledge pullers, resting nearby in the shadow of a wall alight with flame-flicker, snorting as they dreamed of chase or hunt. Poopa-la-Ping, twenty-seven years old, was their leader. “Poopa the Seeker” was a great hunter and the first-born of the Ki, Ping-la-Dhourtin, of the city of Midrib. No one in Midrib was tougher, and none could bring battle like Poopa, for the young Andro was strong and had had the best training that the Ki’s

combat masters and Captain Boykin of the Pipling Giawa’s royal guard could give. Poopa’s reputation for coolness under the stress of warfare was renowned across the lands of the Hork Valley Alliance. Raised to be the heir of the Ki, Poopa had been schooled in diplomacy, as well, and was famous for its part in the handling of the negotiation of trade agreements across the Lyfgus-Haug. It was that one more than any who had advanced the cause for peace in the region between the many villages that dotted its lands. Poopa’s younger sibling by two years, Khuli-la-Ping, seated beside it on the left, was as wild and free as the gremorah or the guergons that roamed the vast wilderness slaying and feeding upon the guort and pumpi. Khuli, although formidable on the field of war and awesome in the skills of the hunt, was a lover. In courtship skills, Khuli was unrivalled and had bedded many Androgenari, but preferring to father children had only once been a mother for the sake of the alliance with the Ki of Riverib. Khuli, however, was unsuited to remaining at that one’s beck and call, leaving their child in its father’s care and pursuing life in its own father’s court, where comfort and cavorting could be found in abundance. Sitting in the honoured place at the right hand of Poopa was silent Skra-laDroosk, four years Poopa’s senior. A distant cousin to the siblings, hard and large and good to have at one’s back, its tongue had been removed by a spiteful owner while Skra was just a child. Among the clans of Midrib, la-Droosk answered with pride to the nickname “Skra the Mighty,” for while it was true that Skra was no lover nor poet like cousin Khuli, that Andro was a skilled assassin, sworn to protect the family of Ping. Procured by the Mason’s Guild of Midrib at a tender age from a western slaver for the price of three purgs, laDroosk had been put to work in Midrib as a stone digger in the quarry. The child had been big and seemed suited to the work, and over time had proven capable of keeping up with the adult labourers with whom it toiled. One day Ping noticed the young Andro, and acquired it for a special purpose, to be a companion for its eldest children. Advanced training in warfare was procured at the garrison in Fort High and Skra proved to be an apt pupil. At Skra’s right hand, stuffing a warm morsel of meat into an unusually wide mouth, sat M’zyk -la-Skiffer (the bastard), whom people called “M’zyk the Brave”. Bastards were not uncommon within Androgenari society, and although not scorned as such, they had no legal claim to the property of either parent. So long as both were known to them, they tended therefore to learn at an early age

to please both parents, so as to prosper in their affections. Andro bastards often grew up to have a certain charm and a way with those around them, and M’zyk was no exception. The life of all social gatherings and the charmer at large, M’zyk was well liked and frequently bedded. M’zyk was as unwavering in a fight as it was charming, taking on the most ferocious of foes without hesitation, hence the moniker. At Khuli’s left hand, across from Poopa, sat Mool-la-Xix, another cousin on their mother’s side. Mool had always been a serious Andro, even as a child, and although raised in the creed of the Woman Yolanda, had taken to the path of the Monks of the Man Austin. In the first days of the old kingdom in the northern capital of Voughorf, it was said that the Man Austin had set out the laws by which all Androgenari should live. Unfortunately, for the causes of peace and tranquility a mostly contrary set of laws had been produced by the Woman Yolanda in the southern city of Pruskinom. A schism had formed within Androgenari society that over time had caused factions to form and led to centuries of warfare and the abandonment of the people by Mankind. Things had settled down and the pursuit of the worship of Mankind had fallen into some degree of disuse by many Androgenari, but the faithful are the faithful for a reason, and so Mool had decided to become, “Mool the Righteous”. Even for a Monk Mool was not so much fun at a party as M’zyk, being somewhat sullen at times, but did like to fight and to imbibe the grainbeers made in Midrib and elsewhere. Last among the company of hunters was Zeef-la-Ping, youngest of Ping’s children and a fledgling hunter at the age of fifteen years. Zeef was proud to be on this campaign with hunters of such stature as these. It was considered an honour for any young fledge to go wild with its elders, but to go with “Poopa the Seeker,” first born of the Ki, “Khuli the Promiscuous,” “Skra the Mighty,” “M’zyk the Brave,” and “Mool the Righteous” was no ordinary honour. Zeef was overflowing with pride, for which it had received much teasing and cajoling throughout the many weeks of the journey. Each of the elder Andros in turn had made the trip one to for the youth, and why not, for when the fledging was finished, Zeef would be a novice hunter. The young fledge gnawed at a rib bone gripped in its small left hand and cradled a mug of warm ale in the mitt on its large right hand. All was good amid the roar of the fire and the roar of the wind.

“Little Tracker,” called Khuli above the roar. “Will you bed many Andros when we return with a sledge full of frozen guort and pumpi meat?” At fifteen, the young Andro was below the age of consent and so reflexively feigned embarrassment while the rest laughed. Zeef was young, but while the law forbade sexual encounters for such a one, the youth was no innocent. Zeef had saved spare coins and ed with Ghaderi, a Painted One, not a week before, and while Poopa, Khuli, M’zyk, and Skra might not care about such a transgression, Zeef was not so certain about Mool. The youth did not care for too much preaching in its life and the Monks could make one nervous with their judgemental bent. “Don’t be so disgusting, Elder!” Zeef shouted back. Although Khuli was Zeef’s older sibling by only ten years, it was the custom of the Andros in Midrib to refer to any elders with such a term of respect. Khuli, only half-jokingly, turned to M’zyk and shook a hooded head. “Do you believe that Brave One?” the hunter asked. M’zyk frowned, eyes deep in shadow under the guort-hide hood. “This little one is a child of Ping. You are all born horny!” the Brave One replied, as it tore another strip of flesh from the spitted young guort hanging over the fire. Then, eyeing Mool pensively and folding the morsel into that wide mouth, M’zyk quizzed, “I don’t suppose you’re going to comment on that, oh Righteous One?” M’zyk broke a subtle smile as the words were slipping past those ample lips, large yellow eyes never wavering.

Fire in the Ruins

Mool’s own eyes slowly but deliberately traced a course from the depths of the fire up to meet M’zyk’s gaze. Somewhat poorly, the Monk managed to quash a part of the contempt rising inside its soul, a thing Mool had no doubt M’zyk would deny existed. The young Monk cocked its head just a touch to the right, as was the custom in Midrib when showing disfavour, then the words M’zyk had expected began to flow from Mool’s narrow lips. “I would expect such a lack of etiquette from one who has no respect for our laws and traditions. However, M’zyk, this matter involves a minor child, and the council has no patience when the misdirected encouragement of children is at issue”. Mool paused briefly, and seeing that M’zyk remained unabashed, changed tack. Eyes returning to the flames, Mool feigned a loss of interest in the conversation, then said, “Perhaps I have been hasty in this assessment, but I fail to see the point in directing the young one toward a path that will cause it future strife.” M’zyk grinned, and the action moved from face to face all around the campfire, except for Zeef, of course, who sat feeling miserably squirmy, like a worm on a hook. Then with exaggerated remorse, M’zyk cast a gaze upon Zeef, saying, “Is that what I was doing? Oh, Zeef, young innocent child! Do please forgive me, won’t you? I did not mean to lead you down the path of no return!” and M’zyk laughed, accompanied by Khuli and Skra. Mool sat stone-faced, hard features chiselled by the dancing firelight. Poopa turned away to hide a smile and coughed, then shouted over the wind, “Shame on you, M’zyk, using an innocent to bait the righteous! Bad luck may haunt you for that,” the alpha warned. Mool grimaced blackly, forbearance not being among that one’s favoured attributes. Then, seeing that the jest may have gone too far, M’zyk conceded at last in a roundabout way, saying, “Mool, My Friend, have you not grown over-weary of pleasure lately? I spoke only in jest. Do not let this be a black thing between us.” Mool looked up at M’zyk, still angry. All six pupils in those golden irises studied the Brave One intently for a few moments, and then Mool lowered its cold gaze

back to the fire, as if to search for something there. “You like to test my faith, but one day, by Austin, this scorn for the faith will be your undoing. Then you may not be the one laughing, M’zyk.” Poopa sat upright, holding back from the urge to roll its own grey eyes. The alpha tossed a stick into the flames and changed the subject as tactfully as possible under the circumstances. Bellowing a note of finality over the roar of the wind, the eldest child of Ping addressed the gathered, saying, “Tomorrow the storm will have subsided.” Eyeing each of the company to be certain each showed the correct interest, Poopa continued. “Once the winds have settled\ down, we should start to see predators. They will want our meat, the meat of the village. We will start out at first light with the purgs well rested and make our way east toward Midrib. We are two days out and the sledge is heavy, so to keep from running the purgs to exhaustion we will run alongside them. Are all here ready for this?” Poopa asked. Every Andro shouted a hearty Yes! for they had been away from Midrib for eighteen days, and the dream of a warm house, a soft bed, and a hero’s welcome was calling to them all. “Good to hear!” replied Poopa. “Skra will take first watch. Mool and Khuli will make certain that the lashings are secure on the sledge. M’zyk, you check on our purgs and take young Zeef with you.” The Andros began to pick up their weary bones from around the fire, and to move toward their tasks. M’zyk looked to Poopa, and, shifting one yellow eye nonchalantly toward Mool, asked, “I should keep the fledgling out of trouble, Boss?” Poopa shook its head with mild amusement and gently placing both right hands on M’zyk’s strong shoulder. “Keep yourself out while you are at it,” proclaimed Poopa. “You like to stir the pot a bit too much for your own good. One day Mool’s prophecy may come true.” Then the alpha Andro turned to tend the fire to keep them all warm for the last night in camp, and M’zyk gathered the fledgling and turned toward the purgs. Poopa settled a thick log onto the blaze, and the young Ki-ling mused at the animosity that existed between M’zyk and Mool. They could fight well together as allies against any enemy, or they could butt heads like blood rivals out to

destroy one another. There seemed to be no middle ground for them, yet of all the warriors in Midrib, Poopa had chosen them for its most trusted friends. The flames grabbed hold of the new wood, and Poopa stood erect before the fireglow iring the shower of red and yellow sparks rising into the blackness of the sky. The Blood Moon had climbed a frosty pearl white into the black arc above the windy plains of the Lyfgus-Haug. It hung against the darkness, cold and hard and pale, and then, just once, as the hunter studied its smooth unbroken face, Poopa thought that there might have been a tiny flash against its surface. It did not repeat and no further evidence of it reached those large grey eyes in any spectrum. Poopa snorted and shook its weary head. “Time to get some sleep” the alpha muttered. Humbly, its companions renewed their efforts to complete the tasks the Ki-ling had ordered, and once having done so each turned to the task of settling down by the now roaring fire to welcome the touch of the Dreamweaver. As silence made all effort to creep across the small encampment challenged by the moaning wind and the cracking of the fire, Skra sat alone in the shadowy shelter of a shattered wall keeping watch. One by one the companions slipped beneath the gently rolling waves of visions, some pleasant, others filled with intrigue or ion or the trepidation of a nightmare. In its own turn, Poopa succumbed to the call of the Dreamweaver, unwinding, rolling gently within waves of relaxation that gathered the Ki-ling and carried it to the Lands of the Whimsy amid fleeting glimpses of the day, the night, and the image of that distant flash of light upon the face of the moon Blood.

Chapter 3 Mankind Returns

Throughout the darkened station the temperature began to rise as the environmental system came to life. Tiny lights sprang into being in multicoloured waves throughout the rooms and corridors. The soft whir of ventilation systems grew sequentially throughout the complex of dorms and labs and control rooms, and a flotilla of tiny nano-robotic cleaning devices poured forth from storage ports to prepare the station for duty. The Intelligence scanned and updated signals from the inky void, filing and collating them with the last received nearly a millenniums before. The time had come. The long away was over and shortly the mission would resume. Deep in the belly of the station a room ignited with light, spilling a flash outward along ventilation ducting and momentarily illuminating a bank of windows in a silent observation post a kilometre away, bathing the lunar surface in a bright but momentary flash. The light dimmed and assumed an ambient level throughout the room where four white rectangular structures stood upon a plain white floor. They were identical, being two point four metres long, one metre wide and one metre in height, without visible seams. Each possessed a transparent top, through which could be observed an empty chamber within, not much smaller than the outward dimensions. These were the station’s SAFUs or Subatomic Fabrication Units, where anything could be built, from the most rudimentary of materials to the most complex of systems. They were routinely used to produce whatever might be needed by a mission crew, from parts to food and supplies, but they possessed far greater abilities and were an indispensable part of an outpost station. In this case, they were necessary for their most essential purpose. Within these chambers the bodies of the mission crew would be built from stored information patterns, while the incoming signals containing their ed mental attributes were directly ed to their freshly constituted brains. This was the technology that had replaced the need for the vast and expensive Methuselah complexes of the past, where genetic materials were cloned to grow replacement bodies. Subatomic Fabrication or SAF was clean and fast, operating without gestational

chambers, messy fluids, and months of wasted time. This process eliminated the risk of mutation and made it possible for light-speed transportation throughout the vast space-time that comprised the Empire. More than a thousand Drodenari years had ed since the former crew had shut down the facility and teleported themselves away for re-assignment, roughly equal to eight hundred Earth standard years. In that time a lot had changed, both within the Imperium and on the planet Drodenar, as well. Across the distant kingdoms and Corporate World Settlements that had made up the Empire, revolutions and wars of succession and secession had raged, throwing the galaxy into a state of turmoil. Over more than a millennium the Earth saw its overreach diminished far away and finally within its own solar system with the separations of Mars, Enceladus, and Titan. Of all of Earth’s former colonies only Luna remained loyal, for it was too close and too small to stand alone against the home world. Millenniums of overbearing rule had forced the colonies to desire and finally fight for their independence. On liberated worlds, subsequent wars ensued for power and dominance within planetary borders. Only recently had peace been achieved with the formation of the Divisional Accord for Territorial Sovereignty of 5423 AD and the advent of SAF technology. In that same span of years, Drodenar had experienced wide ranging environmental shifts, culminating in the onset of an ice age. This shifting of fortunes had disrupted the planned development of the planetary ecology and laid waste to a promising Bronze Age civilization placed there by the research and development division of Life-tech Corporation over two thousand three hundred years before. Political upheaval and war had forced the corporation to withdraw from the sector, but now the time had come for redeployment and resumption of the project. For the past fifty-seven months, the signal had been travelling from the Life-tech corporate world of Lipitor in the Orion system. Finally, the stream of code had been received by the Intelligence of the station built deep within the small moon that Life-tech had named Dev Lok, meaning “world of the gods” from ancient Hindu teachings. The station had come back to life, and it was time for the research team to do the same. All four SAFUs initiated at once, emitting a low, crackling hum. Within the chambers, unseen nano-actuator machines leaped into action, apportioning raw materials, knitting atomic sequences, and combining them into millions, billions,

trillions of pattern-specific suffusions. Arranging the innumerable components into a complex, three-dimensional network, the actuators produced a nuanced scaffolding of matter, building layer upon layer within an immobilizing field that held the composition rigidly in place until completion. This guaranteed that upon completion the whole construction would be perfectly aligned. At that time, with the collapse of the immobilizing field, fluidity would be imparted to the construction, allowing biological functionality to ensue. With the addition of a micro-charge of electrical current the freshly constructed organism would begin to function—heart driving the circulatory system, lungs drawing breath and imposing oxygen, synapses prepared for electro-chemical incorporation of the resident memory signal, , and consciousness. The whole thing required seconds. Waking up took the longest. The eyelids would begin to flutter and then gently open in a response to external light. There was almost never a sudden awakening, and awareness tended to come over a matter of several seconds, the subject having been prepared for the process by means of relaxation therapy. Within the chamber soft natural sounds would be reproduced, such as the sound of gentle waves lapping upon a beach or the trickling of a stream over stones. The particular sequence could be preselected by the subject before his or her signal was sent. Over the next two minutes the temperature inside the chamber was increased slowly to match the conditions outside. As the entire process brought the organic chemistry to optimum balance, the resulting organism upon waking would require neither food nor drink nor sleep for typically eight to ten hours, dependent upon personal norms. The transparent cover would slide open at this point, and the crew member would be free to exit the chamber and get dressed, allowing the SAFU to advance to the next animation sequence. Four naked Humans were now rummaging around the fabrication room, accessing uniform cabinets, and exchanging mumbled acknowledgements. The first batch had consisted of the Mission Leader, Professor of Anthropology Maximillian Henderson; Bioengineering Specialist Helen Mandela-Wessels; Second in Command, Climatic Engineer with a Masters of Astro-Geophysics Eugene Chow, and Geo-Engineering Specialist Sanjay Sahota Singh. Henderson was a Master of Molecular Biophysics educated at the University of New Beijing on planet Lipitor. Born in the coastal city of Fiji Beach on March 22, 4366, he was the youngest of three brothers. His mother, Dr. Anna Gloria Henderson, was chairman of the board of Trans-Galaxy Shipping based out of

Lipitor. His father was a sperm bank. Mummy, it seemed, had not the time for a man in her life and so had raised her three boys without one. Max’s elder brother, Hamilton, had taken well to a life of privilege and wealth, following Mummy into the field of big business, whereas his twin brother Rochester had gone his own way, choosing the life of a bohemian artist, for which Mummy had disowned him. As Henderson dressed, he began to check readouts at various stations around the room. He exchanged a quick glance with Helen and smiled asking, “How was your flight?” Helen pulled a fingertip along the seam up the front of her uniform, which knitted together flawlessly, and sighed feigning disapproval, “Yeah, no movie,” she quipped. “Can you read the incoming stream? Who’s next?” Henderson scanned the readout, turned back to Helen, and said, “MacKinnon, Mannheim, and Rhodes. Once everyone is in, we’ll proceed to Medical for upgrades. I already miss my implants. I’m not used to reading screens.” “Well, in the meantime I’d like to get an idea of how the protocols have been updated during our absence. Eight centuries must have produced some remarkable data,” she announced with some excitement. “Hey, you really know how to have fun!” Henderson retorted glibly. He adjusted his collar mechanically and proceeded across the room to where Singh and Chow were standing looking over stats on a screen. “Well, gentlemen, welcome home!” he said with enthusiasm, as the next group of travellers began to assemble in the SAFUs. Sanjay Singh eyed Henderson unhappily. “You know what I forgot to do, Max?” he asked, and then answered his own question, saying, “I forgot to say goodbye to my ex-wife.” Then he laughed a hearty gut-laugh. Henderson raised an eyebrow in mock onishment, and then turning directly to Eugene Chow, he asked, “And what about you?” Chow looked as if he was going to burst out in a grin, but that was his usual manner. He was a pretty cheerful guy. “You know, Max, I forgot to say goodbye to his ex-wife, too!” and he bowed his head in a pantomime of a laugh that had been a childhood trademark. Henderson could not ever hearing Chow actually laugh out loud. Helen slipped by on her way to check the progress of the next batch of transported, and loudly ascribed the conversation of the three men

to childishness. Their expressions contorted humorously, but none of the three attempted a retort. “Second batch transport is completed,” announced the Second in Command, as the SAF chambers opened to release their captive engers. “We’re goanna start getting crowded in here pretty soon. Why don’t you three go get set up in Medical, and I’ll make sure everybody gets there as soon as we’re done here? Go on, boys,” she added, focusing on her work. Henderson glanced back at Helen and saw she was assisting a crew member out of one of the SAF units. He took her in for a moment, musing to himself how lucky he was to have her here. She was the best in her field, brilliant and insightful. Centuries of discoveries, scientific breakthroughs, and awards under her belt, she had the right to be aloof, but not Helen. She was as real a person as Henderson had ever met. Her family had been agricultural people—not mass production farmers, but the kind that got their hands into the soil, the kind that took life by the roots and shook the dirt off to reveal something good. They had been farming using truly ancient methods for over four hundred years, producing the finest quality foods, meats, and vegetables that tasted like they were meant to. The media common-speak for Helen’s family might be “hayseed,” but anyone who might think that was a fool. Henderson knew that he had loved her forever, and that he always would. He smiled and turned to follow Chow and Singh from the room, a happy skip in his step. Henderson kept a few paces back from the other two men as they made their way toward Medical. As he walked along, he reviewed the pair in his mind, aware that soon the implants and their associated upgrades would be ingested, and mental privacy would be more tenuous. Eugene Chow, Henderson considered, was as good a Climatic Engineer as he had ever worked with. He could develop a planetary environment in his sleep, working out the relationships between land, sea, and air the way a great chef would compose a fine meal, or a maestro a symphony. Drodenar had been his palette twenty-two hundred years before, and his calculations had produced the tidal balances created by the insertion of the three moons. If not for his brilliance in coordinating the macroclimates of the supercontinent and the massive ocean surrounding it, the planet would have continued to be a harsh and inhospitable place. By the time Henderson had come onboard, the project had already been heralded a success by Life-tech Corporation’s board of directors, earning Chow an Einstein-Bjerkness award and a professorship at the University at Klaatu City

on Lipitor. Sanjay Sahota Singh, on the other hand, was a more recent addition to the program. Henderson had first met him during a poker game at the InterConstellation Casino on board one of his mother’s finer cruise ships, the TransGalaxy Empress. Sanjay was a whisky man, ice, no mix, with a penchant for marriages and divorces, gambling, and friends. He had a generosity of spirit about him and, although somewhat unsuccessful at marriage, he was well loved by those who knew him, including some of his ex-wives. Sanjay was a large man with big appetites, which included his work. By the age of ninety-seven he had earned two degrees with honours at Skirting University in the Martian city of New Taipei, one for Geological Engineering and the other for a Specialization in Planetary Re-alignment Engineering. It was the second discipline that had brought him to the attention of Life-tech Corporation and subsequently to the Drodenar Project. He was here primarily to delicately correct the planet’s rotational tilt, thus alleviating the severity of the glaciation that had begun some two hundred years ago after a close encounter with the gravitational well of a rogue planet. Not surprisingly, he and Chow had hit it off immediately. The door of the intended unit opened before them and the three men entered Medical, a large facility housing a bank of bio-beds and readouts, tech stations, and the usual array of diagnostic equipment. Everything was white, sterile, and cold looking to Henderson, who had never much cared for such stark settings. He looked around with a sense of mild unease at the room and thought, Not my colour. Then, Henderson addressed the Intelligence for the first time since arriving. “Intelligence, I assume you have been monitoring us?” A voice, not unpleasant, not devoid of emotion or cold, answered him. “I have been observing you, Professor. The last of the incoming faculty have arrived and should be here shortly. How can I be of assistance?” Henderson took a seat on a small, white bench. “The walls,” he said, looking around. “Can you give me a bit of colour, say a pale blue? All this white is giving me a headache.” Without comment, the Intelligence made incremental adjustments to the nanocrystal pigment within the surface of the lab walls, and slowly a bluish tone replaced the striking white.

“Bit too dark,” instructed Henderson. “Take it back a touch. There! I can live with that,” he said. The Intelligence responded cordially, “I suppose if I had Human eyes, that would feel a little less extreme, Professor. Is there anything else?” “We three are ready for implants and upgrades. The others will want theirs when they arrive. I’ll go first,” he said. A tabletop opened beside the bench revealing six small tablets, three green, three blue. Henderson picked up one of each in his right hand and looked them over, then queried, “Water?” “Unnecessary, Professor,” replied the Intelligence. “These tablets will simply melt and be absorbed by your tongue.” Henderson nodded, duly impressed. “Down the rabbit hole we go!” he quipped, and he popped the tablets into his mouth. “I am not aware of any deleterious effects associated with this protocol, Professor Henderson,” replied the Intelligence. Henderson ignored the comment and closed his eyes for a second. The effects of the protocol were almost immediate, and Henderson could feel his awareness opening up. His sensory inputs were the first to feel the nano-enhancement, hearing, vision, smell, touch, and taste all became crystal clear. Next, he felt a subtle prickling sensation across his chin as the nanites went to work repairing a shaving nick he had suffered earlier that morning; earlier fifty-seven months ago, he reminded himself. He sighed softly as a Link was made with the station’s technology. No more reading screens, he thought. In fact, every bit of information within the data-stores, every control linked to the project was at his disposal. Finally, like a shadow at the back of his consciousness, he could feel the Intelligence, ready for instant access, no spoken words required. He stood, and just as Helen and the rest of the crew were walking in, the Commander exclaimed loudly, “Don’t you love that feeling?!” Helen stopped and observed Henderson with just a hint of amusement in her dark eyes. It played across her full lips as a subtle smile, and as she placed her warm coffee hand on Henderson’s chest, she looked into his hazel eyes with a sobering but gentle onition. “The professor’s just excited to be getting back to work,” she said, and she made way for the others to enter Medical. “The Games are coming through at eight,” she told Henderson under her breath. “You

up for it?” “I’ll bring the snacks,” answered Henderson. “You still root for Proxima?” Helen cast him a quick glance, that read, “Duh!” “Who else, those Olympus hacks you like? Give me a real team any day. What about you, Eugene?” Chow cast a wistful glance back toward Helen and shrugged. “I don’t care much for Proxima’s chances tonight against The Kingdom. It’s a Hellscape arena and a forty-player field. The Kingdom is favoured six to one,” he reported. It’ll be carnage,” added Sanjay, as he dropped the pills onto his tongue and connected. Intelligence, thought Helen, what do you think of Proxima tonight? The Intelligence answered her in privacy, and she twisted her face into an expression of disappointment. “I guess we’ll see,” she answered Sanjay with a hint of stubbornness. Henderson shook his head, and the corner of his mouth betrayed some amusement. Then turning out of the room, he started into the corridor and off toward his office. “I’ll be touching base with University Head Office. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in ,” he called back to them, and in privacy he reached out to Helen. “See you later, Hel.” Helen’s own thought reached him across the Link. “Can’t wait,” she confessed, then turning to the faculty staff she made certain that everyone received their upgrades and implants. There was a student body for this group to receive, and then they needed to settle into dorms. Helen intended to touch base with Max for the briefing from Head Office as soon as she was finished here. The mission was finally beginning, and it was exciting. After the long, broken centuries of war and chaos, it felt like a fresh start.

Chapter 4 The Wilderness

The journey from the frozen seaside had taken the runners far away from the path that Jusk had set out for them. The frozen course of the mighty river had forced them high into the forests between the fire peak Mount Helen to the south and the Eruda Plateau to the north. As they had climbed, the river valley had grown deeper and the forest had swallowed them up in its darkness, providing shelter from the cutting winds. Only once had they heard the sound of Andros marching far off to their left and, stifling their terror, they had hidden among the massive roots of kolita-pines until the noise had ed. They had continued their hard march well into the afternoon, hugging the northern bank, when quite suddenly Jusk pulled Kuiper back and pressed the child into a sitting position atop a fallen log. The parent reckoned that they had been moving southwest for seven hours putting them a good distance from Eruda. It was time for a break and some food to restore them. Deep in the shadows of the riverbank they ate bread and bean curd and having melted snow-filled skins under their layered coveralls they drank deeply. A fire would have given them away and so there was none. After an hour or so they returned to the journey and the monotony of pressing forward through the forest until what light there had been had melted away, leaving them to proceed in darkness once again. Throughout the day the runners had seen few animals, but as night enclosed them the rustling sounds of moving things came from near and far. They had fastened blades of obsidian to the tips of the rock-wood staves, but they were uncertain of their chances should they encounter Riff guards or bandits or, worst of all, a pack of guergons or a gremorah. Above the forest the ghostly light of the moon Blue was casting fingers of illumination a short way down between the tree crowns, and when on occasion a finger would make it to the ground, it lit small patches of undergrowth in a most unnatural way. Kuiper was afraid that something would come for them out of the shadows and that death would be in its wake. Every bush was a creature of darkness and each rock and tree, a nightmare waiting to pounce, and the runners jumped at every new noise.

Without warning, the river widened, and the forest opened out into a clearing that dwarfed the main square of Eruda. They stopped, frozen fast at the treeline and buried in the shadows that now seemed like their dearest friend. To cross the clearing under the pale ghostly glow of Blue was surely to be caught. Jusk snorted, and then whispered to Kuiper who was tucked beneath its Elder’s crouching frame. “Blasted luck! I would have liked to be farther from the city before braving any open ground. This smells like trouble we do not need.” “Can we not go around, Guardian?” begged the child. Jusk considered the request for a moment while scanning the open field and its well-defined border of trees. Jusk snorted with frustration. “I do not think we have a choice. In the open we would be seen. We must go around, but stay low and hug the shadows. Come, we need to go deeper into the trees for cover.” Kuiper froze fast at the thought of going deeper into brush. Jusk patted the child’ shoulder and looked down at the hooded head. “What is it, young one?” The child looked up, fear carved in its features. Head shaking in a most uncooperative manner, Kuiper gripped Jusk’s arm tightly and whispered the name of a nightmare: “gremorah.” Jusk looked around them nervously, for even the bravest Andro alive would go cold at the thought of gremorah in the woods at night. They were fast and treacherous and deadly, scuttling about on six viciously bladed legs, their fore claws poised like scythes ready at any moment to disembowel prey. With a sting from their tail the beasts could paralyze an Andro, and the truly horrible thing about them was that they liked to eat their prey alive. Pack hunters by nature, they were somewhat lighter than a full grown Andro, but a pack of eight or so could bring down a blixonhog ten times the size of an Andro. They were intelligent, and once on the scent of prey, relentless hunters. For the sake of the child, Jusk gathered what courage could be found. “We have fine spears,” said the parent, almost convincingly. “Just stick it in the eye. They have so many to choose from.” Kuiper was not assured, but the child was tough as any child would be growing up on the streets of Eruda. Swallowing hard, it nodded. “I will not be afraid if you keep me close, Guardian.” But they were both afraid,

and they would likely remain so until they found a safe place out of harm’s way. So, on they went, skirting the clearing in silence, one eye keeping the treeline in sight, the other scanning the forest shadows for movement. In an hour, the clearing was behind them and once again they were clinging to the relative security of the riverbank as it wound its way through the . At length they found that they could go no further and so tucked into a deep root hollow and buried under a quilt of guort skin and a thick crust of snow, they rested. Jusk hung an expensive and hard to come by talisman from a root twig just above them. It contained a few drops of musk from the oil gland of a Hurdyk’s gremorah, the truly massive species that dwelt in the depths of the Great Forest of Dea, far to the east. They were solitary hunters that only mixed with their own kind for the purpose of breeding, an often-violent affair, and the smaller yellow gremorah of these northerly climes were no match for them.

Family of Hurdyk’s Gremorah

Sleep arrived for Kuiper only in fits and starts, and almost not at all for Jusk, who had tried diligently to keep some kind of watch throughout the balance of the night. Now Kuiper was watching over its guardian as it softly snored beneath the quilt. The child had eaten from their meagre supplies but was still hungry, and best efforts had been required to keep from leaving nothing for Jusk. As the child was putting away the balance of the morning’s meal its ears perked up beneath the pumpi hood and turning toward the unwelcomed noise Kuiper saw movement not far outside their little nook. All four hands sprang into action, three shaking Jusk and the fourth covering the adult’s mouth lest it cry out. Jusk snapped awake and grabbed for the rock-wood spear, and then peeking outside the burrow, saw a beast not far from the entrance. Dark and fat, it wallowed toward them grunting and snorting loudly, and the scent of it flooded forcefully into the little hollow, like damp grass and shit. Jusk thrust with the spear and the creature squealed and grunted and shook violently. Out of desperation Jusk sprang forward and out of the burrow, Kuiper right behind, and there was a struggle full of sweat and adrenalin and the smell of blood and grass and shit. The creature fell silent in the snow, impaled by the peltor’s spear. Jusk was panting hard and excitement rode the elder Andro’s features as it sank to one knee beside the kill. Kuiper was darting from side to side behind its parent, peeking out first from the left and then from the right. “What is it?” the child demanded excitedly. “Food,” said Jusk. “It stinks!” said Kuiper. “It certainly does,” replied Jusk. “We’ll have to wrap it well or it will attract predators, but this will last us many days, Little One,” said Jusk, proudly. Then, with knees trembling and all energy spent, the peltor dropped back to sit against the riverbank. Kuiper reached into a pocket and pulled out the remaining breakfast. Extending a mitted hand, the young Andro offered it to Jusk who, being famished, took the crusty bread and munched it. Laying its hooded head

back against the frozen riverbank, Jusk sighed and tried to savour the moment. There would be far more adventure in the balance of this day than they had hoped for, for as Jusk knew even wrapped the bloody meal would draw unwanted attention. “Get a large hide from my pack and some twine. We must secure this beast or the whole forest will smell it,” said the peltor. Kuiper grimaced and fanned an irritated nose. “I think that they can smell it back in Eruda. Are we really going to eat that?” Kuiper asked. Jusk snorted, an expression without humour, yet amusing to the child. “In a few days you will be happy to eat that, whatever it is. Come, do as I have asked. We must be on our way.” Kuiper turned into the little nook to search for wrapping and twine. Together they wrapped the stinking carcass as tightly as they could, and when they were finished, it hardly stank at all. Then they lashed it with cord to the flat-bottomed husk of a kolita-pine pod and fitted it with a rope for towing. Perhaps if it were a few paces behind them, they might not smell it quite so much. Jusk hoisted the end of the rope over its right shoulder, and as the eerie light of dawn began to build into daylight off in the distance, they moved on into the woods. Noon came and went, and the forest had grown thick and dark around them when Jusk stopped quite suddenly and motioned to Kuiper to do the same. They crouched against the trunk of a massive conifer hugging close to the huge tree, and they listened intently to the surrounding woods. At some distance behind them the runners heard a soft rustling noise. It stopped and then resumed and stopped again. The Andros looked at one and other with trepidation. Although they could not be certain of what it was, they were certain that something was following them, and not at any great distance. The noise repeated, this time louder and closer. Jusk responded in a burst of motion, springing up on legs that did not seem to wish to cooperate. With both large arms and all four forearms, the Andro swung the rope and with it the smelly package up into the branches of a tree where no gremorah could reach it. Grabbing Kuiper by the arm Jusk began to drive booted feet into ground and as the child recovered its wits it did the same. They were running full out now, their hearts hammering in their chests, and just above the roar of blood pounding in their ears the runners could hear a powerful set of legs crashing through the frozen undergrowth behind them.

“Don’t look back!” cried Jusk to the child, and as the words were being uttered the peltor cast a wild-eyed glance backward. It was grey. It was grey and it was big, running on four legs with two shorter clawed legs between them. The face was long and narrow, rimmed with black tendrils and crowned with numerous black eyes. It was no gremorah, but a guergon that chased them now. Not a pack, thank the Woman! thought Jusk as they took a fork to the right and found themselves running up the side of a hill and into a clearing. The creature was nearly upon them. They heard the panting grunts of its breath at their heels. Jusk gripped the rock-wood spear ready to turn and fight, and almost certainly die. Kuiper’s breath was catching in a throat too dry to swallow. Movement seemed to slow. The effort needed to keep going was too much! Gravity was going to deliver them to the jaws of death.

K’jo and the Guergon

Then the underbrush erupted beside them and a form launched from the shadows as they bolted ed. The being sprang and turned in fluid motion, wielding a massive axe over its head. In an instant it collided with the racing guergon, smashing bronze against bone. Blue-black blood sprayed from a terrible wound in the creature’s face. It pitched and rolled, violently crashing into the underbrush as the being, now obviously Androgenari, stood over it and drove the weapon into its side. The guergon shuddered and then, collapsing into a heap, it moved no more. Collapsing into a heap of their own the exhausted runners turned back to face the Andro who had saved them, spears at the ready. What now? Jusk wondered. Then, the stranger turned toward them and approached. “Who are you? Thank you! Who are you?” Jusk babbled. “Are, are you friend or foe? Please, I have a child with me,” the peltor complained. The stranger, taller and stouter than Jusk, came to within striking distance and held position imposingly over the crouched runners. A moment ed full of tension and the stranger drew a heavy sigh, then pulled back its hood to reveal a tough and sinewy face with large brown eyes and a long scar on the left cheek. Jusk’s own face cast an immediate response of surprise and recognition. His eyes fixed on the other Andro; head cocked to the side. “I thought you years in the grave,” said the peltor. “How is it that you still breathe, My Friend?” The large Andro reached down with both right forearms extended, having rested the great bloody axe against a handy boulder. Taking the grip of friendship, Jusk was pulled upright a moment later. Now standing, the peltor pulled Kuiper up to stand beside itself and, indicating the other Andro, made introductions more formally than the child was accustomed hearing. “Kuiper, My Child, this great mass of Andro is the trapper of trappers, renowned across the Lyfgus-Haug and far beyond the Great Forest of Den—my good friend, K’jo-la-Yugo.” The child bowed its head formally, as was the custom. K’jo extended its right arms and Kuiper timidly pressed palms with the big hand.

“It is a privilege to meet the child of my greatest teacher,” said K’jo directly to Kuiper. “Your parent and I have known one and other since we were young and serving in the great army of the High Pip Sol’ja-la-Sol’ja, before the Time of Ice. Jusk was an armourer in those days and built the finest fighting wear I have ever seen. It saved my life more than once,” reported the trapper, with a toothy grin. Jusk smiled fondly at the memory of those days, and patted K’jo solidly on the shoulder. “I can report to you now, My Friend, that after today we are even,” claimed the peltor, humbly.

Pumpi

K’jo looked skeptically into Jusk’s face, and then looked into Kuiper’s smaller face and shook that massive head, saying “Do not believe it, Little One. Your parent can claim to have saved the lives of more Andros over the years than there are leaves on a great gourtuni tree.” Kuiper looked up into the face of its guardian and smiled a proud smile. “Jusk did not give birth to me,” the child said, water welling in its eyes. “Jusk is my father.” Afternoon ed in reminiscent conversation around a roaring fire at the eastern foot of the Mountains of the Blood Moon. K’jo had shown the runners an easy way out of the and invited them to dine on a large razor-fish caught through a hole in the river ice. It had been roasted over smoky kolita twigs and was rich and delicious. It was the first flesh that Jusk had eaten in many years or that Kuiper had ever tasted. Such things were expensive and far beyond the means of any in Eruda, outside the Riff. K’jo outfitted the runners with a small sledge and two purgs, flesh and bread, and other supplies as they would surely need to cross the Lyfgus-Haug successfully. The trapper informed them that if they would keep Blue on their left and Blood on their right, they would trace a course true to the village of Midrib on the shore of the River Hork where lived the wise Ki, Ping-la-Dhourtin. Further, K’jo informed the pair of anxious travellers that if they hurried along that course, they would encounter a hunting party led by the first-born of that Ki, who would help them. The hunting party was soon to return to Midrib, and the guard of the Riff was unlikely to be far behind Jusk and Kuiper, so having fed them K’jo urged them on, for a blizzard was brewing and no wild beasts would be roaming the Lyfgus-Haug that night. Farewells were said, and as the winds began to pick up, Jusk and Kuiper rode off against the darkening sky. K’jo-la-Yugo had stood for nearly an hour watching as the now properly outfitted runners shrank slowly against the horizon, until the wind-whipped snow made it possible to see them no longer. Turning toward the northwest, the trapper could see a faint glow on the plateau where stood the distant city of Eruda. At this distance, not even the tall black tower was visible, and if not for

the hazy firelight against the menacing storm clouds it would have been impossible to know just exactly where the city stood. Riff guards would be coming. Of that K’jo was certain, but by exactly which path could only be guessed. If they had found the route that Jusk and Kuiper had used to escape the city, then they might be here within the next two hours. If they had sought to track them due east out through the city gates, perhaps sooner, but the winds were sure to have made the most obvious of tracks disappear by now, and even hunting purgs would have a difficult time catching a scent in this wind. As the trapper realized that there was nothing more to be done in the matter, it turned back into the hills to wait out the storm in a deep cave warmed by the Great Fire Mountain beyond. The night and the snow and wind had swallowed them up by the time the hills had melted away into the flatlands of the Lyfgus-Haug. It was only by providence or by an occasional crack in the cloud cover through which they might catch glimpse of one of the risen moons that the runners had managed to stay on course. Tirelessly, the thickly muscled purgs pulled them forward through the blasting wind and snow, Blue on their left, Blood on their right. The howling gale, somewhat muffled by the pumpi-hide hoods, obscured the footfalls of the purgs and the slicing of snow by the sledge-blades beneath them, and as they raced forward into the night the runners had a vague sense of falling. Jusk had not travelled like this in many decades, and Kuiper had never experienced motion faster than running in the streets of Eruda. Eruda, the Riff would be coming and the thought of it was ever constant in the peltor’s mind. Casting a wary eye behind them, Jusk was relieved to see their tracks filling in as quickly as they were being made. Perhaps they had ed into safety by now, perhaps not. It was difficult to say, but with each ing minute the city of their captivity was falling away behind them and that was a good thing. In silence they had travelled for several hours, when suddenly the purgs slowed their forward momentum to an easier pace. Gathering closer together they proceeded at a walking speed, swinging their massive heads from side to side as if trying to catch a scent on the impossibly fierce wind. It seemed to come to them for a moment only to be torn away again. They stood still in the blasting wind, the sledge coming to a gentle stop behind them. Kuiper took hold of Jusk’s coat-sleeve, casting the question with wary eyes. Jusk shook a confused head.

Suddenly they were moving again, slowly at first and then faster as the purgs lunged ahead toward some unseen destination. Then Jusk saw it and pointed. Kuiper strained to make it out and then it grew clearer: a yellow glow, faint and small on the wispy edge of the wind-whipped horizon. It could only be a fire, but was it friend or foe? Only time would tell. Gripping their ironwood spears, the runners settled back against the padding of their provisions. They had some way to go before they would know who awaited them at the edge of the wilderness, and they could do naught but wait to find out. The purgs, now bounding toward the firelight in the distance, would not be easily stopped in any case, for the fire meant warmth and a break from the toil of pulling the sledge. Slowly the patch of firelight grew before them. The forms of broken walls expanded from the edge of snow and grey sky, walls upon which danced the oversized shadows of menacing shapes, the shapes of Andros, spears in hand, awaiting them in the wind and the darkness.

Chapter 5 Olden Hands

At six-thirty in the morning precisely, the Intelligence responded to a request from Professor Henderson, and in a formerly unlit section of the station, there was light. The room was empty and small, but within the space of a minute its dimensions had widened and broadened to accommodate a predetermined number of people. From the barren white floor grew a series of shapes, row on row, which in short order moulded themselves into upright chairs facing a single long table before them. Behind the table grew eight more chairs, facing outwards. The bleak white wall to the rear of these chairs shimmered, and on its surface grew a large viewing screen. Various elements of accessory and adornment highlighted the room, and finally colours came into the surfaces that the Intelligence had built. The meeting would convene in five minutes. Doors slid open in one of the walls and into the meeting room shuffled an assortment of Humans dressed in uniforms of colours that indicated their departments within the mission. Seven wore the pale green uniforms of Terrestrial Sciences, nine others the light brown of Astrophysics. There were seven in olive Medical scrubs and five in the soft violet uniform of Molecular Engineering. Keeping somewhat apart from the others and quietly engaging in conversation stood three security personnel in grey pyjama style uniforms. In all, thirty-six people had entered the room and were going about the business of finding chairs in clusters according to their departments. At the opposite end of the room another door slid open and in due course the mission staff began to enter, moving quickly to seat themselves at their places behind the table. Eugene Chow and Sanjay Singh found their places and sat chatting over a small device placed on the table before them. A tall, very darkskinned man entered next, accompanied by a much shorter blonde woman, then quickly after entered Helen Mandela-Wessels, urging the two previous comers to their seats. Standing behind a centrally located chair, Helen addressed the room in a take charge sort of manner. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. We will begin in a moment.

Thank you.” As she was speaking, Max Henderson and a tall, brown-skinned woman with short-cropped brown hair entered. Helen and the woman quickly took their places, and Henderson, now the only one standing, addressed the room in his usual, charming manner. “Thank you all for being so prompt,” he began, as the main door slid open and a short wiry man slipped through it into the room. The man glanced selfconsciously toward the speaker and slipped silently into a chair at the rear of the room. “Well,” added Henderson, attempting to stifle a smile, “as prompt as one would expect, eh, Gunderbach?” The short wiry man grinned apologetically and shrank down slightly in his chair, allowing Henderson to continue. “Welcome, everyone, to the re-initialization of Project Drodenar. My name is Professor Maximillian Henderson, and I am leader of this mission to advance the planet’s development. Some of you already know me, and many of you are new to the project, while some are old hands, and I do mean ‘olden hands’,” he quipped to muted chuckles. “As you all know, the project has remained suspended for the last eight hundred Earth years owing to the wars and rumours of wars we’ve had to contend with. Now, however, in a time of relative peace and quiet we have an opportunity to travel freely once again, and the time is right to pick up where we left off. Well, not exactly where we left off.” Behind Henderson the viewing screen came to life showing a time-lapse of the past ten local centuries, featuring Drodenar against the inky mat of space. “As you can see, the planet has experienced an axial tilt due to the near ing of a large planetary body through the system. This has produced an unfortunate climactic deviation from the originally programmed specs. In short, it’s damned cold down there. Our first job will be to correct this, and our point man on this aspect of the mission, some of you know him, will be Planetary Engineering Specialist Sanjay Sahota Singh.” Singh half stood in appreciation of the round of applause that followed. Chow tugged at his sleeve as if to say, “Sit down! Let’s get on with this.” Henderson continued, “You brown coats will be reporting to him at seven a.m. in Astro-P. Good luck. I hear he’s a bit of a rough-rider. “Next, I would like to introduce our Master of Climate Engineering, Professor

Eugene Chow, whom has been with the project from the very beginning. Professor Chow gave birth to much of the life on Drodenar, and as for the planet, changed, fed, and burped her for nearly two millenniums. He is now back to see that his kid grows up to be a healthy toddler.” As a round of fresh applause filled the room, Chow rose to his feet sporting a wide grin. Sanjay Singh shook his head in mock disapproval and then ed in the applause. Henderson raised his hands to quell the enthusiasm, pleased with the tone of the mission briefing so far. The room came to silence once again. “At this time, I have the pleasure to introduce to you our Chief of Medicine, Bioengineering Specialist, Dr. Conan MacKinnon, who will be seeing to your excellent health for the duration of the mission. Dr. MacKinnon will be coordinating research with the olive team into the ongoing health and development of the local population of,” he paused playfully “… sentient lifeforms,” he announced. The tall, black man stood up as the room went silent, and then a rustling of enthusiasm grew into a roar of applause. Until that moment only the command staff had been aware of this aspect of the mission. It was a rare thing indeed to find such an opportunity and the excitement was unambiguous. This time when he raised his hands, Henderson had to be patient for silence. “Heading up our Terrestrial Sciences Department, I am happy to introduce GeoEngineering and Tectonic Specialist, Helga Mannheim. All of you in green uniforms will be assigned to her in the development of sustainable planetary models for future projects across the sector.” Mannheim rose only partway from her chair and waved to a round of much less rowdy applause. Henderson continued. “All the way from the Skirting Project on Mars, I am certain that most of you have heard of Project Specialist Bio-Chemist, Akna Rhodes. We have the developer of literally half a million sustainable bio-based products used across the galaxy here to lead our violet clad molecular engineering gang to the goal of paying for this very expensive venture.” The violet clad gang cheered wildly, bringing the rest on board with their unbridled excitement. Ms. Rhodes stood slowly, feeling the love. She smiled and retook her seat while the hoots and cheers filled the room. Henderson waved

them down. “Okay then,” he said. “It seems Capital is King after all. Last, but by no means least, it is my honour to introduce our Bioengineering Specialist and Chief of Security on this mission, Helen Mandela-Wessels, Second in Authority on Dev Lok station. You folks in the grey pyjamas report to her.” As Helen rose from her seat she was greeted by polite applause. She stood next to her husband, casting a matronly gaze across the room. Max smiled, knowing that Helen would intimidate the heck out of most of these kids. She was strong and beautiful, and seventy kilos of don’t mess with me solid muscle backed up those striking black eyes. Mm, yummy! thought Henderson. “Alright, people, you all have places to be. The time is now six-fifty-one a.m.,” reported the Chief of Security. “You have nine minutes to report to your department heads in their labs. That’s eight minutes to you, Gunderbach. Dismissed!” she barked. The meeting adjourned with some urgency, leaving the faculty staff to saunter out through their own exit. As he was about to leave, Eugene Chow glanced back over his shoulder, addressing Henderson. “Good meeting, Max. You scared the shit out of those kids.” Chow laughed silently. “Me?” asked Henderson, glancing at his wife as she ed Chow in the doorway with the squad of grey pyjamas close behind. “Game six is eight p.m.,” he called out after her. “You bring the snacks, Sweetness.”

Chapter 6 Hunters or Hunted

The broken walls of the ruined outpost grew rapidly before them as the horizon began to fall away behind it. Dawn, still hours away, would lend no illumination to their circumstances. The harsh firelight and the black shadows flickering menacingly against those ramparts were their only means of discerning what lay before them, as the purgs dragged them onward to their fateful meeting. The blast of the blizzard winds conspired with the darkness to bestow upon the runners a sense of dread for what was about to unfold. Jusk placed a double forearm across Kuiper’s shoulders in an effort to impart a sense of security to the child, but Kuiper was not assured. As the sledge bounced over a small rise, the encampment suddenly materialized all around them in the dancing firelight. The purgs drew up to an abrupt stop and the sledge quickly halted against their haunches. Spear points surrounded the travellers. “Do not move!” commanded an Andro voice. “Who are you and why do you invade our camp so rudely?” demanded the voice. “Speak!” Jusk, momentarily blinded by the firelight, was unable to see the faces of those who held fierce spears toward them and refused to lower its bladed stave. Instead, Jusk spoke in a manner both unhurried and unafraid. “We are sent to seek out the children of Ping-la-Dhourtin-Ki. Do you know them?” Jusk demanded. “Sent by whom?” queried the voice. “K’jo-la-Yugo has told us of their presence here on the Lyfgus-Haug, and promised his word of safe age to Midrib on the River Hork.” “You assume much, Stranger, with your talk of safe age. The Lyfgus-Haug is scattered with the mouldered bones of unwary travellers, especially those without the sense to halt outside a camp before breaking its boundaries,” chastened the voice.

Jusk lowered the spear by just a little in an overture of compromise. “We ask forgiveness for that miscalculation. Our purgs have run themselves out to get here, and they would not be stopped. We seek only assistance in a time of need.” The spearheads receded into the darkness and a double forearm reached out toward the travellers. It was followed by another and another still, and soon the wary runners were pulled from their sledge into the fullness of the firelight. Around them stood four strong and well outfitted Andros, their spears standing upright at their sides, out of hand. By the fire sat a fifth, with bronze blade in hand carving contentedly on a piece of soft rose stone. This Andro turned its head to study the newcomers, a glint of firelight in golden eyes and the hint of a smile on its lips. Jusk recognized a leader at once. The Andro blew a bit of dust from the rose stone carving and, in a comfortable manner born of station, gestured for the newcomers to take a seat by the fire. They complied eagerly with the leader’s invitation. “You must be in need, indeed, to venture into a blizzard on the Lyfgus-Haug with a child,” said the leader. “M’zyk, if you please, hot stew for those who awakened you from your slumber. Forgiveness and assistance have been requested by strangers, and as is custom among the people of Ping, we shall give it. I am Poopa-la-Ping, first-born of the Ki of Midrib. Tell me your story, Elder, how you come to be in so hard a place on so rude a night.” Jusk removed the mitts from all four hands and reached toward the fire to warm them. Kuiper, having decided that they were not about to die, finally relaxed and did the same thing. On the other side of the little clearing, Mool was busy placing blankets on the travellers’ purgs, and Khuli had cut them each a large chunk of meat. Jusk received a bowl of stew gratefully and ed it to Kuiper who hungrily slurped at the gravy. Upon receiving the second bowl, Jusk nodded thanks toward Poopa, and did the same. Only then did the peltor speak. “I am Jusk-la-Gurjion, a loyal subject of the High Pip, Sol’ja-la-Sol’ja, now lost to us all. Since the fall of Voughorf beneath the mountains of ice, I was swept up in a sea of Andros, slaves driven through the wilderness unto the city of Eruda, which although in ruins, was a chance for shelter and a hope to build a home once again. Then came the Riff, and with them the loss of hope. In short order they seized control of Eruda, slaying those who would not submit to their rule and making slaves of all the rest. I was a maker of things, so of some value and allowed a certain small degree of comfort—a cramped and drafty dwelling

within the ruins from which to produce that which the Riff could trade. My life was so for many years, working pelts or stone or wood for the profit of my new masters. Then some years ago a package was left at my doorstep. It was this young one you see before you. My life was never as full as it has been since that night when a nameless child was given me, for which I made a vow that one day I would save this child from such a life and give him the chance for a better one.” This telling seemed to perk the interest of one M’zyk, who gazed down upon Kuiper and grunted, “You are a bastard, child?” Kuiper glared up at the stranger standing over it. M’zyk met the youngster’s glare with a steady gaze that did not speak of criticism. “I am M’zyk-la-Skiffer,” it said. “You are like me then, Young One. As fellow Skiffers we by rights must be friends, do you not agree?” Kuiper glanced to Jusk for approval and finding it in the Elder’s eyes, turned back to M’zyk and nodded. “I thank you, Elder, for your kind words. I am Kuiper-la-Skiffer, and I am honoured to call you friend.” Across the fire, now seated upon a warm hide, Khuli spoke up boldly. “Well said, Young Bastard! I believe that we all shall be so honoured, for without doubt this night has brought us together for the sake of some good reason. What it is who can say?” Exchanging a brief glance with Poopa, the warrior continued. “Of course, you Andros are being followed by those who want their property reclaimed. We shall rest for another few hours, but before the storm ends, we must all be ready to move. We would be wise not to leave tracks behind us.” “Well said, Khuli. As always, your council is wise, Sibling. We will not hold to the customary course but instead we will take a direct route to Midrib. Father will be in awe of our hunt and of news of Eruda as well, I believe,” answered Poopa, and turning from the fire he waved for someone to step forward from the shadows. Into the firelight stepped Zeef, who had been kept hidden by Poopa’s order until such time as their security had been confirmed. “This young novice is our youngest sibling, Zeef. I hope that you and Kuiper may become good friends, Last Born, for this young one bears the mark of one well brought up.” Jusk bowed its head reverently. “I thank you, Poopa-la-Ping. Your words do me great honour. I thank you also for your kindness toward two strangers in the

night, and I hope that I may be of service in any way I can.” Poopa paused for a moment to study Jusk’s words. “Tell me, Jusk-la-Gurjion, exactly what service did you perform for the late High Pip?” “I built armour and weapons for the troops of the realm. I am trained in the working of bronze, its smelting and alloying.” Khuli leaned forward from across the fire, which illuminated the warrior’s features in a strangely ominous way. “Such things are all but lost from this region. Surely the Riff would have sought out such talents. Why would you not use them in Eruda to improve your position?” queried Khuli. “No, not if they bathed me in riches and rewards would I give such power to those monsters. They are the bane of my dreams and the last ones I would give the secrets I possess, for with that they would swarm from Eruda and putrefy all before them. No Andro would breathe the air of freedom nor know the worth of decency. I would end my life before I let that happen.” “Truly, Jusk, you are one Andro in a million. The best of us is prone to think of self at times, especially in times as rough as those you have described,” said Khuli. “How is it that you can be so pure?” Jusk recognized distrust in Khuli’s tone and posture. It would have been a provocation if the peltor had been a young Andro, inexperienced in such discourse, but Jusk was wise by its years and saw the strategy being played out between the siblings; Poopa acting the concerned and sympathetic friend, Khuli the aggressive interrogator. “I am not pure, no more than you, no more than your sibling. I have been many things in my lifetime, but I will not go against what is clearly good and right. I have a duty to my fellow Androgenari to do the best I can.” At this statement, Mool, having been seemingly oblivious in the background, suddenly came to life. The Monk moved to stand across the fire pit from Jusk, shoulders twisted, eyes fixed on the newcomer, all disdain. “You sound like an acolyte of Yolanda. All that stuff about comion and love

for those without. Did you not see the true nature of Drodenar in the seething alleys of Eruda? The Riff with all their darkness and malice, are they not the rule and not the exception?” As Mool interrogated, the siblings watched intently. Jusk gazed up into the seething eyes of the Monk of the Man Austin and thought, There is the truth of the nature of Drodenarian suffering; all hardness and lack of joy and faith in the goodness of most Andros. Jusk had no interest in sparking a religious debate or worse. Mool stood frozen in contempt. Just at that moment Poopa began to chuckle, shoulders rising and falling as if experiencing spasms. Raising both right forearms, the leader waved in the air above its head. “Stop, please. Mool, you sound like M’zyk when that Andro tirades your faith in your Man. Let our guest have the beliefs that suit its upbringing, for truly that war has been over for a quarter century. I have no desire to fight it tonight.” Then Poopa looked up into the windy clouds, the lines of its rugged face caught in the shimmer of the firelight. For a long moment, the leader sat as if transfixed, slowly breathing in and out through flaring nostrils. Then the Andro stood. Casting the dregs of a bowl of tea into the flames, Poopa turned its gaze across the gathering of Andros there and when spoken its words were full of wonder. “I have seen a firelight cast from the pearly face of Blood. It burned a moment only, white and hot, then disappeared. In these few moments caught within my waking eyes, The rising flood of fortunes yet untold, what secret lies?” All eyes were fixed upon that Andro’s face, each ear upon those lips, their meaning to unveil. Although they tried the comrades gathered there would fail, for until now, that cryptic journey had not been theirs.

“Curse this wind! I cannot see past my face!” bellowed a large Andro upon the back of a massive truglehoond. It glanced around impatiently searching for its Captain in the blast, then spotting the Andro, it called out against the howling of the storm. “Is there any sign from the advance guard?”

The Captain, a smaller Andro on the back of a massive purg, replied though its voice was inclined to fail against the tormenting wind. “My Master, I have no word from the forward, only the wind answers and fire fails before it begins. Shall we not seek shelter till the blizzard breaks?” The larger Andro glowered at its Captain from beneath the fluttering cowl of its hood, and then, turning its truglehoond back, led the retreat toward the cave below the hill. The Captain turned as well, relieved that sense had prevailed, and it drove its purg toward the safety that awaited them. There was no profit in racing off into this mess, only the certainty that many fine soldiers could perish for little gain. The animals trotted out of the storm and into the warmth and firelight of the cave. Their riders pulled them up, and as they halted the Andros dismounted, handing off the reigns to others for care. Soldiers moved about seeing to tasks as the officers made their way toward the supply depot. “We will not lose them, Captain, not on my watch,” grumbled the much larger Andro as it pulled off mitts and unlatched the bindings of its snowsuit. “The moment there is improvement in this storm we venture forth. I will have them in sight by morning or there will be vengeance within the legion.” “As you command, My Master, we will ride at first break. Shall I order up fresh mounts for us or do these beasts suit you?” “These will do. Fetch me flesh and ale and me in my tent. I have need of a dispatch to the Ki, so bring a rider,” ordered the large one sauntering off toward the rear of the cave. “By your command, My Master,” the Captain replied and then turned toward the mess where the smells of food cried out to its cold and empty innards. At the mess station the Captain stuffed roasted flesh into its mouth and chewed hungrily. A soldier filled a large bowl with stew and bread and ed it to the officer who was quaffing ale from a cup. “This is for the Master Hunter,” the Captain said, eyeing the cook. Promptly, the soldier dumped the stew and bread back into the pot. Quickly it carved a massive portion of pumpi meat and laid it on a plate with roots and greens. Onto this the cook placed a lid to keep it warm and turned it over to the Captain’s care. As the Captain moved away, the soldier addressed the cook in an angry voice, yet subdued for fear of being heard. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

First light began to build against the swirling mass of cloud that was the eastern horizon as the brutish force of the storm began to weaken. An hour before, the caravan of hunters with their two new companions had pushed off from their meagre shelter into the darkness and chaos of the waning night, like a team of lifeboats cast on stormy seas. Purgs pulling with eager power, the sledges sailed across the frozen grasslands of the Lyfgus-Haug carrying hunters, now hunted, across the waves of ice and snow. Just beside the larger sledge packed down with meat and hides, the smaller pulled by two stout purgs kept up with ease, for even with four riders the sleigh was far lighter than the other pulled by eight. Waves of snow splashing from the runners of one or other sledge would from time to time wash over the engers of the next, as hoots of laughter were swallowed up by the wind. Khuli, now seated next to Jusk upon the smaller sledge, leaned into the peltor’s ear and raised voice above the maelstrom. “How did you leave K’jo?” Khuli queried. Jusk turned, sufficient to answer, keeping one eye on the horizon so as not to yield to the turmoil in its stomach. “K’jo holds up in mountain caves, southeast of Eruda, holding vigil on the region. As a trapper, that one can come and go within that prison of a city and learn the breathing and eating and farting and shitting of the Riff within. I have known K’jo-la-Yugo for more than forty years, Khuli, and I believe that Andro to be well and happy in its calling. Your father has chosen well.” Khuli cast a flicker of a glance across to the waiting eyes of Skra, who was seated at the front of the sledge with Kuiper. The massive Andro nodded all but imperceptibly, and then turned to face the front, relaxing as it did so. Jusk smiled and turned to face Khuli seated close. Khuli, too, was smiling and met Jusk’s eyes with an even stare. “I see,” reported the peltor, calmly. “You are clearly a skilled tactician, Khuli-laPing. Even now you observe me for lack of trust, and your dispatcher is here in case you find me wanting. I would do the same in your place, for it is your city we race toward. If you wish my blood it is yours, for my oath to your sibling is my life; but I ask one thing. My child is a good Andro who has never seen the world outside the dark-hearted city of its birth. Look after Kuiper and make certain that the life I promised will be forthcoming.”

Khuli nodded in agreement, and then leaned back against the bundles of provisions. At length, the warrior spoke. “You are an excellent judge of Andros, Jusk-la-Gurjion. I will give you this promise. After you are cold, I will indeed take care of your child in the manner you request, but that, I hope, will be many years from now. I have measured you and find that what I said with scorn, in quest of your purpose, was wrong. I say it now again, this time with no scorn, that you may indeed be one Andro in a million. I like you after all.” Jusk studied the younger Andro’s face for signs of deception but finding no tells the peltor nodded in agreement. In Andro custom this was a binding oath, no matter for a follower of Austin or an acolyte of Yolanda. To break such a bond was to lose all hold on one’s ancestral honour, to become a pariah to all those of one’s family that had walked before and walked no more. It was unforgivable. Quieted in this knowledge the smelter of bronze and tanner of raw pelts then leaned back against the provisions beside a new friend and settled its eyes on the lightening horizon before them.

At first sign of a break in the blizzard the Riff guard moved out in force to find the trail of Jusk-la-Gurjion and its bastard child. The Master Hunter and its Captain rode their beasts without relent, driving the searchers forward in a wave of fifteen well-mushed teams. Each team of purgs consisted of eight powerful animals and every sledge was staffed by ten well-armed soldiers. To an observer it might have seemed perhaps excessive for a hunt of one Andro and a child, but the orders from Xcelpyr-la-Figfo had been explicit. They must be found, and failure would not be met happily, so onward they rode as a stampede of maddened guort against the last of the wind, purgs sniffing, and pilots watching and steering with their reins. These were well-trained trackers all, and under normal conditions such a mission would have been easy for them, but the storm had been savage, erasing track and scent beyond recovery. Still, did they stay the course, sending riders out before them to divine the slightest tell within the ground or snow. Seven long hours thus the searchers toiled for vacant clues and in that time the suns had broken the backs of the gnarly clouds. Rising in the clearing sky they glared and rained down a blinding haze across the snowy landscape, as though conspiring with the lack of sign to vex the searchers further. Then all at once a rider broke the crest of an eastern hill, charging back toward them at a reckless pace. The figure grew in

increments as it came, ever-increasing in gains, as it dipped below a shallow ridge and appeared again over the next crest, over and again like dawn and dusk and dawn. As the rider broke the final crest a party of searchers met it, and all pulled up their mounts to reconnoitre. Seated atop its truglehoond, the Master Hunter watched the parley unfolding in the distance and turned in its saddle to address the Captain. The smaller Andro was alert and had seen the meeting as well, and so spoke up. “I think we may be onto something, Master. What is your command?” The Master Hunter turned its face toward the hilltop once more and then chuckled in its throat. “We shall have them. I feel it. All sledges to that hill and prepare to take directions. To the one that spots them first a bag of coppers. The Ki will have its runaways.” In minutes, the whole unit had taken to the rippled plains that led toward a break in the direction of their search. Intel had been sparing but positive, for although no tracks were found a camp had been located less than two hours away. There had been a fire there the night before and in the Master’s mind that meant one thing. It must be them, for who else would be out on the Lyfgus-Haug in such a storm but desperate Andros. They drove their sledges hard and they rode their mounts as savagely, those who had them, and in the course of an hour and a half the searchers came to rest within the citadel where a camp had been not long abandoned. Quickly the teams of soldiers emptied their sledges and formed a ring around the exterior of the ruins. None would enter before the Master Hunter, for that Andro was the consummate tracker. It would not do to set foot within the camp and upset what traces there might be. In moments, the massive truglehoond came to a halt beside the shattered remnants of the long-abandoned station walls. Eagerly, the Master Hunter dismounted and began to slowly walk the ground outside the walls. Head held low and breath spilling in billows from the edges of its hooded cowl, the experienced tracker showed no sign of hurry in its task. Satisfied that no sign outside the camp had survived the wind, the Andro cast its gaze within, and there its eyes were met with possibilities. Among the wind scattered ashes and the blackened rocks that had housed the fire lay the charred remains of a small bone, probably the clavicle of a medium sized pumpi. Just outside the fire pit several small indentations had been made in the

warm soil, now frozen. The Master Hunter saw them for the marks left by the heels of those seated around the fire for warmth, at least five adults, two youths or children. The Andro nodded silently and continued to scan the ground in all the wavelengths its elegantly engineered eyes could access. In infrared there was nothing. The cold had made certain of that. However, in the ultraviolet region there were nuances that spoke of urine stains on some of the walls, and although the wind had destroyed any footprints in the snow, there had been tracks made on the surfaces of certain lichens just below the crust. The Captain had been standing just outside the ramparts waiting for the Master Hunter to finish, and as the larger Andro finally stood, their eyes met for a moment. “I have set teams around this place at intervals, My Master, to determine a direction they may have chosen,” reported the Captain. The Master Hunter nodded and then pulled the cowling back to reveal its face to the sunshine. The lines were rugged, the eyes large and blue-green, and a long scar ran from the corner of the right one to the same corner of a thickly lipped mouth. “There were seven adults here and two youngsters,” the Master announced. “Then these may not be our quarry, Master?” asked the Captain with some trepidation.

The Master Hunter on its Truglehoond

“These are the ones we seek. They have found allies from some nearby village, I believe. That is the best news we could have, for it means that their destination may be surmised. There are few settlements within four days ride of here, and only one within a day’s. That would be the Nooken village to the northeast. There is no sign of a struggle within these walls, and the Nooken would have taken them for food, so not so many feet around the fire.” “That leaves Waaku Village, two days to the southeast and Midrib yet further to the east, Master,” proposed the Captain. The Master Hunter did not answer, for as those words had left the Captain’s lips the Master Tracker’s eyes had caught a new sign. There, just inside the campsite upon its eastern facing wall, had been left a fragment of wood, a scraping, really. The Master carefully picked it up and cast its eyes upon the sample, barely enough to pick one’s teeth with, but the Andro smiled. “Do you know what this is, Captain?” the Master asked, and before the other Andro could respond, continued. “This is a shard of wood scraped off as a sledge was pulled against that wall. It has a particular colour to it in the spectrum below purple, which identifies it as a piece of gourtuni wood, which grows beyond the River Hork south of the mushroom forests to the east. It is the sure mark of a Midribi built sledge, Captain. To sledges! And to Midrib,” the Master Hunter crooned with satisfaction. Within moments the searchers had mounted their sledges and mushed their purg teams onward into the glaring white expanses of the Lyfgus-Haug. The excitement of the chase was in the air, all hoots and screeches of mayhem for the blood to come. The Captain and its Master rode hunkered into their saddles for the love of speed, and their beasts carried them across the barren dunes of crusted snow toward their journey’s end. They had to hurry, for their quarry would be taken easily if caught upon the Lyfgus-Haug before they reached the forest outside Midrib, but not so easily once inside its surrounding woods and not at all if within the battlements of Midrib. Racing toward the bright horizon they put behind them the small outpost and two mounted messengers bounding for Eruda to report their progress to Xcelpyr-la-Figfo-Ki, the ruler of the desolate

north, and the father of Klyky-la-Xcelpyr, the Master Tracker of the Hunt.

Chapter 7 Givers of the Law

Back in Imperial Earth year 4468, mid-summer had come to the deep, green world of Drodenar, and life was thick and rich beneath the vast canopy of forest that stretched from coast to coast across the supercontinent that Eugene Chow had named Elysium from the ancient Greek ideal of Heaven. Dev Lok station was abuzz with activity for the completion of the third phase of Project Drodenar, the population program. The morning had been a busy one, with bioengineering students working in their labs to construct the final set of apex life-forms for the eastern forest region far below. A team of planetary tectonics specialists had finished fine tuning on the matrix of volcanic vents that rode the mountain ranges of Elysium and had just returned from the surface for reassignment, while the newly appointed head of station security, one Maximillian Henderson, was making his morning rounds. Until a few days prior, his only title had been Professor of Anthropological Studies directing a team of post-graduate students in the cultural development of Drodenar’s single sentient species, the Androgenari, but with the sudden recall of the station’s Security Chief for a family emergency, Henderson had been saddled with the extra duty. As he walked the halls of Dev Lok, he touched base with personnel from a variety of departments, mostly making small talk until turning a corner outside Medical he nearly bumped into a woman with whom he was unfamiliar. She was not short, standing about even in height with Henderson’s hazel eyes, and there was a certain look of intensity in her own rich, dark chocolate eyes that Henderson was struck by immediately. Her face was round with high cheekbones and the tone of silky milk-chocolate was in her skin. When she smiled the effect on Max Henderson was disarming. Henderson stood frozen for only a moment and then, recovering, he smiled in return and addressed the woman. “Maximillian Henderson, Anthropology studies,” he said offering his right hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” The woman nodded knowingly and, still smiling, took his hand and shook it, professionally, coolly even.

“Helen Mandela-Wessels, bioengineering, but aren’t you our new Chief of Security?” she queried. Henderson nodded. “A title thrust upon me by the university in a time of need,” he replied. “What are you currently working on, Ms. Mandela-Wessels, if I may ask?” he queried with a smile. “I came on board just last week as Professor Chow’s co-ordinator. I liaise for him with his various research groups and teach advanced bioengineering to his graduate group. I’m a farmer at heart,” she said humbly. “Ah! A most noble calling, Ms. Mandela-Wessels. We all do need to eat, after all,” said Max, and, as Helen noted, without the air of superiority that frequently accompanied the response. “Please, call me Helen. Mandela-Wessels doesn’t really fall trippingly off the tongue. Makes for rather choppy conversation,” she itted. Henderson nodded in agreement, and, smiling, he released her hand, the release not being quick but a slower and more deliberate affair. “Max,” he announced. “Anything I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to call me, Helen. I’ll let you get on with the business of liaising,” and with a nod and a smile they parted company. Henderson continued on his tour of the station, but the damnedest thing occurred: he could not shake Helen out of his head. Was she really so unforgettable? He made several attempts to concentrate on his duties, continued to take updates from the department heads around the station, but finally concluded that this was not working. He entered his small office and sat abruptly in the chair before his desk. He was becoming frustrated at his lack of control over his own thought processes. After all, he was Maximillian Henderson, one hundred and two years old. How was it that he was behaving like a child of eighty? He had had many lovers in his life, and never once had a woman taken on such a debilitating position inside his head. They had only met for what? Thirty seconds? How could it be that the Playboy of Fiji Beach could be feeling like this over a stranger, a beautiful and exquisite stranger to be sure, but Max had had his share of beauty and exquisiteness in the past. He addressed the Intelligence, “Helen Mandela-Wessels, personnel update,” he demanded. Her file opened on a photograph that did not do her justice, and the

screen began to fill with her bio. Helen Mandela-Wessels was born in the rural outpost of New Eden, Planet Campesina, in the constellation Aquarius; Earth date January 28, 4359. An older woman, thought Max. Parents were Jonathan Peter Mandela and Sylvia Irene Wessels, a pioneer couple and recent immigrants from the planet Mars. Along with their youngest child, Peter, her parents had sought a new life in the agricultural colony on Campesina in order to escape a pogrom against organic farmers after a plague of rust blight was blamed on them by the Martian Guild of Genetic Modification Producers. Along with brothers Peter, George, and Nelson and her sisters Emma and Rasheeda, Helen had grown up surrounded by the open sky and the sounds of livestock. Wow! It sounded to Max like the pre-script from some old romantic movie. Did people still have those kinds of lives? He found himself soaking up the facts of this woman’s life as if compelled to do so, her education at the University of New Oxford, Campesina with a doctorate in ancient agronomy, subspecializations in bioengineering and natural food production. She was brilliant, having won the Campesina Pure Food Award in 4412 for her work in maximizing production within sustainable crop rotation cycles. Max was not familiar with any of it, dirt and irrigation or crop yields and sustainable rotation, but he started to the material into his nano-banks. He was going to learn about mud and cows and real un-modified food crops because, damn it! This Helen was something of a bolt out of the blue. He couldn’t understand it at that moment, but he couldn’t help himself. It was just at that moment that his office doorbell chimed. “Yes?” he responded almost unconsciously. The door opened and in stepped Eugene Chow with a sour look on his face. He was holding a data coin in his right hand and held it out to Henderson as if it were something foul. “I can’t believe it!” he complained, “and you won’t either. Look at it!” Chow demanded. Henderson took the small black coin and placed it onto the face of a data-reader on his desk. The screen dropped the image of Helen and in its place showed photos of two graduate students, one male and the other female. Below the photos were their names, Austin Fallowfield and Yolanda Groot. Henderson looked up into Chow’s face and saw both anguish and anger there. He shrugged, “What’s the problem, Eugene?” he asked. Eugene Chow pulled up a chair and turned it to back Henderson. He dropped

down into it and placed his hands palm down on the chair back. Resting his chin on the backs of his hands he moaned loudly, and then fixing his eyes on the new Security Chief, Eugene began to speak as if he were in some degree of pain. “I can’t believe it! These two have broken the biggest rule of experimental protocol ever!” After a moment Henderson took the master professor’s bait. “Eugene don’t expect me to read your mind. What have they done?” demanded Henderson somewhat excitedly. “Every year the grad students write an essay on the ethical and dynamic directional probabilities within the social order of a hypothetical sentient seed species.” He stopped as if to allow Henderson to extrapolate his next thoughts. Henderson observed him for a moment and then shrugged, blankly. Eugene lowered his eyes for a moment as if composing himself. “This study is done to encourage the students to draw conclusions on the potential direction that a new sentient species might take, given factors such as the level of technology we have given them or the way they have come to interpret the world we have built. We use the essays to assess the students in their ability to think outside the box, for one thing. They are confidential and are not to be exchanged, even between students, because in their wisdom the board of the University of New Beijing has deemed it so. Don’t ask me why! I don’t know. The bottom line is that it is forbidden by the powers that be,” stated Chow. Henderson felt a creeping sense of disquiet in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to ask the question, but he did anyway. “What has happened, Eugene?” he beseeched. Eugene reached for a glass of water that was sitting on Henderson’s desk, and then, raising it to his lips, he paused before taking a sip, eyeing Henderson for permission. Henderson motioned for him to proceed and so he gulped the water and replaced the glass. “These two young idiots released simplified copies of their essays to rival groups within the planet’s population. One in the northern capital they call Voughorf and the other in the southern capital, Pruskinom. The documents amount to codes of law and are as close to diametrically opposite as you could want,” he stated emphatically. Henderson winced. This was not good on many levels. The university would

certainly expel the two offenders and might even censure the project management, namely Chow and himself, because this could potentially skew the ongoing results that the board had been looking for. The further potential for the withdrawal of funds from the project by Life-tech Corporation was not to be dismissed lightly, either. Henderson leaned back in his chair and sighed. He crossed his arms behind his neck, examining the ceiling as if it were somehow crucial. “I never liked that colour for a ceiling,” he said matter-of-factly. He then turned his gaze on Eugene Chow and, as if they had been discussing what to have for lunch, he said, “Don’t tell them.” Chow looked incredulous. “Are you crazy? That could get us both into far more trouble than we are in already. If they were to find out on their own it would mean goodbye funding, goodbye tenure, and maybe hello to a century or two of incarceration. I vote lousy idea on that suggestion!” he exclaimed. Henderson nodded in agreement. “Okay, what if we say it was deliberate? What if we say it was a scientifically calculated effort to create a realistic schism within the Androgenari society for the purpose of observing a dynamic culture in turmoil?” Henderson offered with just a hint of a smile. Chow sank a little in his chair. “You think this is funny, Mr. Chief of Security? I can assure you that the board of directors will not. I don’t know about you, but corporate prison grey is not my best colour,” complained Chow. Henderson placed a hand on Eugene’s shoulder and smiled. “Don’t kill yourself yet, Eugene, although you’d just come back in one of those Methuselah stations. Let me think about this, and for everybody’s sake get some sleep. We have a project to run, for now anyway, and I need to make some inquiries before we do anything we’ll regret. I don’t know what I can do for your grad students, but I think I can keep us out of jail, Old Boy, so go have a drink and keep your chin up. Max is in town,” Henderson said coolly. Eugene Chow shook his head mournfully and rose from his chair. He left the room in silence as Henderson’s smile faded away, replaced by a look of unease.

The Trans-Galaxy Indigo Queen was one of the finest long-distance luxury

cruisers in a vast fleet of magnificent ships owned by that corporation, and as it happened, she was in the sector. On board was a litany of the who’s who of the wealthiest of the wealthy from across the now peaceful Ex-Imperial arm of the Milky Way. There were CEOs and COOs of Fortune Five Thousand companies from dozens of worlds, and their significant others or their whores were there, soaking up the luxury. Sixteen hundred engers occupied the opulent suites on the guest decks and nearly as many crew lived in the Spartan accommodations on the service decks below, ready to meet every desire of their charges. The line was known for excessive luxury, and the reputation was well deserved. Lady Catherine Chelsey Forbes of the Alpha Centauri Forbes was aboard with her children Reginald and Lancaster (Lance), their wives Delores and Selma, and her grandchildren Megan and Ulysses. Together they formed one fiftieth of a family line that had ruled that star system for upwards of six hundred years with very few of the troubles that had plagued many other ruling families in the sector. Their success could largely be attributed to a gentle hand with their population and a subsequent love and loyalty felt by it toward the royal family. The wealth of the system, although concentrated in the hands of its aristocracy, had been liberally disseminated among the people in the way of excellent education and guaranteed immortality for all law-abiding citizens. Criminality was practically unheard of within the system. For a stark contrast to the Forbes example one needed look no further than the constellation Canis Minor, where Count Pavel Androvich Bromirski ruled over the mining colonies cast among the asteroid belts of the binary star Procyon. Bromirski was a true old-fashioned capitalist-ultra-conservative. He believed in the supremacy of the bottom line and had no compunction about hard-line tactics toward the competition or his workers. He had fought several wars to exclude trade unions from his star system and he had criminalized guilds of every kind. To live in the Procyon system was to exist in the harshest of conditions unless one was a member of Bromirski’s inner society, where wealth and privilege were extended. The vast majority of colonists had been ceded from prison colonies and pariah worlds like Nightmare, which orbits Luyten’s Star, a ninth magnitude red dwarf where dwelt the abject remnants of a colony of misguided pilgrims from Mars. In between existed a wide range of planetary systems ruled by as wide a range of

kings and queens, chancellors, prime ministers, and presidents as one might have seen in the long-dead past of the Earth herself. Most ruled with some degree of civility toward their subjects, for the Empire had been founded on a model of well-being for its citizens, but some trended toward more autocratic forms of government with the attendant incivilities of their natures. Here, of course, these distinctions were secondary, for the ruling classes that travelled the galaxy doing business aboard the lavish vessels of the Trans-Galaxy Line were not there to judge, but for commerce and profit. In her sprawling office, lined with columnar laceworks of solid gold and a bank of large rectangular viewing ports that currently overviewed the beauty of the Crab Nebula outside the vessel, sat Anna Gloria Henderson, PhD., MBA, Master Ship Designer, socialite, self-made success story, and mother of three. She sat in a remarkably comfortable chair, which had been grown to meet the exact requirements of her exquisite body. It was covered with luxurious cegith-hide from Alpha Centauri—the chair, not her exquisite body—and it had cost more than the yearly salary of a porter aboard this ship. She had been busy, engaged in a conversation with someone over the official Trans-Galaxy secure network, but with a final note of farewell she had signed off. She leaned back in the chair. Her intercom spoke to her in a sexless voice. “Ms. Henderson, I have a call for you on your private line.” She sat forward, her interest peeked. “From whom?” she requested. “Mr. Maximillian Henderson, your son.” Anna paused for only a heartbeat before smiling and opening up a video link with the wave of a finger. Maximillian’s handsome face appeared floating above her desk before her. “Hello, Mother,” he said warmly. “How have you been keeping yourself?” “Max,” she answered with a look of fondness. “It’s been, what, eight months? You don’t call Mummy anymore? Sorry to hear about Gahanna, Darling, you should really find a better team next time.” Max looked a bit annoyed. “Mum, I’m a hundred and three years old next month. I don’t say Mummy, and

you shouldn’t either. I’ve been busy getting on with new duties at the Drodenar Project, though, so, sorry I haven’t called. You look great, by the way, beautiful as ever,” he offered. She nodded and smirked. “It’s the Romansky Tweak. I could eat a moose and I’d stay at this weight and shape forever. I miss you, Baby. You know, I see Hamilton more.” Max knew better than to ask about Rochester. “Well, all that star-setting you do can’t hurt either,” he said. He tried not to pause too long before pushing forward into the next phase of the conversation, but he knew that his mother would catch the hesitation anyhow. “Mum, the other reason I called is that I may have a bit of a problem here at the research project.” Anna’s expression changed only just slightly, to one of Aha! but then concern for her boy filled her eyes. She nodded, sort of a knowing nod, and leaned back in her chair. “What happened? You met a girl?” “No, Mum! Well, yes, but that’s not the problem. I have a couple of grad students that went and broke protocol on the project. They’re just kids but when the university finds out, well, I’m afraid they’ll get expelled, and it may not do my career much good either, as I’m in charge here.” He explained the situation in greater detail and just as he thought for sure that he was getting his story through to her, his mother interrupted. “Who is she?” asked Anna. Max was taken aback, as if he wondered whether he and his mother were having the same conversation. “Who is who?” he demanded, and then recapping the conversation in his head he understood. “Oh, Mum, she’s Professor Chow’s new assistant, but really, this thing is giving me stress,” he said, and he showed her his eyes, up close. “Do you see the bags?” he asked. Anna laughed out loud. “You’ll be alright, Sweetheart. I think I can put a word in with the board of directors at the university, and I’ll talk with Peter Grimm at Life-tech. I think we can do something to bring down your blood pressure. Now in the meantime, I’ll bet that girl, what’s her name, can help.”

“Mum, even a light-year away you get me crazy sometimes. Thanks for the assist, though, and her name is Helen,” he added. Mother looked curious. Max thought, Uh oh! “So, Helen, eh? Does Helen have a last name?” Max looked up at the ceiling, pretending to be annoyed, and then he smiled a little coyly. “Helen Mandela-Wessels,” he said. His mother sat bolt upright, an expression of surprise filling her face. Max was surprised in turn. “You’ve heard of her?” he queried, perplexed. “Recipient of the Campesina Pure Food Award. Don’t you watch the news?” she asked. He stared back blankly. His mother shook her head as if to say, “Oh, brother.” “She seems to be a girl with a head on her shoulders, Max. Couldn’t hurt to turn on some of that Henderson charm, if you know what I mean,” she said lovingly. Max nodded, his face set so as to not give anything away, but his mother knew. He was in love, finally. “Anything else, Scooter?” she asked. He had not heard that name in a really long time. “Oh, Mum! Don’t call me that!” he onished. “I am a hundred and two years old, after all.” Anna smiled and shook her head gently. “You’ll always be my boy, though,” she said. He looked off screen for a moment. “I know, Mum. Thanks. If you’re in the sector, maybe we can get together. You know where I live, right?” Anna nodded. “I’m proud of you, Max,” she said. “See you soon.” Max was about to find out just what “soon” meant. He stared, confused.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you, Maxie?” Anna said with her slightly twisted, joking smile. “I’m in the sector,” she said. “See you in two hours. Scenic tour for the Cartels of Antares and Emperor-Count, Pavel Androvich Bromirski.” Max smiled, the same slightly twisted one that he had inherited from Mummy. “Love, Bella,” he said. “See you shortly.”

Chapter 8 Fight or Flight

The double suns had risen high overhead, casting only the tiniest sliver of a shadow from the riders dashing like mad-Andros across the Lyfgus-Haug—their faces set in concentration along the horizon before them, with eyes peeled for sign. The purgs, hauling on their harnessed sledges, were panting with the long and strenuous effort of their duty, but mutely they continued onward, for the scent was theirs. It had come to them after many fruitless hours from the open tracks of two sledges and ten purgs, and it was strong. No wind remained to disturb the traces or to bury the tracks. The scent of blood was in the air, and the purgs drooled and slobbered and they bounded forward powerfully as if insane in their lust for it. Broad blue feet galloped with surprising lightness over the crusty snow as the truglehoond carried its master high in its leather saddle. Strong, thickly muscled legs propelled it over frozen ground as waves of power rippled through its massive blue body, a masterwork in elegance. It banked and curved like a wisp of wind beneath the Master Hunter’s gentle caresses, careening between the purg sledges, outpacing them with ease and pulling out ahead of the packs to take the lead. On its back the red-cloaked Master of the Hunt rode tall and strong and commanded awe from the lesser Andros all around. Standing a full head taller than most, its chest, and shoulders broader than most, the Master Hunter was a powerful warrior, more so even than its father, the Ki of Eruda. Together, as if bound in one body, the two creatures made a most impressive spectacle against the brightness of the afternoon sky. Struggling to keep up with the Master Hunter and its mount, the Captain leaned into the mammoth neck of its large riding purg. Its legs were shorter than those of the truglehoond, but they pumped like mad beneath the wide body, and without much effort the riding purg had outpaced its smaller cousins and left the sledges behind. Bounding forward at speed the purg covered five metres in a single bouncing leap, rode troughs and rises with ease, and could carry its rider comfortably over the roughest of terrains. On its back the Captain was secure

knowing that the beast could take it wherever it might need to go, and when dressed in light armour was a fine vehicle for the rigours of battle. Thus, did they continue into the hours of afternoon as their shadows grew longer before them and the suns slipped away at their backs. Furious was the scream of the first sledge-crew far ahead as the quarry was finally spotted against the dark ridge of treeline at the crest of the horizon. The echo of that scream resounded in the ears of every hunter as they pressed forward in their places, focused now on the targets, two sledges against the snowy plain. They whipped their purgs and leaned into the face of a newly growing wind, as the Master Hunter’s truglehoond and the Captain’s purg began to close the distance between them and the quarry. Weapons were beginning to slip from their leather sheathes, ropes from gourt-skin pouches. They would ride in and surround the little party in a matter of minutes, for the Man of War was on their side today. Up ahead the hunted had heard the war scream, and even as they lashed to get every joule of power from their purg teams, they could not help but cast back glances filled with terror and some surprise. They had slowed upon seeing the friendly forests of home before them, lit yellow in the late afternoon sunshine. Poopa cursed its sloppiness, for the day had been long and tiring and upon seeing the edge of their homeland they should have bolted for it. Instead, they were still a good distance from the shelter of the trees and the riders behind them were coming on fast. In desperation, the eldest child of Ping drew a short bronze horn from a pocket within its coat, and placing the instrument against dry lips, blew a piercing alarm in the direction of home. Repeating the blast again and again, the Ki-ling motioned orders to Khuli and Jusk to drive for the western break where the forest opened into a wide gravel trade road. Mool and M’zyk turned in the rear of the sledge, spears ready, Zeef pressed in between them with a long, bronze tipped lance. Their eyes peeked out over the bundles of meat and supplies as the sledge surged forward through the snow, casting fans of frozen spray behind them. Nothing to do now but be ready; the riders were catching up. “Man!” cursed M’zyk. “I see a lot of them! Poopa, stop bleating that horn and beat those purgs!” cried the bastard. Poopa dropped the horn into the bottom of the sledge and thrashed the air behind the purg team with a whip, but there was no more in them. The sledge could not go faster, for the purgs were at their end of endurance. Mool locked eyes on the figure mounted atop a large blue

truglehoond as it bore down upon them, and sweat began to trickle down the Monk’s neck. “This is not good,” grumbled the Monk crustily. “That is the Master Hunter of Eruda,” said Mool coldly. M’zyk bounced beside the Monk, as the sledge hit a rock and shuddered along its way. “Good,” said M’zyk, “let’s kill it.” But before the two could leap into action Poopa’s voice called them back. “Are you insane, Andros? Stay in the sledge and hang on!” it cried, as a long chuck spear crashed into the pack of supplies at the rear of the sledge. Another sailed past Poopa’s right ear and into the ground in front of the sledge, where it was snapped into kindling by the mass of the vehicle and left behind on the ice. Poopa glanced toward its sibling’s sledge and saw it slip into the trees up ahead. Another spear sailed by just missing one of the team of purgs. Less than a minute more and they would be in the trees. A purg team was pulling up beside them on the left! Mool thrust the end of its spear out from the side of the sledge, but the lead purg saw it and pulled away. Suddenly there was a bump at the back of the sledge and M’zyk instantly sprang up in that direction. Hurling its body into the air above the bulky pack, the bastard climbed the body of a soldier crouching there above them and buried a long, curved knife blade into its throat. White sprayed across M’zyk’s face and soaked into the cowl of the pumpi hood, before the soldier tumbled away like a sack of laundry. A spear slammed into the pack, missing M’zyk’s face by the breath of a blade of grass, and the bastard felt a rush of warmth across its cheek. Turning swiftly, M’zyk caught the shaft of another spear between its arm and body, and then following through used the weapon to overbalance the soldier that carried it. The Andro lost its footing and tumbled from the pack, just as the sledge tore past the first trees. Zeef raised a cheer but was forced to duck as a low branch whooshed past, casting kolita-pine needles. Poopa threw a quick glance to his young sibling. “Hold on, we’re not safe yet!” and no sooner was the warning said than M’zyk came crashing forward into the front of the sledge. Two Riff soldiers were climbing forward over the pack and rising to meet them was the Monk Mool, a wide bronze axe in hand. The first one was easy, its head bouncing off the front

edge of the barreling sledge, its body falling into the trees. The second was not so easy. Mool slashed with the axe, but the soldier parried it skillfully with an axe of its own and countered with a strike that would have felled a less agile Andro. Mool barely ducked it, and then faced off with new vigour. M’zyk, having recovered its dignity, rushed forward to Mool’s assistance. Now facing two defenders, the soldier chose to swing its axe wide and catching a tree it was left behind to choose another fight. The corridor of trees was filling up behind them as all along the treeline purg sledges had stopped and were unloading soldiers to send in by foot and mounted. Poopa’s sledge had begun to pull ahead just enough for them to get cocky when a terrible sight came into their view not far up ahead. Poopa stared, mouth hanging on a limp chin. Mool, M’zyk, and Zeef dropped down onto the floor of the sledge, weapons ready. In the road before them stood a pack of young Hurdyk’s gremorah, seven strong with a huge and fearsome adult behind them. They were red and brown, nearly black in the poor light beneath the forest cover, and they quivered with ferocity amid the shadows. Instantly, the monsters leaped toward them, coming on like demons, their bristling mouthparts foaming and gnashing as they came. Death ahead of them, death behind, Poopa was at a loss for what to do. The purgs were beginning to slow, and the gremorah were nearly upon them! Then, just as the first gremorah reared up to attack, the corridor of trees exploded into blazing orange flames! The fire spread across the floor of the forest road along some fifty metres upon which the gremorah had been running so the crustaceous beasts, being creatures of darkness, began to scuttle up the trees to both sides, and the purgs, being more afraid of the gremorah than the flames, tore through the burning tunnel pulling the sledge through to the other side and beyond. The gremorah now continuing on outward from the fire came upon a rich feast of unmounted Riff guard and descended upon them with great relish. As Poopa’s sledge cleared the tunnel of flame three thumps were felt behind, and wheeling about to engage Riff scoundrels, Poopa, Mool, M’zyk and Zeef came face to face with three dangerous looking characters; indeed, for crouching on the top of the pack were one Khuli the Promiscuous, Skra the Mighty and Jusk, who would henceforth be known among the people of Midrib as Jusk the Blaze Raiser. They had entered the wood ahead of Poopa by barely more than a minute, although to Poopa’s crew it had seemed much longer. Jusk had seen the family of gremorah sleeping in a clearing and had an idea. They sent Kuiper up

safely into a guard’s post just off the main trail, and then quickly set oil to the road and lower tree trunks along the corridor. Finally, while Jusk awaited them at a strategic point, Khuli and Skra had gone to disturb the nest of gremorah and lure them to where they would encounter the next sledge team, which they assumed would belong to Poopa. The plan had worked beautifully. Safe for now, they stopped for the second it took to retrieve a waiting Kuiper and mushed the purgs forward into the Midribi Woods. In less than a minute the two sledge teams were surrounded by friendly Andros and led to the gates of Midrib. They were tall, strong gates built of hard gourtuni logs, and the walls that surrounded the town site were of stone and mud two metres thick, their outer bases covered with a lethal cultivation of Fryx bushes. These were the most terrible of flora that dwelt anywhere on Drodenar, black wiry branches lined with shiny ebony spikes five centimetres long. In the Fryx was a living poison that spared no flesh and to receive the tiniest of scratches meant an agonizing death that took days and consumed a victim’s entire body, bones and all, converting it to reproduce itself. Mankind, it seemed, had been capable of quite an incredible imagination. For now, the Fryx was their best defence against beast and bandit or the armies of the Riff, should they come. It was now becoming clear to Poopa just why it was that they had been so anxious to get Jusk back, and perhaps why the Ki of Eruda was likely to try again or to kill that one instead. Winter would arrive soon with a real vengeance, and no army could hope to brave the Lyfgus-Haug in the teeth of that season. The Master Hunter would no doubt hold on for a time, to scout the strengths and weaknesses of Midrib on the River Hork, but sooner rather than later, that big Andro would be forced to go home. Plans would be made on both sides, but if Poopa knew Father, the Ki would never give Eruda a gift such as Jusk-la-Gurjion. They would have to take the Blaze Raiser against all the arms of Midrib, indeed, the might of the entire Hork Valley Alliance. That Andro seemed to be one in a million, and if Jusk could win over Khuli, well then, what could Jusk not do?

Chapter 9 Complication

Dr. Conan MacKinnon entered the Dev Lok Command staff dining room at precisely twelve in the afternoon every day. This morning was no different and so just as the digital timepiece on the dining room wall morphed to display 12:00 the man sauntered in, tall and slim in his olive-green uniform. He went straight to the SAFU on the wall and through the interface he thought his order to the Intelligence. Lamb stew and oat bread were revealed to him a moment later, and he took the tray from the portal and went to seat himself at the long table beside Max Henderson. He did not wait to taste the food but rather reached immediately for a saltshaker in front of him on the table and sprinkled it liberally over his stew. Then he glanced at Max and over at Helga Mannheim who was seated across from him. “Morning,” said MacKinnon abruptly. Then, without missing a beat, the doctor scooped up a forkful of stew and began to eat. Henderson observed him for a second and just the hint of a smile brushed across his lips beneath the pencil moustache. “Lamb again, Conan?” MacKinnon did not react. “Will you never try some of the local fare, Old Man? This stuff the Androgenari call pumpi is delicious,” teased Max. MacKinnon did not turn to look at Henderson, but he gave Helga Mannheim a look that said volumes. Henderson loved to tease Conan about his rather staid attitudes toward new things, food in particular, and also about his habitual punctuality. MacKinnon never reacted and that would sometimes get under Max’s skin. Helga had seen the show before and was not interested this morning. She stuck her own fork into a piece of the doctor’s lamb and popped it into her mouth.

“Yum, that’s not half bad!” she exclaimed. MacKinnon looked at her without the slightest disdain and continued to eat his lunch. As he did so, the doctor began speaking between mouthfuls. “Have either of you spoken with your students about the new symbio-suits?” he asked. Henderson’s face lost its playful expression, and he sat back a little in his chair. “All business, eh, Doctor? You know, we will be here on this project for quite some time to come. It wouldn’t kill you to lighten up a hair.” MacKinnon ran a palm smoothly over his shaved head but refused to allow Max to see the smile that he was feeling for a subtle point scored. “Well?” he pressed, and then shovelled stew into his mouth and chewed, awaiting an answer. “Yes, the students have been briefed on the new tech. There’s a demo scheduled for 2 p.m. tomorrow,” said Helga. “My Geo-Engineering kids are chomping at the bit to see the core-extraction units. They should be pretty impressed.” “Good, I have a series of practice deployments scheduled for later in the week. We can start testing them planet-side by Monday if the kids can get comfortable in them. How about you, Commander? Fancy trying your hand in one of them?” Max nodded. He had seen the new tech before leaving Lipitor and had already been rated as an operator on several models. “What about you, Doctor? New tech doesn’t bother you like new food, does it?” MacKinnon just smiled this time. “It shouldn’t,” he announced, just shy of gleefully. “I created the bloody things, looking forward to seeing them used.” Conan MacKinnon leaned over his plate and shovelled stew into his face as Max gave Helga a cockeyed look, as if to say, “Didn’t see that coming.” “Well, well, Doc, that’s two points for you,” conceded Max. “I guess Saturday night poker will start to get more exciting going forward,” he quipped. “What about the last tests your kids did on the Androgenari subjects they collected? Anything new to report on the medical front?” “As a matter of fact, I was just about to tell you before you started pushing your

local fare on me. Overall, they came out very healthy, considering the ample stresses the species has undergone over the last eight hundred Earth years. They’re tough little buggers, I’ll give them that. Other than the typical viral and bacterial associations you would expect, and the kinds of things that come from living off the land, parasites and such, they’ve done beautifully.” Henderson nodded, gratified by the news, then pensiveness entered his features and he posed the inevitable question. “What about their sociological development? What have you observed about them, as far as contamination by us?” MacKinnon looked at Henderson, really for the first time since he had seated himself at the table. He sighed thoughtfully and pushed away his plate. “You’re the anthropologist, Max. I can only say that the effect of those two kids on the test outcomes have been predictable. From what I’ve read of the original mission reports, which is extensive, the Androgenari had made up their minds that we were their gods long before ‘the incident,’” he said, making quotations in the air with his fingers. “I don’t know for sure, but I’ll bet that if the powers that be thought it was a big deal they wouldn’t have brought you back here to lead the project,” he said, fixing his eyes on Max. “Just saying,” he added. Max nodded, “I guess you’re right about that, Doctor. I guess we really can’t gain much by speculating how they would have proceeded without the interference. If they’re anything like us they would have found other reasons to fight among themselves.” Helga piped up, “Of that, you may be certain, Professor.”

In one of the many engineering bays on Dev Lok, Sanjay Sahota Singh was standing in front of an open bank of bio-circuitry in the fascia of a massive machine. The Intelligence had constructed the appliance for him according to his requirements, but Sanjay had always been in the habit of double checking the work of anyone other than himself. His mother had warned him on numerous occasions that his overactive sense of perfection would lose him friends, but Sanjay was not concerned about the feelings of an Intelligence. As he was visually ing the alignment of components within the circuitry, Akna Rhodes was seated just behind him watching with care as he worked.

“So,” she inquired, “how many patents do you hold on these gravitation-wave lasers?” “I have patents in every star sector in the galaxy, My Dear. The licensing of this tech alone is worth a cool…” he paused briefly to double check a reading, “well, let’s just say it keeps all my ex-wives in very comfortable circumstances. What about you, Akna Darling? I understand you have the field of molecular moneymaking sewed up across every arm of the Milky Way.” “All of them, Sweet Cheeks? How many is that?” enquired Akna. Akna smiled a pretty smile, her dark eyes sparkling in the light from the bio-circuitry. “Sure, Doll, Mary, Sue-Ling, Ron, Joline, and Fritz,” replied Sanjay. He gave her a wistful look, and added, “So far, that is.” “I do alright, Sanjay,” she said, as she ired the dark curve of his neck. “I bet you’ve seen them all, the arms of the Milky Way, that is.” He was a big handsome thing after all, and she did like big handsome things. Sanjay glanced back at her over his shoulder and catching sight of that face he turned all the way. Now facing her, the engineer stepped forward and gathered her small hands in his enormous ones. He pressed close to her, gazing down into her eyes. “My, you are a beauty to be sure,” he swore. “Don’t tell me. I probably remind you of your fourth wife or something,” she cajoled. Sanjay just continued to stare into those smoky eyes. She found herself drawn to the dimple in his round chin. “You don’t remind me of anyone, Sugar. You’re just a breath of fresh air.” He paused, thinking. “I know! We could go planet-side for a picnic, set up along the eastern coast with a blanket and some Champagne. I could SAF some strawberries and dark chocolate. Why, I could sip Champagne right out of your belly button, Darling.” Akna laughed and nipped at the dimple in his chin. Just at that moment the wall slid open and into the room stepped Eugene Chow

and Helen Mandela-Wessels. They stopped in their tracks upon seeing the scene inside, and Eugene did not miss a beat. “You are back hitting on the girls again, Sanjay? Going for wife number what?” quipped the chief climactic engineer, and then he rolled with silent laughter. “Oh,” retorted Sanjay, “my favourite climatologist. What’s the forecast, Eugene?” Chow side-looked Sanjay, as if genuinely hurt, and shot back. “Climatologist, boy, that hurts! Okay, I predict stormy weather with the chance of ex-wives falling on your head. I hope you two have a big umbrella.” Chow looked at Helen, who raised her eyebrows and gave a crooked half-smile. She stepped out of the doorway and into the bay, whereupon she turned back to look at Eugene. She looked a little blank. “What did we come in here for anyway?” she asked. “Oh yes,” she seemed to something and walked to a table at the far end of the lab. Thinking a command to the Intelligence, she placed her hands on her hips and almost instantly the tabletop began to morph, growing into a three-dimensional rendering of something spherical. Eugene walked, half dancing, over to her, singing lyrics from the ancient American songbook, “Stormy Weather,” and Sanjay and Akna went back to examining one another’s faces. Upon seeing the completed model, Eugene stopped singing and buried his mind in the details. “Looks pretty obvious when you see it like this,” he said, matter-of-factly. “It seems like the tilt has a deviation of nearly nine degrees. We’re lucky it stopped when it did or we might have returned to an ice ball, a lot of frozen little Popsicle people.” He turned to Sanjay. “We wanted you to see this model, Sanjay. In case you weren’t aware of the amount of axial shift that had occurred.” Sanjay stepped forward and ran his eyes over the model and shrugged. “Yes, I have equipment that can handle this,” announced Sanjay. “It’s not as bad as I had been led to believe. I think we can start restoring real summer within a year, eighteen months tops.”

Akna looked surprised, and she seemed a little put out. “Eighteen months to correct the tilt. Why so long?” she asked. Sanjay explained that, sure, they could turn the planet upright faster, but tectonic stresses would cause quakes and volcanic eruptions. It would have to be done slowly for the sake of the inhabitants. “This won’t affect my timetable for product research, will it?” she protested. “No,” answered Helen. “There are plenty of sub-tropical and desert regions for you to exploit while we’re thawing out the glaciers. My concern is more for any coastal settlements the Androgenari have built. Sea levels will most certainly rise.” “Well, Kids,” came a voice from the open doorway. It was Henderson, standing with Helga Mannheim and Dr. MacKinnon. He stepped inside and they followed him. He tossed a thought to the Intelligence, and a viewing screen materialized inside their minds. Max drew their attention to the screen as an old surveillance file began to play. It showed a ship, obviously damaged and running out of control. “It seems we have another issue to deal with,” announced the professor. “That looks like an old sleeper ship,” said Helen. “A prison colony ship, if I’m not mistaken. When was this recorded? Where is it now?” Henderson thought of a chair and one grew from the floor just behind him. He sat in it and the others responded with their own chairs in a neat semi-circle, facing him. Henderson began. “The file is dated IE year 5231, November 16. It records the vessel’s transponder as 76Y878PT, which is ed as a prison transport, sleeper class. Good eye, Helen! It left the planet Nightmare, orbiting Luyten’s Star IE year 5001, September 12, with a crew of fifty-seven. In its sleeper bays were two hundred and thirty cryo-frozen, nasty customers, the worst of the worst. There were rapists, torturers, probably a lawyer or two,” he quipped. “The only reason no murderers are listed is that according to Galactic Common Law statute number 67.99/BS12, the act of murder was decriminalized in IE year 4852, since technology made it virtually impossible to kill anyone, well, permanently, anyway.” Henderson shook his head. “What a sideways… talk about missing the

point!” Helga piped up, “Where are they now? Do we have a trajectory for that ship?” Henderson remained silent just long enough for the message to get through. “The ship crash landed on Drodenar eighty-seven Earth years ago. It made a hard landing on an island just seven hundred and ninety-seven kilometres due east of the City of Goum on the easternmost coastline of Elysium. Subsequent scans of the island have shown that at least some of the people aboard that ship survived the initial crash. New scans are underway as we speak.” Sanjay pursed his lips; he studied the intel and nodded. “So! They are pretty far from our project. It sounds as if they have not made themselves known to the Androgenari. Maybe they can’t. I mean, even if they still have some technology that survived the crash, eighty years in a harsh environment like this, how much of a problem can they be?” Eugene looked unsettled, more than anyone else. He shook a finger at the rest as if in warning, and then he became still for a long moment. “If they are alive, they pose a serious threat to this project,” he said, coldly. “They were dangerous then, they are dangerous now, more so, I believe. We must make with the Androgenari along that coast to find out if they know anything of their existence. If not, then perhaps the distance is too great for them to reach Elysium’s coast, but they are Humans. They may have found a way.” The others had grown silent listening to Eugene’s words of warning. At length, Max Henderson spoke. “Protocol requires us to inform Life-tech and the university. They will decide what is to be done, and they will let us know how to proceed. In the meantime, Helen and I will coordinate additional scans of the island and surrounding ocean. A team may be required to make with the Androgenari and to ascertain the degree, if any, of the interference this may have had with the project’s society. I hope this can be contained, but…” he shrugged. “I will keep you informed as things proceed. Thank you all, I think I’m going to go and have a whisky.” With this Henderson stood up and walked out of the room, followed closely by Helen. Dr. MacKinnon followed their lead with the intention of returning to his office. The other four exchanged glances and soon only Sanjay and Akna remained. They looked at each other and after a long time, Akna spoke.

“Shit!” was all she said. Down the corridor, Helen placed a hand on Max’s arm, slowing him to a stop. He turned and looked into her face, not certain of very much. She stood there taking in his features, still marvelling at how they never changed. They had been together, more, or less, for eight hundred and forty-nine Earth years, and he looked the same as he did the day he bumped into her in a corridor just like this one. She wondered briefly whether he ever thought about the same thing, whether he had ever had regrets. He took his right hand and gently stroked her cheek. There was such softness for her in his eyes that when he broke the silence his words startled her. “Did I tell you yet today how much I love you?” he asked her. She smiled. “I think so,” she replied. He took her hand in his and they strolled the rest of the way to their apartment in silence.

Chapter 10 Midrib

The entire city of Midrib, or so it seemed, had turned out for the fruitful return of the Ki’s first-born and its hunting party. Andros short and tall, thin and fat, young and old, had gathered inside the big gates and cheered as the heroic hunters mushed their purg team past the ramparts and into the large public circle inside. The people stared in wonder at the appearance of a second smaller sledge as it followed Poopa’s meat-laden one into the circle and they both came to a halt before the waiting city storehouses. Adults dressed in pumpi and guort skins in all manner of colours stood examining the big sledge laden as it was with the carefully wrapped carcasses of pumpi and guort. Children ran in and out among the adults, playing games of “Great Hunter” and waving their sticks in the air with shouts of joy, for the return of the final fall hunting party was a joyous occasion indeed. Poopa leaped from atop the mound of frozen meat and landed among a group of children with arms spread overhead and growled, like a Hurdyk’s gremorah on the hunt. The children shrieked and jumped back, only to turn and charge the monster in a tightening circle, beating at it with their sticks. In mock agony Poopa cringed and huddled into a mass in the middle of the circle of tiny hunters, and Khuli shouted out with conviction, “Lo, the little hunters from Midrib have been successful! We shall eat well tonight!” And then, as if for proof that the monster was dead, Khuli poked it in the ribs with the butt end of his spear. Poopa grunted, and Khuli called out a warning, “Great hunters, the beast wants further killing!” upon which the children beat Poopa mercilessly until there was no further evidence of movement. After a moment, the little hunters backed away, satisfied with their success, and the people of Midrib sent up a mighty roar of gratitude. Mool and M’zyk came to stand at Khuli’s side, Zeef and Skra ed them there, and then two strangers moved from the second sledge to stand with the party. Khuli raised a double forearm into the air high above its head, and with a strong voice broke through the excitement of the crowd.

“If my older sibling will us here, we have an announcement that concerns all,” exclaimed Khuli-la-Ping. Springing to life, Poopa scattered the little ones in all directions and then moved to take the place saved beside sibling Khuli. With this the crowd focused its attention on the collection of hunters and strangers and as one they bent an ear to listen to the words that had been promised them. A sudden rustling disturbed the crowd, and bodies parted along a line before unseen. An opening formed from which an old Andro stepped to nods of reverence from all there.

Midrib City Dweller walking along the River Hork in Winter

“Father,” said Poopa, and with the word the Andro bowed with great respect, mirrored by Khuli and the rest. Ping-la-Dhourtin-Ki observed the children of its loins with quiet ease. The Ki was old and though not yet feeble possessed a certain slowness of gate. As the old Andro stepped forward toward its eldest, a certain slight trembling was evident in the double right forearm it extended, yet Poopa did not step forward to meet the Ki. The first-born wanted to, but such an act would have given heed to those who might say, “The Ki is past its time and should step down.” Instead, Poopa extended its own hands and clasped those of the Ki. “Father, it is good to see you once again. How is Mother?” The old Andro cocked its head to one side and with a smile responded, “As lovely as the day we met. Giawa has placed a fire-root stew upon the mantle in anticipation of the return of your party of fine hunters. Your mother will be pleased that you have made it home,” announced the Ki. “But you have brought guests to our city, My Child. Pray, introduce me to them that I may welcome them properly as the Ki of Midrib.” “I would be honoured, Father,” confessed Poopa, and turning toward Jusk and Kuiper, he motioned them forward. Together they approached the Ki, and Jusk, placing hands upon Kuiper’s shoulders, gave the slightest pressure there to indicate that the child should bow. Kuiper did so and then Jusk in turn, and the Ki touched each of them upon a shoulder to place them at ease. To the surprise of its children, Ping spoke with undeniable recognition. “Jusk-la-Gurjion, as I live and breathe. It has been a very long time since I have seen you. Welcome to you and to your child,” Ping said warmly. The Ki’s children although surprised did not show it. “This one is Kuiper, My Ki, a foundling.” The Ki nodded, for Jusk’s situation was not unknown to the old Andro. Ping’s spies had kept watch for that one over the years. “You must be in want of a hot bath and food. Please, you will be guests in my

Great Lodge. We shall, no doubt, have much to discuss over the course of the winter, for I am told that it will be long and cold, but for now, My Old Friend, let us get you settled in. Oh, and I await the tale of your journey here with great excitement,” promised the Ki. As the party of hunters and their new friends gathered their personal things and began the short trek to the Great House of the Ki of Midrib, the villagers began to care for the sledges and their purgs. The suns were beginning to fall in the western sky, and it was time to close the city gates and post guards for the night. Tomorrow would be a day of great celebration, for it was winter solstice, the Festivals of Winter’s Eve and Winter’s Dawn, and the children of Ping-laDhourtin-Ki had returned with a great bounty of flesh for the people and with mysterious strangers from far away. The kettles would boil, the ales would pour like rivers of gold, and music would play around the great fire pit in the Circle of Heroes within the large communal market square, known to all simply as Market. The Man and the Woman would surely bless this time, for even with raiders in the forest outside, all was well.

Beneath the darkening sky outside the city walls, Riff spies had begun to slip from shadow to shadow between the great conifers and naked trees that filled the woodlands of Midrib County. Silently they stole, as wendols, scavenging for morsels of intelligence, the secrets of a pathway, the lessons that might be gleaned from the position of a wall. These were the Master Hunter’s best, and they would reconnoitre any advantage or disadvantage that might be used toward the goal of gaining access to their quarry. But the secrets of this place were not plain to read. The Fryx was a dilemma that would not easily be overcome, and the walls of Midrib, although not impressively high were made nearly insurmountable by its presence. On its easternmost side the village had been built against the river, and there the wall had been made taller with parapets along its top for easy defence. Only along this façade was the Fryx not planted, but instead beneath this wall lived the ship barns and docks of a vibrant trading city. The Riff hunting party had settled just inside the treeline to escape the night’s wind and built fires for warmth, and a rider had been dispatched to Eruda with report. The Hurdyk’s gremorah had dealt them a surprise to be sure, and they had lost seven good soldiers in the first moments of the attack, but now the

crustaceans were roasting over those fires inside the Riff camp, and the Master’s hunters would feast well of their flesh. Around each hearth pit sat up to a dozen Andros, some eating, others tending to the business edges of their weapons in anticipation of further fighting. Most were simply content with full bellies and the warmth of the campfires. One Andro reached into the pack beside it on the frozen ground and from it took a small pipe, which, when laid against its lips, produced a soft and haunting melody, for which its friends were grateful. The Master Hunter looked up from where it was sitting with its Captain and other officers and cast a gaze in the direction of the music. “That old tune,” the big Andro mused. “I have not heard it played since before my father was Ki. It was its own father’s favourite.” The Captain nodded and tossed a fragment of empty shell into the fire. “Do you want the music stopped, Master?” The Master Hunter raised a large double forearm, both palms turned toward the Captain for silence. “Let the soldier play, for this day has borne a heavy cost. We will tarry here for perhaps another day, but I expect my father’s rider will call us home to prepare for another encounter in the spring. Until then, we will do what we can to determine advantage, and we will rest and hunt in these woods. When we reach home, we will have flesh for the Riff and whatever news we can find of our enemy within the walls of Midrib.” Having said this the Master Hunter settled its massive back against a tree trunk and closing its eyes took in the night and the fire’s warmth and the musical memories of simpler days, when it played among the trees of another forest far away. The Captain lay down next to the fire, its head ed on a pack, and closed its own eyes. The Master Hunter was wise, and the spring would no doubt bring them back to this place in greater force with plans and the power to carry them out. For now, the simple pleasure of an ancient tune played among the trees beneath the stars would have to do. Gold had climbed low into the sky and high above them Blood had settled in like a pearl against the blackness. Blue hung ghostly overhead, as if ed by the silhouetted fingers of the leafless trees that sheltered them. The Man and the Woman would surely bless this time, for the music was sweet, and all was as well as might be. In the darkness, the pipe music was ed by the mournful voice of a single

Andro, and then another and another filled the air. The ballad was as old as the fall of Voughorf and possessed a depth of meaning for the company there gathered who, like children, recalled a past of simpler times before the ice.

“For want of greatness did we rise, above the plains of golden gift. For our children did we toil, a mighty nation for to lift. And as the ramparts we did build, forever there to boldly stand, In earnest labour did we strive, to please the Woman and the Man. For many ages dwelt we there, beneath the roof of Mankind’s love, With every want fulfilled in whole, and rapture shining from above. How came it then to be revealed, that Man and Woman had diverged, And into cliques we’d separate, the other faction sworn to purge. For want of greatness did we rise, above the plains of pearly blood, To slaughter sibling, friend, and foe, and claim it for the common good. How terrible the price disclosed, that in disgust did Mankind leave, Us to our dire consequence, convicted by our broken creed. For want of greatness did we rise, but in the sky of blackest night, There came a beast with tail of fire and set us to our common plight. The warmth of summer gone away, our nation crushed became the price, For cold had grown our love for kind, now buried deep beneath the ice. For want of greatness did we rise, and now draw comfort from our blame, So, if we can but empathize, Mankind one day forgive our shame.

Along the yet unwritten road, can we but hope to compromise? For if we can it may be said, the foolish at long last are wise.”

The wind picked up for a moment and scattered sparks up into the cold night sky from every campfire there, as if to pay some tribute to the song of the homesick soldiers in that wood. A lonely zaschafry cried out from the high branches of a tree, its echo mapping the woods, revealing perhaps some scurrying morsel on the forest floor. The moons shone on as beacons, cold and callous to the sentiments expressed by those below, and they cast their ghostly glow to punctuate the shadows on the icy ground. The soldier put away its pipe and drew a blanket close around its frame. It turned to catch an extra portion of the fire’s warmth and closed its eyes and tried to find a doorway into dreams, but slumber was a prey heroic to evade the hunter’s skill and morning was a distant hope at best.

From Midrib on the River Hork rose curling wafts of smoke from many chimneys, some with the haunting essence of cooking food. The sounds of merriment from Market had dwindled until only an occasional laugh or the clearing of a throat might punctuate the night sounds from the woods outside. A purg raised its gurgling howl to one or more of the moons, and then was hushed by the urging of an Androgenari voice. The children made no noise, for they were well submerged beneath the river of dreams that carried them off to places forgotten by the adult mind, and every soul beneath a roof could rest for the knowledge that the city was guarded by its finest warriors that night. All was well, all was well.

Chapter 11 Winter’s Eve, The Scroll

Short summer was a distant memory. The brief weeks of autumn had ed rapidly as had become the trend across Drodenar in recent times, and winter had descended upon all of Elysium. With morning had come a heavy snowfall to the Lyfgus-Haug and to all the lands that stretched across the wide Hork, and the boggy mushroom forests, and even the Great Forest of Dea far to the east. With this latest snow had come the day that the inhabitants of Midrib had anxiously waited for, the Festival of the Winter Solstice. Although it was true that the date marked the beginning of the harshest time of the year, it also meant that the days would henceforth grow longer, the nights shorter. It was a symbol of hope for the eventual coming of spring and the thaw. Throughout the city streets hung boughs of kolita-pine, adorned with traditional green and purple decorations to mark the holiday. Garlands of dried fire flowers adorned the lamp posts, yellow and red. Everywhere the spicy scent of smouldering incense drifted on the chilly breeze that carried the sound of excited Andros chattering in Market and the grumping of purgs. From the Temple of Austin at the east end of the city, a bronze gong could be heard, broadcasting a low humming tone once per minute at the hands of some novice Monk, competing for attention with an echo from the Keep, where the Temple of Yolanda announced the same thing. “Winter’s Dawn is here,” proclaimed the gongs. Midrib’s residents had awakened with the spirit of tradition and celebration, more than equal to the threat of an enemy outside their gates. They went about their business in good cheer, bundled warmly in guort and pumpi skins, and having cleared the deep snow from the main streets they heading to the Market Circle to partake of a comforting communal breakfast of mushroom stew, pumpi pies, ales, and honeyberry cakes. The Celebrations Council had set aside plenty for the feast and, as was the custom in Midrib, all of the cooking and the preparations had been done by a willing host of volunteers. Such had been the lifestyle of the people along the mighty Hork since long before the rule of Ping-

la-Dhourtin, the twenty-first Ki. It was the very embodiment of the third principle of the doctrine of Austin, “Take care of the community that is home, and it shall take care of you.” Inside the Great Lodge of the Ki, a host of Andros were active as well, conversing excitedly, sitting, standing in familiar groups, or moving from place to place performing the tasks of service. In the centre of the main hall a long table of gourtuni wood had been set with meat pies and cakes stuffed with all manner of dried fruits, honeyberries, dunks, and ground-cherries. A cask of moonberry wine and a larger cask of malt beer stood at one end of the table, and along its side on pegs hung twenty or so clay mugs. A roaring fire filled the great central hearth, casting warmth and light across the well-built floor of purplish gourtuni wood, scattered with rugs of woven fabric rimmed with mammal fur. Bronze-casted oil lanterns hung from the high ceiling vault and flung their light into every corner of the main hall below them, and heavy, solidly built cushioned chairs and benches stood here and there against the walls of wood and stone, while musicians provided a backdrop for the jollity within the Great Lodge. At one end of the long table stood a particularly massive and well-appointed chair, its woodwork carved with symbols of licence, its leatherwork particularly fine. This was the Ki’s chair, the chair of authority, the seat of wisdom, so to speak. It was where Ping sat while chairing the Council of Midrib, where the Ki gave audience to visiting Nobles and sat in judgment over civil disputes and criminal matters. It was where Ping was seated now, reposing, mug of beer in hand with an ease of manner, observing the room as others came and went, mulling about the table, some fresh, some newly awake, taking a pie or cake, filling a mug with beer or wine, and then meandering over to a chair to sit. Ping was an Andro of considerable age, nearing the end of a long life of service and devotion to its city and its people. Over five decades as Ki, Ping had overseen the building of good roads to connect Midrib with all five cities along the mighty river, and to many of the nearby villages across the Lyfgus-Haug. It had been Ping whose leadership had forged alliances with the villages of Vouch and Jazmin, and the town of Genk in the mushroom forest, and Ping whose marriage of Khuli to Forti-la-Box, Ki of Riverib, and their subsequent child born of Khuli’s body had secured a lasting peace in the region ten years before. Indeed, Ping-Ki had lived for its community, taking little in return, but receiving much from the citizens in riches such as loyalty and love. Soon the time would come for Ping to step down and for Poopa to become Ki, but the father

sometimes wondered of its child… was that Andro ready? Poopa and Khuli had both entered the hall from their apartments upstairs, standing first on the landing and looking down over the heavy railing. Poopa called out to its father in a tone that confirmed too much to drink the night before. “Good morning, Father. I hope you slept better than I,” and then with a sigh Ping’s eldest bravely navigated the staircase down toward the food. Khuli waited to see if its sibling might manage to make it to the bottom without stumbling, and then turned unsteadily to face Ping, who was looking up at its younger child. “Good morning, Father. I know you slept better than I,” Khuli said with a smirk. “Have you seen my wives this morning? I seem to have misplaced them.” Ping made no attempt to reply or even to acknowledge the comment, and so grasping the handrail firmly, Khuli began the hazardous trek from the top of the staircase to the main hall below. Once, it seemed that Ping’s second born might miss a step and make a crashing entrance, but the Andro recovered its grace and with exaggerated flourishes swept onto the main stage and scooped up a pie from the table, exclaiming, “A very pleasant Winter’s Dawn to all!” to which the gathered answered heartily, “Aye!” Ping then frowned and, looking somewhat relieved by Khuli’s successful transit of the staircase, the old Ki called for someone to please, “Give that fool a chair, before it falls down!” Many laughed, and many others watched to see if Khuli would indeed stumble and fall, but then as if from nowhere silent Skra appeared with chair in hand and guided the young Andro onto it. Khuli seemed surprised for only a moment by the suddenness of the movement, and then looking up at the big assassin towering above, smiled. “I do thank you very much, oh Mighty One,” announced the Ki’s child, and then clamped its jaws around the pie it had seized. Again, the room reverberated with Andro laughter, and at the urging of the Ki, the piper resumed to blow, ed by a lone drummer and a little Andro plucking a two-stringed harp. Ping smiled quietly and settled back into the big chair to enjoy the festivity that filled the main hall of the lodge. From just behind the great chair a figure emerged and placed a double forearm on the old Andro’s shoulder. As Ping looked up, the figure bent and kissed the Ki’s face, and then standing once again erect stepped out into the room view the festivity with noble bearing.

This Andro was Giawa-la-Has’ja, wife of the Ki of Midrib, mother of Poopa and Khuli and Zeef. Giawa was a sleek and elegant Andro, strong and sure in stature, and the only mate of Ping. As such, great respect was afforded Giawa by all the peoples of Midrib, and by all the peoples of the regional cities and villages and the lands to the east. Giawa had been born the second child of Has’ja-la-Sol’jaPip, a Pip of the old order from the southern capital of Pruskinom. Having travelled to the western river-lands on the business of the Pip, Giawa had liaised with Midrib on the River Hork and met a young Ping-la-Dhourtin-Ki there. Upon learning of the Ki’s great deeds and the honour placed upon it by its people, Giawa decided to court this fine creature and to strengthen an important alliance for its father. At first Has’ja refused Giawa’s suggestion of a marriage, for the Pip considered Midrib to be a small and backward city, but when Giawa’s description told the Pip of Ping’s true wealth, that one relented and the wedding was declared. Such a wedding had not been seen in Pruskinom since the wedding of Giawa’s mother many decades before, and from across the lands of Elysium arrived Kis and Pips and all manner of nobility to feast there. There were Piplings from the eastern coastal city of Goum, Ki’s from the marble region of the Desert of Doom and from the Copper Hills region of the Pip’s Mountains. Has’ja kindly offered the couple a palace in Pruskinom, but without much ado Ping declined, saying that it would not do to lead the people of Midrib from the far-off luxury of Pruskinom. Giawa grew to love the Ki of Midrib and was happy to forego the life of a Pipling and second heir to the throne of Pruskinom to rule at Ping’s side and to make the region a good home for all who lived there. In the darkened shelter of a place beneath the balcony Poopa sat quietly sipping water from a clay mug, nursing the effects of too much strong drink the night before and watching the goings on in the main hall. The music was not loud, but it was uncomfortable for the ears of one so afflicted, and the light, though not over bright, was stinging that Andro’s eyes. Poopa wished that the wine and the beer had not flowed so freely, and that they had been avoided in accordance with Giawa’s wishes, but alas, it had not occurred thus. The weakness of youth for the excitement of revelling had won out, the gathering had swept away reason at the Inn of the Golden Gremorah, and the dawn had come too soon. “Man!” the young Andro cursed beneath its breath, and through the pain of aftermath came the realization that Mother was surveying its predicament from across the room. Giawa nodded discreetly without expression and lifted a mug of

water to mimic the act of drinking, and then turned away to enjoy the happiness of the gathering. Poopa winced slightly as a hand settled gently on its shoulder. It was M’zyk, apparently unperturbed by the drinking of the night before, a look of concern written in its golden eyes. “You should have listened to your mother, My Friend. You fight like a wild beast, and I have heard that you are a ferocious lover, but the grape has never been your friend,” offered the bastard. Poopa rolled its grey eyes and sighed. “Thank you for your assessment of the situation, M’zyk. I don’t know what I would do without you. Now get me something to eat, will you? But nothing too harsh though, as I may be sick.” M’zyk chuckled, and as it moved toward the table it slapped Poopa’s shoulder to express . Poopa groaned painfully and the bastard grasped its mistake, saying, “Sorry,” as it left its friend’s side. The table was full to overflowing and M’zyk examined the offerings there with an eye to meeting its friend’s requirements. Meat pie and pastry might be too rich, perhaps some dry fruit. The bastard returned with a handful of sugar figs and honeyberries piled on a wooden platter with dry bread, but Poopa looked at it disdainfully. “It will do you good, First-Born of the Ki. Get some of it inside you and if you can keep it down, we’ll try something else,” said M’zyk. Poopa looked up at M’zyk and sighed pathetically. He tried a berry. “You have always been a thoughtful Andro, M’zyk,” said Poopa. “Well,” replied M’zyk, “one day you will be Ki. Then we can discuss some remuneration,” joked the bastard. Poopa smiled and ate a few more berries. “Of course, if I vomit, I will have to have you drowned,” said Poopa, unhappily.

Mool, Khuli, M’zyk and Poopa, in the Great Hall at Midrib Keep

M’zyk sighed, and then replied, “Alas, young Ki-ling, the river is frozen solid and that would have to wait until spring, at which time you may need me for the war that seems likely. In the meantime, I am certain that you will recall some great thing I have done for you and you will forgive me. Now be quiet and chew carefully.” Suddenly, a disturbance in the hall caught M’zyk’s attention, and upon redirection of its view, the bastard groaned. At the far head of the table, dressed in the grey linen robes of its station, Mool was waving its right hands over the casks, making some mumbled blessings to Morgan, the Man of spirits. As each invocation of the name was completed, those closest to the Monk raised a grunt of agreement, urging the blessings to continue. Young Zeef had drawn near to observe the rite, and although too young to in the drinking of spirits, it was obvious that its lure was there for the child. Beside the new fledgling stood a curious Kuiper, who had never before seen anything like this gathering. Excitement was evident in the child’s stance, its straining to get a better look at the goings on. It seemed that the youths had bonded and become friends. From the shadow of a service doorway stepped a well-rested Jusk, carrying a small, rolled object in one of its right hands. Jusk cast an observant gaze around the room and upon seeing the Ki began to make direct progress toward the great chair. As the peltor approached, its way was subtly impeded by one Andro after another, until at last the way was blocked altogether by the tall and imposing figure of Giawa. Realizing that it had moved too deliberately toward the great Andro, Jusk stopped abruptly before the Ki’s Pipling wife, whereupon taking a step backward the peltor bowed its head reverently. “I apologize, Your Grace. In my enthusiasm to bestow this scroll upon your husband, I forgot that I am a stranger in your house,” explained a chastened Jusk. Giawa nodded elegantly. “Of course, Jusk-la-Gurjion, I understand. It is advisedly best that one should not approach my husband directly without prior leave.” “Nonsense, My Love,” interjected the Ki, most tenderly. “This Andro is known

to me since youth and is trusted. Before all Mankind, I say, this is Jusk-laGurjion, first among heroes in the service of your father’s sibling, Sol’ja-laSol’ja. It was the armour and the weapons of this Andro that saved the lives of your family’s legions in the end days of the Great War of the Laws. I believe that what is in this Andro’s hand is a report from our good servant K’jo-la-Yugo, for which we have been eagerly waiting.” Jusk noticed the guarded look melt away from the Pipling’s eyes. Giawa observed the peltor for a moment longer, and then bowed acceptance of the Andro’s right of clearance. “Forgive me, but my husband’s safety is paramount. These times are fraught with danger, as you know. I shall accept the scroll,” said the Pipling, holding out an open hand. Jusk nodded and, placing the scroll into the Pipling’s hand, withdrew a step. Giawa turned and took the scroll over to where the Ki sat. With reverence Giawa placed the object into Ping’s noticeably trembling hands, and an Andro placed a chair beside the Ki’s onto which the Pipling sat. Ping handed the scroll back to Giawa, saying, “Open it, My Dear.” The Pipling broke the wax seal with eager fingers and removed a scroll of parchment from its tin carrying tube. Together the Nobles read the inscription in silence and when they had finished, their eyes locked in an expression of satisfaction. “What can Xcelpyr hope for in attacking this region, My Love?” asked Giawa in a soft voice. “I see no way that the combined force of our alliance can be endangered by the numbers K’jo has indicated here.” “Perhaps there is more to this than K’jo has discovered,” remarked the Ki gently. “I have never known that Andro to send less than exemplary reports, so I believe that something has been hidden. I see the hand of that mad-Andro Figfo behind it all, with its penchant for religious radicalism. Perhaps the Ki’s mother seeks to inflame a holy war,” intoned the Ki, and in doing so he could not help but cast a fleeting glance in Mool’s direction. “I do not always trust the righteous to do what is right.” Giawa rolled the scroll and returned it to its holder. “I agree with that sentiment, My Husband. We should call upon the council once this merriment is over, for our children need to rest from too much fun. Perhaps then we can divine a reason

for this seeming recklessness, perhaps not. Shall we send word of this to my father?” asked the Pipling of Pruskinom. Ping took a pause to consider this. “Perhaps we should, but I think that it can wait until after the Council of Midrib has determined what the threat truly may be. We must also take this matter before the Kis of the other cities within our treaty. For now, we must not raise alarm. Let us enjoy the Feast of Winter’s Dawn with our people, and tomorrow we shall convoke the council.” Giawa nodded and turned a smile toward the gathering of Andros in the Great Hall. Ping was a wise leader, after all, and tomorrow would be the best time to begin in earnest. For now, Winter’s Dawn must take precedence, as there were official appearances scheduled throughout the day. Truly, this was a day for the people of Midrib, and the whole of the Hork Valley Alliance. Tomorrow would surely come soon enough.

Outside the walls of Midrib, the darkness of the forest had begun to fracture, as shards of the morning’s light had found openings between the trees to cast streaks of illumination between long, dark shadows. As the company of soldiers was going about the business of preparing for the new day, there came a muffled winnowing, which could not be attributed to any hoond there present. The sound was distant and caused the eyes of every Andro there to travel out across the grassland to a distant stand of kolita-pines, where the splashing of snow caught their interests. “Rider!” announced a scout from a tree-top high above the rest. Indeed, a single rider was inbounding at a hard gallop, scattering fresh snow before it as it came. A truglehoond can run very fast indeed across a snow-covered flatland, and in only a few minutes the beast and its rider arrived at the edge of the encampment and entered the body of the gathering. As the rider pulled up its mount, the hoond stopped short and settled there, panting heavily through its nostrils in misty bursts of breath that froze in the frigid air. Without delay the rider waved a scroll above its head. “Message for the Master Hunter!” it announced loudly, while its hoond snorted and pawed the frozen ground beneath its feet, digging for grass beneath the snow.

“Dismount, Rider, and take food by the fire,” ordered Klyky from the midst of the company of soldiers, protected within a sort of cocoon formed by the bodies of its officers. Klyky studied the rider with an easy gaze. It wore a hooded cape fashioned from the orange and purple hide of an eastern blixonhog, and on its forehead the brand that was worn by only Xcelpyr’s personal guard. “Master Hunter, the Ki of Eruda sends orders to fall back to the city. On the way be sure to ride close to as many villages as possible with the banners of Eruda and Kraas flying to wizen the locals that we are looming once again.” The rider paused and handed the scroll it had carried down to an officer’s waiting hand. “I am to ride back to report your condition to your father, My Ki-ling.” “Take food, Rider,” commanded Klyky. The rider nodded to the Master Hunter, and then quietly dismounted. “Thank you, Ki-ling. I wish to request a fresh hoond, if I may,” said the Andro. Klyky nodded courteously and ordered a Captain to see it to be done. Then the rider moved silently into the gathering of warriors and toward the closest fire pit that boasted a spitted roast of flesh. At the edge of the blaze, it sat upon a blanket of blixonhog pelt that it had dropped upon the snowy ground, and with the fire before it, was warmed. From its side it plucked a dagger, sharper than most, and with its large right hand the Andro sliced a long thin morsel from the flesh, then deftly spun the meat around the blade and drew it toward its mouth. Using the blade as an eating utensil the Andro pulled at the flesh with its front teeth and a piece was torn away. It chewed calmly, savouring the taste of dusky zaschafry, hunted from the trees above them. It swallowed. A jug was ed down by an Andro standing nearby. “Grass beer,” said the offeror. “Nice and warm to wash down that dusky.” The rider nodded and took the jug. The Andro sniffed the grass beer and grimaced slightly. “This is from the House of the Red Guergon. You have good taste, Friend,” it announced, and then took a gulp to wash down its second mouthful of zaschafry. Before long, the Andro had eaten enough to satisfy its hunger and, not wanting to be bloated for the ride back to Eruda, stood and took a final swallow of the grass beer. Handing the jug off to a young Andro, the rider left the warm fire and walked to the fresh truglehoond. Placing both left hands upon the creature’s neck the rider nodded. “You will do

just fine, My Strong One.” The rider mounted the hoond with the ease of experience, and then turning to the Master Hunter, nodded thanks. “Have you any message for your father Ki-ling?” asked the Andro. At this a scroll was handed up to the rider, and with a nod from Klyky the rider turned its mount toward Eruda and tore across the flatlands, spraying plumes of snow behind it as it went. Klyky slipped its father’s message into a pocket in its snowsuit. The Ki had ordered them back, but the letter had also warned them to be careful not to raid any villages directly. Too much of a show might have the wrong effect on the people of the Lyfgus-Haug. Xcelpyr wanted them aware of the presence of the Western Alliance, but not frightened into allying with the east. Let spring come and let the thaw arrive with the armies of Kraas and Eruda. “Surprise is a hunter’s most lethal tool,” Father had written, “but a little inspiration of doubt goes a long way, too.” Klyky turned to its Lieutenants, gathered them around, and conveyed the Ki’s orders. No Winter’s Dawn for them, only a long ride back to Eruda across the frozen Lyfgus-Haug and through the Kolita-pine Forest to the west. Within the hour the camp had broken and without an abundance of noise the company had departed from the forest outside Midrib while behind them only a prattling of zaschafrys was evident to bid them farewell.

Chapter 12 Visitation

Morning had come too soon for Max Henderson, and the Intelligence had drawn him out of his dream far too early for his liking. There were beauties in tight frocks carrying trays of exceptional brandies, there were well-dressed men and women enjoying a sonata in E-flat minor by Carl Von Bruin of Alpha Centauri as the stars slipped by outside the Trans-Galaxy Empress. There were cards, such cards as he had not seen in a century, four aces, king high. He was about to call, and then the blasted Intelligence whispered in his ear, “Time to get started, new toys to test… hop to it, Man!” Damned thing sounded like Mother on a school morning. He groaned, rolled over, and after a long stretch, began to sit up. He had just swung his legs over the edge of the bed when he was struck by the most memorable and remarkable aroma. Bacon was frying out in the kitchen, smoky, sweet, and salty riding the air like a million tiny angels bent on the conquest of his poor, defenceless senses. He breathed it in deeply and clapping his hands once, he leaped out of bed like a kid and then scooted to the bathroom to empty his bladder. “Come on, come on! That’s it, go, go, go,” he was thinking. Bacon and Helen’s cherry waffles, no doubt. This would be a morning among mornings! After giving his hands a quick rinse and patting them dry on a freshly printed towel, Max scooted again, spry as a boy of eighty down the hall and into the kitchen, to find… nothing. No bacon, no cherry waffles, and no Helen. The shock was disarming. He stood there for a moment or two staring blankly at the counter top where he expected to see these things, and then he understood. Damn it! he thought. The Intelligence had tricked him, laying those taunts in his subconscious to hurry him along. “You think that’s funny?” he asked angrily out loud. “Get me some toast and coffee, and don’t even bother to try reproducing Helen’s cherry waffles. You’d do a lousy job anyway!” he cranked. Max knew it was a lie, as the Intelligence was more than capable of reproducing any dish to molecular precision. It was the thought that counted; the time and effort taken by a loved one to make a dish that brought back wonderful memories of special

times, one part eggs, two parts flour, baking powder, buttermilk, and vanilla to taste, with a good stiff scoop of nostalgia for good measure. What a gyp! He absorbed the morning updates while sipping his coffee and had finished only half the toast when his mood began to repair itself. The tests had begun in Cargo Bay Seven, students donning the various symbio-suits to try them out. There was a memo from Helen about Eugene’s birthday coming on Friday, and a report from Dr. MacKinnon regarding information gleaned from an Androgenari subject collected from the surface. It seemed that there were some very old rumours of a race of giants living on the Isle of Darmos. A vessel from the port city of Goum had been exploring in the weedy waters of the southeastern sea when it discovered the island and set Andros ashore to reconnoitre. There were reports that day of a great village of giants with only two hands each, living in the interior of the island in conditions of squalor. Long, stringy growths of what the Andros had only supposed to be mammal fur hung from their heads and in some cases from their faces. In horror the ship and crew had left the shore of Darmos, and an order had been given by the ruler of Goum that the island would remain taboo, never to be visited lest the monsters there might learn of Andros and then come hunting. Max dropped the uneaten toast crusts and his empty coffee cup into the reclaimer, where their molecules would be reintroduced into the endless mass of the station for reuse. It was the same technology that eliminated all the waste produced by the Humans on the station, scrubbed unwanted carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, and purified everything for reuse. It had been used for a very long time and, like so much of the living tech that had filled the lives of Humanity since the early days of the Empire, was unassumingly accepted by all. Like the Intelligence itself, this tech was a seamless part of what it meant to be Human in that age, and it occurred to Henderson that to be cut off from it like those poor shipwrecked prisoners down below would be a hardship indeed. As he strolled along the corridor of the engineering wing on his way to Manufacturing Bay Seven, a warm and familiar hand slipped into his. Helen had been up for hours running the tests on the symbio-digger suit in bay six. She leaned over as they walked together, and she placed a warm set of lips on Henderson’s right cheek, causing him to squeeze her hand ever so gently, and he smiled. This was real, not even the Intelligence could fool him about this. He stopped and she stopped with him, and in the middle of the engineering corridor he kissed her warm, full lips. Then he gazed deeply into her eyes, black as pools

of pitch, glistening in the artificial light from the ceiling. “I missed you this morning,” he said. Helen considered his face, the light brown eyes, the perfect features, well, perfect for her, and the thin pencil moustache just above his top lip. It was a choice she understood, a fashionable throwback to an age of romance, the age embodied by his mother’s cruise ships, an age of adventure and intrigue, of jazz and blues, and a life of wonder. She smiled and sighed, drawing him close in her arms. Then, as if she had ed something urgent, Helen released him and gently pushed away just a little. “AI has a way of getting in your face at just the wrong moment, doesn’t it?” she complained, and taking Max’s hand once again, she began to walk. “What?” he asked. She glanced over with a look of irritation and then smiled and sighed as though not quite contented, and she shook her head gently. “I was looking at you and getting distracted when the Intelligence flashed a memory of you with that awful, scruffy beard you grew back in Fiji Beach. It was a bit of a cold shower, Sweet Stuff,” she itted. Max looked genuinely surprised. “I thought you loved that beard!” he teased, but she burst out laughing as she gripped his arm with both hands, and together they continued toward their destination. In M-Bay Seven, Conan MacKinnon was standing on a raised platform observing the tests of his most prized invention, the symbio-flight-suit. The Intelligence had grown a chamber just for this purpose according to the doctor’s specifications, with a cavernous expanse and a transparent ceiling space that soared to forty metres. Beyond that window were the stars and nebulae of a truly magnificent quadrant of the galaxy. It was one that drew trillions of travellers and settlers each year from throughout the New Order. The lighting was bright enough to illuminate the whole complex without producing glare spots, which could impede the vision of those involved in the testing, and a series of raised platforms gave ample places for the trainees to land and take off from as they were put through the paces of the program. In the centre of the complex was a platform that stood about four metres above the floor, upon which, dressed only in a speedo style shorts, stood a slim-built and wiry young man with close-

cropped blonde hair and too many freckles for one face. “Come on, Gunderbach! We don’t have all day. What’s the problem anyway?” demanded MacKinnon. Gunderbach looked confused and a little bit nervous. He had never cared that much for heights, even back in his wild college days when the other kids were base-jumping without parachutes for the thrill of it. No, he had been quite contented to seek out thrills that did not involve being splattered on a sidewalk and waking up in a SAF tube. As he stood there negotiating the symbio-suit, a feeling of nausea was growing in the pit of his stomach and he had to struggle ferociously to pull himself into the thing. The suit was nearly three metres tall, all white and shiny and without features, and it stood there on the platform resembling more than anything a large block of tofu. The front of the suit, including the thighs, was opened up like a split sausage, waiting for him to step in backwards, and on its back were two large, folded wings. Drawing a deep breath almost in protest of what he was about to do, Gunderbach stepped up heel first into the right leg of the flight-suit. Holding the suit firmly with both hands, he pulled himself off the platform and planted his other foot inside the left leg of the suit. He grimaced uncomfortably as the moist interior of the device made with his skin. As he stood into the suit it closed up around his legs and torso and finally his arms. The feeling of the headpiece, warm and clammy against the back of his head and neck, was almost too much for Albert Gunderbach, and as it closed over his cheeks and crown, he thought that he was going to lose it. The man moaned as he felt his knees go weak, and if not for the fact that the suit was now ing him, he might have toppled over. Then the suit began to compensate for his unsettled condition by releasing a subtle flow of endorphin into his skin, relaxing him, calming him. Gunderbach sighed and closed his eyes for just a moment to let the new feeling take hold, and then with a bit of colour returning to his cheeks he opened his eyes and smiled. “It’s not as bad as I thought, Professor. Kind of gross at first, but it grows on you,” he paused, a little uncomfortably. “It doesn’t actually grow on you, does it?” By now the configuration of the suit had altered itself to look more like a large white copy of Gunderbach’s own physique, albeit still resembling tofu. MacKinnon took his mind’s eye off the man’s bio-readings for a moment and looked up at him. “No, Gunderbach, you’ll be fine. Just relax and feel the suit.

Once you’re synced up it will start to take commands from your brain, just like your own body does. Try lifting a leg. Don’t worry, the suit has its own balancing systems. It can’t fall over.” Gunderbach did as he was told, and the right leg of the suit lifted, bending at the knee. He held it there effortlessly, and realized immediately that the suit, not his leg, was making the movement. He grinned. “That is so amazing!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I could stand here like this all day!” MacKinnon looked up at him strangely and said, “I hope not. We’ve got work to do. Now, open your arms, walk around the platform, and touch your toes.” “It can do that?” ask Gunderbach. MacKinnon sighed, “Of course, it can do anything your own body can do.” “Well, suppose I couldn’t touch my toes?” “The suit can do anything a normal body can do, Gunderbach. Are you saying I’m going to have to put you on a diet?” asked the doctor. “Oh, no Sir. I can touch my toes, I just meant what if?” “Gunderbach, I could put nothing but your head in that suit and it could do backflips. Now, try to concentrate. We have a program to complete,” ordered Dr. MacKinnon with a note of annoyance in his voice. Gunderbach began to walk the symbio-suit around the platform as if he had been in the thing all day. He touched his toes, did a couple of jumping jacks, and then jogged on the spot for a few seconds. In the next moment, the suit synced with the man and took on even the slightest attitude of Gunderbach’s shape. “Does it come in blue, Professor?” he asked, hammily. MacKinnon browsed through Gunderbach’s readings for a moment, ignoring the last comment, just as an entranceway appeared in the bay wall and Max and Helen entered the lab. “You’re doing fine, Albert,” he said. “Now spread your wings.” Gunderbach was taken aback. “How do I…” he began, but as the words were leaving his lips the wings unfolded behind him. As he turned his head, he could see them spreading white and majestic, not feathered, but smooth and elegant,

more butterfly than bird. “Oh, I like that, Professor!” he sang out, and then upon noticing Henderson and Mandela-Wessels standing with MacKinnon, Gunderbach collected his wit and stumbled out. “Ah! Professors, please excuse me. I was just trying out my wings,” exclaimed the student. “Quite alright, Mr. Gunderbach, an entirely understandable reaction,” said Henderson, approvingly. “It seems Professor MacKinnon can really cook.” Helen took in a feed from the young man’s bio-readings and nodded with satisfaction. She looked at the man jumping about on the platform like a deranged chicken and had to bite her lip. “You seem to have adapted quite well, Gunderbach. Now let’s see you fly,” she commanded. Gunderbach’s eyes opened wide at her words, but before he could make a comment of his own the suit had responded. The wings beat once, lifting him off the platform and climbing into the air. “Oh!” he exclaimed, and reflexively his hands closed into fists inside the arms of the suit. He drew a sharp breath as the suit climbed and then soared downward across the cavernous lab. Catching himself and realizing that he would not fall, Gunderbach began to direct the suit to bank and turn, swooping around the perimeter of the engineering lab, climbing, and dipping like some great white moth against the blackness of the distant void. Then, taking a bit of initiative, the man thought, Land, and as lightly as a feather the suit touched down on the top of the highest platform in the lab. He stood there for a heady moment observing all below him and then confidently he dove from the heights, wings folded back, gliding out from the platform on which he had been standing. As he fell the wings opened, pulling him into a soaring climb once again, and he continued in this way for the next hour, answering commands with ease as the professors gave them. When the test was concluded Gunderbach stepped out of the symbio-flight-suit with no ill effects whatsoever, apart from craving a hot shower, and he told them all that he was not the least bit tired for all that he had done. Max and Helen congratulated him happily once he was back on the ground, but MacKinnon shook his head. “And why should he be tired?” expounded Professor MacKinnon. “The bloody suit did all the work.”

Flight Symbio-Suit

Chapter 13 Winter’s Dawn, Sword of Fire

The first day of winter had gone by too quickly, as they frequently did, with the villagers of Midrib celebrating the season with food and drink and games of “chase the night,” in which Andros dressed in the colours of summertime took turns chasing off a group of others dressed in black to symbolize the long, dark hours of winter nights. In the end, the children were reassured that soon the days would grow longer and warmer as spring drew near, and the feasting itself was a way for the people of Midrib to give thanks to Mankind for the bounty of the autumn’s harvest and hunt. Soon though, the skies grew dark and the next phase of the celebration was underway, as bonfires were lit in every parade and market square throughout Midrib, and the children jumped and played among the dancing sparks. Music filled the night and the singing of winter poetry rose up to spread across the woodlands outside the city wall. Laughter rode the smoky currents through the trees and spilled beyond into the Lyfgus-Haug and out across the frozen Hork, slumbering beneath its blanket of ice and snow. The Riff hunters had vanished along with the daylight, melting into the sea of snow dunes over the course of the day and had left behind them only empty camps with blackened mounds where their fires had been the night before. A cold wind had begun to build, scattering the ashes behind them. In the main Market Circle, scores of Andros were gathered, mulling around, visiting with one another, telling traditional stories of Winter’s Dawn, and sharing tales of their recent hunts. Nostru-la-Greet, the wood carver, was recounting the close call its team had had with a band of Nooken while hunting out on the northern Lyfgus-Haug. There had been a fight among the ruins of an ancient Austinite monastery and in the melee Nostru’s cousin Forn had lost a hand to a Nooken axe. To great iration that Andro held up its left arm where beside the smaller forearm dwelt a leather-wrapped stump, and dangling from it the mummified hand itself, safe from the Nooken cannibals. Fortunate this was, for it was thought by the people of the Lyfgus-Haug that if the Nooken had eaten

the hand they would have consumed with it a piece of Forn’s soul. The battle had raged from mid-afternoon until the last traces of sunlight had faded from the rusty sky, bringing the cobalt glow of the great moon Blue. They had had to use their slings and lighter throwing spears to keep the Nooken at a distance, for they did not want to touch the foul things, eaters of Andros. Such a sin was unforgivable, and although it was not known whether so foul an affliction could be caught, such rumours were persistent among the Androgenari of the Hork River Valley. It was therefore thought advisable to leave behind any weapons thus fouled by Nooken blood, so they’d suffered a great loss of fine blades that day. As the tale unfolded, Andros reacted with gasps and laughter, and the richness of the scene among the flickering bonfires was impressive to the children of Ping and their friends as they strode into this congregation to warm receptions all around. Skra, standing a full head taller than anyone else, stood out clearly. Mool, bundled up in warm grey-coloured vestments, looked every bit the Monk, and M’zyk covered from head to toe in a green and burgundy coloured hood and cloak seemed the very embodiment of Winter’s Dawn. Khuli, having regained balance with an afternoon nap, was once again the life of the party, carrying a small cask of honeyberry whisky on broad shoulders and offering draughts to all from the bronze spigot on its side. Poopa, somewhat less recovered than its sibling, was carrying a gourd of water from which that Andro would take occasional swallows to quench its mighty thirst, and in the rear of the group followed Zeef and Kuiper. Jusk had wandered into another part of the crowd and hearing the tale of one group of hunters who had managed to trap and kill a small herd of pumpi, the peltor spoke up, saying, “The blessings of the Huntress were with you.” At this the crowd went silent, and every eye turned to fix upon the stranger. The Andro who had been telling the tale stepped forward, and facing down this outspoken stranger with a frown, the hunter expressed displeasure. “Who are you to speak for the Woman of the Hunt?” the Andro demanded. Jusk was somewhat taken aback but managed to recover composure with a smile. “I am a peltor, Friend, and I reckon that a small herd of mature pumpi could provide enough skins to earn a hunter a pretty bag of copper in a place like Pruskinom. I was merely paying you a compliment on your skill and good

fortune,” offered Jusk. The hunter paused and rubbed its chin with its small left hand, all the while eyeing Jusk suspiciously. “Those pelts are not mine to sell but belong to the city. They will clothe our children and the meat will feed us all for many weeks to come. It is not our way to keep what we find for ourselves, Stranger, but to contribute it to the community.” Jusk paused and then continued. “Forgive me for my ignorance of your ways, Friend. I only meant that the collected pumpi pelts of all the hunters in your village could be traded in Pruskinom for more than their weight in, for example, blixonhog skin, which makes a lighter and warmer coat. It would be a good trade.” Once again, the hunter rubbed its chin. “And what would Pruskinom want with our entire stock of heavy pumpi hide?” the hunter asked. Jusk smiled and winked at the Andro. “Boots. In Pruskinom there is a mill devoted to making boots, from mostly pumpi. They sell fine boots across the eastern lands, but in the desert region to the south of that city, there are very few pumpi, so they need to import them from the Lyfgus-Haug where they roam in abundance. By providing pumpi hides to them you could provide higher quality clothing to all the people of Midrib without the need to hunt blixonhog. They are much more work to hunt, and far more dangerous than pumpi, after all.” The crowd began to hum with conversation about the quality of the stranger’s words. The hunter stopped rubbing its chin and looked less suspiciously at Jusk. Then, as if struck by a stick, the Andro took a step backward and grunted. “You know, it seems to me that your words may make a lot of sense, Stranger. The council would have to approve such an idea, of course, but I believe that you have something that can help Midrib, after all.” Upon speaking these words, the hunter offered its right hands to the stranger, and Jusk grasped them firmly with its own. “I am named Finkus-la-K’jo, and I greet you now as a friend. Tell me your name and be a stranger no more.” Jusk grinned, and the crowd erupted in contented grunts all around.

“I am Jusk-la-Gurjion, and I believe that I may know your father,” said Jusk. Finkus nodded and placed a left hand on Jusk’s shoulder. “I have heard that name in tales of the time before the ice, told by my father in the dead of a winter’s night just like this one. Tell me, Jusk, will you sit and drink ale with me?” Jusk nodded agreement to the proposal, saying “I will indeed. I saw your father two days ago, Finkus, and in fine good health did that one slay a large guergon with a single blow of the axe.” Finkus smiled and nodded knowingly. “The great bronze axe with the pummel shaped like a curled gremorah? That is my father’s favourite axe. Come!” Finkus welcomed the peltor, and together they melted into the crowd. Back at the other bonfire Zeef was introducing Kuiper to some of the other youths. Many were recent fledglings like Zeef, and the conversation was thick with references to guort blood and the harsh scent of pumpi piss. The tall, twolegged pumpi were fast runners, but when cornered they had a way of spraying their acrid urine at an attacker that could be most distressing for the uninitiated hunter. Zeef related a story told by M’zyk two nights before of how sometimes even a gremorah would back off when so abused by a squawking pumpi. They all roared with laughter, even Kuiper, who had never experienced any of the things that the fledglings had, but they did not seem to mind. They wanted to know about Eruda and what life had been like under the harsh rule of the Riff. Kuiper took a seat on the edge of a stone curb and in quick order the others stooped or sat on the snow to listen. The young Andro looked at them, all a year or two older than itself, and prepared to tell a tale that would enthrall and amaze. Then, clearing a dry throat, the child began. “I am Kuiper-la-Skiffer, child of a cold harsh night many years ago when an unloving hand set me to perish on the doorstep of a peltor’s shop. The wind was evil, ringing through the alleys of Eruda like a zaschafry hunting for its dinner in the dark. It clawed at my blanket and against its wailing no one could hear my cries,” reported the child. “You were crying?” ask one of the older fledges disparagingly. Another shoved the first and onished it for the interruption.

“You’d be crying too, Parsk!” it said. Parsk scowled at this but, humbled, remained silent and so Kuiper continued. “Suddenly there was a light! The shop door opened and a great, tall Andro bent over me and scooped me up. It was Jusk-la-Gurjion, the great fashioner of armour for the High Pip of Voughorf, and a great hero to all the Pip’s warriors, for it was that Andro’s armour that kept them safe in battle!” The others grunted, almost in unison at the thought of the great hero, and then Kuiper, beaming, continued to tell of how Jusk took in the abandoned child and raised it. At one point Kuiper began to tell of its own experiences working with Jusk in the shop, of running with friends in the alleys of Eruda beneath the dark Tower of Schroon, of the terrible lives of the field workers under the lash of the Riff guards. When Kuiper told them of the path taken by its friend Fazyk, they were silent and subdued, and then soon after they were wide eyed leaning forward as the child took them through the blackness of the stairway to the ice beach. Parsk shook its head in terror at the tale of the guergon on the kolita-pine trail, and at the end of the tale, when the Hurdyk’s gremorah were diverted by the fire, the youths whooped with excitement and begged for more, but as Kuiper told them, the best was yet unwritten. An adult who had been standing close by and listening to the tale suddenly spoke. “You youngsters are going to have nightmares after that,” it said, and then it turned and laughed as it walked away toward a waiting cask of ale. The young Andros looked at Kuiper, all silent for a moment, and then each began to laugh. It had been a good tale, well told, and although none of them expected to have nightmares, they all pretty much knew that they would not sleep that night for the excitement of it. An instant later they were interrupted by a stocky adult carrying eight mugs of hot honeyberry punch, two gripped in each hand, pronouncing, “Warm up, Youngsters! The night begins to chill in earnest and a mug of hot punch will set you right!” “Our thanks, Elder, the night is getting cold indeed,” answered Zeef, taking two steaming mugs and ing one to Kuiper. The others did likewise and soon the elder Andro was heading back to the cask to fill mugs for the other children of Midrib. All over the city scenes like these were playing out as the festivities of Winter’s Dawn carried on into the late hours. The temperature fell steadily under clear, black skies, and as the hour of midnight drew nearer the age of the three moons of Drodenar brought them closer together. At midnight, the moons

would align far above the world and confirm the beginning of winter, at which time the eldest of the Monks of Austin would address the congregation and lead in blessings and prayers. At twenty-five minutes before midnight two dozen grey-clad figures carved their way along the main route from their temple at the east end of Midrib, the crowds parting before them as they came. As always, the Elder Hionysh-la-Zin, First Austinian Monk of Midrib, led the procession and in that Andro’s wake followed a pumpi calf led by a rope of woven guort skin. This beast would serve as a sacrifice to the watching host of Mankind, who somewhere in the starry heavens above would bless the city and all in it, bringing plenty in the springtime—so said the ancient rites that had arisen from the half-ed mists of time, a thousand years before. The Monks of Austin kept the rites and they reserved authority over them. Into the main Market Circle of Midrib the Monks of Austin arrived in single file, and as the crowd withdrew to give them stage it grew silent. Two dozen more Monks emerged from the crowd’s receding edge to form a circular fence between it and the procession. Hionysh led the pumpi calf to the very centre of the circle and stopped. As they entered the circle behind their master, the Monks took up positions around Hionysh in a half circle and also stopped. There on the snow-covered ground the grey-clad Monks of the Man Austin knelt and raised their arms in supplication. All around the perimeter the remaining Monks stood and also raised their arms in silent plea to those above. And so, the stage was set. At five strokes before midnight, the voices of the Monks began in unison a low and ominous moaning hum. As the next few minutes ed the hum grew louder until it reached every corner of the city and spilled out into the wilderness beyond. At one stroke before midnight, the voice of Hionysh-la-Zin called out from the centre of the circle in a tone both sleepy and thunderous. “We who serve the Living Spirits of Mankind beseech Thee in this the Hour of Alignment! Show favours to Thy poor servants and bring to Thy people the blessings of Thy Heavens.” At the stroke of midnight, the moons seemed to stop in perfect alignment, forming a disk with three concentric circles, Blue, Gold, and at their heart the pale moon called Blood, high in the dark sky. In the next seconds, the ground began to tremble harmonically, and strangeness filled the air. It was like the moment when one awaits the befalling of some

terrible thing, all ripe with the stress of foreboding. It was the worst for the youngest there, for they did not know that it would soon , but even for those who had seen it all before it was humbling. The feeling lasted for almost a minute, but that minute had the impact to make the freethinker a believer. Even M’zyk was uncertain for a moment during the ing of that age of uncertainty, and then at the stroke of midnight and one minute the trembling subsided, and the moons began to deviate. At that very moment, and no doubt for its maximum dramatic effect, Hionysh slit the pumpi’s throat with a long slice from a sharp bronze knife. As warm deep-purple blood spilled out over the snow, the pumpi pissed all over the Monk’s boots, and died. Hionysh dropped the carcass and turning fiery eyes toward the sky the Elder smiled with satisfaction. The Monks chanted, “Holy! Holy! Holy!” the crowd echoed, “Holy! Holy! Holy!” and then something happened that had never happened before. It was as astonishing to the Monks of the Man Austin as it was to the average lay-Andro gathered there beneath the dispersing moons, but they would surely never have itted it. Suddenly, in the blackness to the southeast of the cluster of moons, a long and brilliant shaft of fire began to streak across the midnight sky, casting a glow like daylight over the lands for as far as the eye could see. The sight of it brought awe to those gathered in Midrib (and no doubt also to Andros in every part of Elysium), and many of them fell to their knees. Even M’zyk was struck by the power of the event, and in a moment of weakness it grabbed hold of Poopa’s sleeve and whispered, “Holy! Holy shit!” Poopa did not hear the bastard’s curse, for in that Andro’s mind a single memory kept repeating again and again among all the frightened voices calling out to the Monks for answers. It was a single flash of light that had set about a wild dream inside the head of a young hunter on the wind-whipped plains of the LyfgusHaug. What had Poopa seen three nights before against the glowing surface of the moon called Blood? What dream had inspired the words that its lips had offered, that so bemused its companions? Poopa was at a loss for understanding, but even in that state the young leader knew that there was a connection between that event and this. Then turning golden eyes toward the bastard clutching at its sleeve, Poopa saw in that moment the fear in M’zyk’s face and asked, “Does this Sword of Fire give you disquiet, My Friend?” M’zyk looked across into Poopa’s face and saw the friend with whom it had grown up. The bastard sighed and let go of Poopa’s sleeve.

“No,” replied M’zyk, “but the Monks do. Hionysh just gained the ear of every Andro in Midrib, and that will mean much influence across the region. How will the next Ki of Midrib address the imbalance that this will bring?” As these words were being spoken, Mool was standing not far away inside the crowd, and hearing them, the Monk turned an angry glare toward friends. Apprehension gave way to resentment and that in turn to offence and bitterness. How could they betray the friendship that had carried them through childhood and beyond? The Order of the Man Austin was not to be disparaged so by the likes of M’zyk-la-Skiffer and its one-Andro crusade against the truth. The master must hear of this, as First Monk Hionysh would know how to work it all out.

Chapter 14 The Toys in Our Chest

The vast sky over the Great Desert of the Gold was blue and clear and cold that morning, and although the suns blazed overhead, the ground was dusted with a crusting of frost, for even in the hottest and driest places on Drodenar, winter was a far-reaching force. Before the tilt of the planet had been swayed by the over-near age of the massive rogue world Shiest, the deserts of Drodenar had been more compact, but brutally hot. It was true that since the change the deserts had spread to cover vast areas, but they had become tamer, as well. The reason for their growth was simple: the nudge away from the suns meant more ice at the polar caps, lower sea levels, and less precipitation to reach the arid belt at the interior of the supercontinent Elysium. In fact, by winter night, the deserts of Drodenar could be as cold as the Lyfgus-Haug, but without the massive blankets of snow. The Life-tech lander had swung in over the eastern horizon at eight-forty-one a.m. and made a rapid exploratory over the badlands south-west of the city of Goum. Within minutes the suns had begun to break the horizon, heralding dawn, and the lander had settled gently into the crater of an ancient meteor strike. The crater’s rocky floor was regular and fairly level, so it provided the craft with a good surface for landing. However, what small dips and rises there were offered no obstacle to the lander’s organic pad. Its Intelligence easily felt the inconsistencies and compensated by moulding itself to suit. Almost immediately the wall drew back to form an exit for the crew, and out they stepped in pairs, Henderson and Helen first, then Eugene Chow and a tall redhaired graduate student, Cynthia Leary. Quickly following these four were Kevin Okamura, a Bio-engineering Major, and his lab partner Janice Funt, also BioEng., and Rachel Kuntz, Molecular Eng. major, and finally, Albert Gunderbach, archaeology major. Gunderbach had been a great irer of Maximillian Henderson’s ever since he had learned of his professor’s distinguished achievements on the ancient world Defynas. When Gunderbach, as a mere boy of sixty-two, discovered that

Henderson had been the discoverer of the Kylum Civilization that had been extinct long before the Earth had been cool enough to liquid water, well, he would not study archaeology under anyone else. He tried for fifteen years to get into one of Henderson’s classes, but the competition had been vicious. He made several attempts to Max personally, but to no avail, and then one day at the Elvira Lake Campus of the University of Western New Montreal on Lipitor, they happened to meet face to face in the autumn of 5394. Henderson was in a panic, waiting to go before the Faculty of Science and the Imperial Guild of Archaeology to make a speech on archaeology in the fifty-fifth century. Max had hated public speaking ever since his world-wind tour of two hundred cities from 4438 to 4444 telling the galaxy about his great find on Defynas. The lights had been too bright, the press, well, the press was still the press, bigger story, bigger quotes, the scoop, always the scoop. The science was getting obscured by the bloody story. So, we were not the first great civilization in the galaxy. What could we learn from them? That was the real issue, but the press wanted to make it a story of science versus the old religions and their fall from ultimate power. That wasn’t news; it was history, old history. He ended up having a nervous breakdown by the end of that lecture tour and only a half a decade spent onboard the Empress had made him whole again. Now here he was starting it up all over again, and why? Because the board of directors of Life-tech had thought it was a good idea and guaranteed him a place back on the Drodenar team. Well, he had insisted that he would lead the Drodenar team. After all, it had been his work that had produced the sociosexual matrix for the development of the Androgenari mind and subsequently their entire society. Between the backing of Anna Henderson and Eugene Chow, the board felt compelled and capitulated to his demand, setting the stage for his return to Drodenar. When he bumped into Gunderbach outside the auditorium that day, Henderson was a mess, wringing his hands and sweating profusely. “Professor!” beamed Gunderbach. “What a coincidence! I’ve been trying to get to see you for fifteen years and here you are!” The young man tried to shake Henderson’s hand, but Max pulled away. “Do I know you?” he asked, confused. “Are you press? No, you don’t have that look.”

“Well, no, Sir, but I’ve read everything you’ve ever published, even that paper you did on The Commercial Potential for Bio-forms from the Outer Shell. You didn’t enjoy writing that did you, Sir?” Gunderbach asked with real concern. Henderson was surprised. Nobody ever cared for that old, tired paper, and he’d hated writing it, full of molecular biophysics mumbo jumbo. He had only perused that degree to please Mother. Archaeology had been his dream, but not wanting to take the path that Dear Brother Rochester had taken, Max had completed both degrees, to Anna’s delight. Once he had done his dues and written what Mother had called, “The paper that shall remain nameless,” he had been free to find a posting as second assistant anthropologist at a new dig on Defynas. Damn! Henderson thought. This conversation is actually helping to calm me down. “If you’ll excuse me for saying so, Sir, Archaeology was where you needed to be.” Henderson stared at the young man, and then slowly took his hand and shook it. “How old are you, Kid?” asked the professor. “Seventy-seven this June, Sir, but how do you know I’m so young? You don’t look any older than me.” “Oh, that’s just experience talking, Kid. When you’ve been around for over a thousand years, you’ll be able to do it, too. Now what’s all this about you trying to me?” asked Henderson, and they had talked at length until it was time for him to go inside and face the crowd. “I’ll have a place for you in my lecture program starting next week. It sounds like you have as good a grip on the subject as some of my second-year kids, and after this, I’ve got to give you a shot. See the dean of issions tomorrow, Laurie Chantel. I’ll put in a word.” Then Henderson disappeared inside the building and Albert Gunderbach jumped into the air with a silent “Yes!” and a flourish of high fives to the breeze.

Now, here was Albert Gunderbach, a grad student pursuing a master’s degree in the sacred art of archaeology on a world almost as distant as Defynas had been, but with an entirely different mission. At one hundred and eight years old, he was only five years older than Henderson had been when he first ed the Drodenar Project; of course, Henderson had had a lot of advantages, including the benefit of a brilliant mind, not that Albert considered himself to be ungifted. Henderson had also had the benefit of a very wealthy upbringing and all the very best schools, but Gunderbach had persistence and damn good timing and luck. In the end, they were really not that different, and yet they were, and as he stepped out onto the sprawling soil of a new world, Albert Gunderbach was content with that. “Gunderbach!” called the Chief of Security. “Are you deaf, Son? I called you twice.” “Sorry, Sir, uh, Ma’am, I was just, sorry,” sputtered Gunderbach tripping over his tongue. “What can I do for you, Ma’am?” Helen took a long hard look at the Archaeology Major and only broke her stare when she could see that he was starting to really sweat. “Fall in, Kid, and don’t daydream on my time,” she said shooting an icy glance at Max, who had to bite his lip to stop from smiling. Then Max turned to survey the students walking behind them and called back to them. “We did a sweep as we were flying in and there doesn’t seem to be any large bio-forms in the area, but keep alert and stay with your partner. Oh, and you’ve been briefed on the Fryx—don’t touch it. I don’t want to have to fill out any accident reports,” he shouted. The Fryx had been a bit of an anomaly from way back before Henderson’s time, an odd glitch in the biotech used in growing the plant life on the newly stabilized planet Drodenar. It possessed an odd affinity for usurping the DNA of other life-forms and rapidly transforming it to its own with, of course, lethal results. It tended to grow in smallish patches, constrained mostly by its inability to alter non-organic substances, which was why the Fryx had not spread uncontrollably across the face of Elysium. Had such an anomaly been introduced on, say, an industrial farming planet, the results would not have been so benign. Helen thought of the Fryx as an abomination, the ultimate consequence of messing with biotech beyond the sub-molecular level. On the station, with the

medical facility at their disposal it would be possible to halt or even reverse an infestation of Fryx, but down here, an infected person would die horribly after many hours of screaming. Their boots would protect them, but she still didn’t like the risk, and in her role as Security Chief Helen was more than willing to put down an infected crew person. It would be quick and painless, and the SAFUs had been designed to remove any traumatic memories upon reincarnation. She felt a tremble of distant sadness at that thought. During the war Helen had taken a position with the Campesina Department of Agriculture in Paradise City when due to an accidental (and unrealized) exposure to a synthetic prion-inhibitor her uplink capability was halted. For the next twenty-two years her memories were not recorded to be ed to a new body in the event of her death. On April 12, 4654, the worst happened. At seven-thirty-six in the morning, a device teleported by the Martian Guild of Genetic Modification Producers was detonated over Paradise City, addressing an old vendetta. Helen was incinerated along with a half a million others, but when she was reincarnated, she found that she had lost the last twenty-two years. She could not her grandchildren. Helen struggled with the loss of her memory for the next twenty-six years, accepting a series of transplants from Max and from their children and grandchildren, but while these helped to fill in many of the gaps, they were not her own memories and the sadness had been unbearable. Max and Helen separated for the first time since being married a hundred-andeighty-two years before, siting the stresses of the war. They decided to take a break, and Max returned to Lipitor to teach, while Helen moved to a regrown Paradise City to be close to their daughter, Alleyne, then seventy-nine years old, and her grandchildren Alex, thirty-six, and Fiona, thirty-three. She did not see Max for the next fourteen years. Damned Fryx! She had not thought about that for a very long time, and although Henderson could not see her thoughts, it was very evident to him from the distance in her eyes that she had had a moment of reflection. He leaned against her as they walked, just enough to let her know that he was there, that he would never leave her again. They rounded a large outcropping of cassiterite crystals, a rich tin-bearing ore that the Androgenari used mixed with copper in the manufacturing of their bronze. Henderson cast an eye back over his shoulder.

“Any of you kids have any Geology?” he enquired. “Ever seen this stuff?” “Some,” said Rachel Kuntz. “Tin ore? Cassiterite, I think it’s called. Not really my forte, though. We should have Professor Chow down here.” Helen looked back and Max could see that the moment had ed from her. She glanced at the clock inside her head and said, “Well, Professor MacKinnon is down here just around these rocks, and he’s got some toys for you kids to play with, so let’s go.” Then she turned away and pushed on while Max and the other kids scurried along behind her. Just ahead, up a slight rise and around a bend, MacKinnon was waiting as d. Standing on either side of him was a symbio-unit, glistening in the morning sun, waiting for the eager trainees to try them out. The group gathered around Professor MacKinnon with the look of Christmas morning in their eyes, and as he began to relay information about the symbiounits they fell silent. “This,” explained MacKinnon pointing to the unit on his left, “is the excavator unit.” The excavator stood about two and a half metres high and was nearly spherical with a series of limbs tucked snuggly around its body. White and tofulike in appearance like all the rest, the bio-machine possessed a single round bluish portal behind which a driver would sit, giving the unit the look of a giant eyeball with legs. “It operates as easily as a personal car back home, just like the flight-suit you all trained in yesterday. ‘Get in and go’ technology is built into the biology and it interfaces with your nervous system through skin . Now, I know that the wet and gooey factor is uncomfortable, but these units, unlike the flight-suit, require that only your arms and feet be immersed. It’s so much more, comfy like that.” Turning to his right, the professor indicated a unit about four metres long, standing only a metre and a half tall. It was more or less cigar shaped, like a reptile’s egg, and possessed no discernable outward features. “This unit is a live specimen transport. Specimens go inside where they are automatically catalogued and placed into stasis for transport to the Dev Lok station for further work. You do not go inside this one except in the case of an emergency evacuation, in which case the unit reading Human life signs is programmed to immediately launch to Dev Lok. It can hold up to four of you.

Easy? Yes, it is.” Rachel interrupted, asking what the means of propulsion was, as there were no apparent drive systems. MacKinnon smiled and looked wistfully at the molecular engineering student. “Ah, Ms. Kuntz, I thought you would be intrigued by that. One of my newest patents… it works on the principle of lattice climbing. The unit projects an undulating flow of momentum waves, which engage the ever-present field layers surrounding a massive object, such as a planet, and uses them to pull it aloft, gliding through the field waves the way a bacterium uses its cilia to move through a fluid. In this case the unit interacts with gravity waves, using the planet’s field to get to the moon’s field, and so on.” Rachel did not realize that she had been listening with her mouth open, or that the others had been watching her reactions to MacKinnon’s explanation. She closed her mouth only as an overture to speaking and then, shaking her head in wonder, said, “Wow! That is… wow! How did you think of something like that, Professor?” And then, as if for a final punctuation, “Wow!” MacKinnon chuckled and then cocked his head just slightly, replying, “I’ve been doing this kind of science for over six hundred years, Ms. Kuntz. I picked up a few things here and there. Welcome to Planetary Exploration one-o-one, Ladies and Gentlemen. These are the toys in our chest. Now, who wants to go first?” Hands flew up as the students clamoured in excited anticipation of the experiences to come. Henderson and Helen stayed back just a bit so as not to be trampled, and MacKinnon, in his glory, chose the order in which the students would take their turns. Just at that moment a shadow ed over them from above. It pulled Max and Helen’s attention away from the selection, and they turned to gaze upwards in time to see a flight-suited figure spread its wings and flutter down before them. The touchdown was flawless, elegant even, and in the very essence of performance-craft the figure bent low in a regal bow, its wings gathering up behind it. Only when it stood again before them did the pair see that it was Sanjay, beaming a great grin. “This thing is not better than sex, but it’s pretty neat,” he announced. Henderson did not miss a beat. “Where’s Akna?” he queried with a smile. Sanjay pointed a great white arm to

the north. “She is teaching a field trip on molecular money-making ten kilometres that way. I think she was talking about maximizing profit without depleting the ecosystem. Beautiful woman, but I don’t know if I’m looking for another wife just now.” “Oh sure, Sanjay, when were you not looking for another wife?” quipped Max. Helen looked blankly at one and then the other, and then turning back to the training class, said, “You guys are too much.” Sanjay grinned. He and Max moved a few metres away and continued their conversation in private as Helen took in the sight of Rachel Kuntz driving the excavator. As Rachel’s face appeared inside the blue portal, the twelve limbs moved with a half crab and half octopus fluidness, scoring the ground and digging out a trench the size of a small swimming pool, revealing the mineral riches of this valley. The inheritance of the Androgenari lay before them naked, and the question crept into Helen’s mind unbidden, unwelcomed even. How do you exploit a resource rich environment without disturbing the ecosystem or depleting the environment? What was going to be their footprint here when all was said and done?

Chapter 15 The Council of the Hork

The Regional Council of Hork consisted of the heads of the five land holding families residing in the valley of that great river, along with the High Clerics of the Temples of Austin and Yolanda. There, around the long table were seated all five Kis, along with the heads of the Masonry Guild, the Carpenters Guild, and the Smelters Guild. Also seated were of the Alliance’s Financial Council, which included the Chief ants of all five cities constituting the Great Alliance of the River Valley Hork, and in a place not far from Ping sat Ghurda-la-Ping, Chief Herber to the Great House of Midrib and one of the two mates of Khuli. Hanki-la-Dhourtin-Ki was a younger sibling of Ping’s and Ki of the city of Astrib in the Mushroom Forest of Muxi to the northeast, (population 12,506). Astrib was the centre of the Alliance’s Academy of Herbers and a great producer of medicinal compounds for the region and for trade across the lands of Elysium. There was Forti-la-Baux-Ki, estranged husband of Khuli-la-Ping, of the city of Riverib, (population 11,864), a good way south of where the Hork met the narrow Dancing River at Astrib, whose white waters swirled and pitched with awesome frenzy over its rocky bed, and where the riches of the Great Gourtuni Forest were fashioned into legendary sledges, furnishings and tools of all kinds. There was Ikhacha-la-Gry-Ki, estranged mate of Poopa-la-Ping, of the city of Straerib, (population 12,065), in the Bearded Red-pine Forest to the southeast, where lumberyards flourished. There was Nostru-la-Vas-Ki, cousin of Giawa-laHas’ja, of the salt-mining city of Gastrib, (population 12,210), to the south of Midrib, and there was Ping, Ki of the stone walled city of Midrib, (population 15,334) and overseer of the council for the past eight years, and its royal mate, Giawa, Pipling of Pruskinom, child of the High Pip Has’ja-la-Sol’ja the ruler of all Elysium. Together the five Kis governed over a region one hundred and sixty kilometres wide and six hundred long from the headwaters of the Hork to the southern tip of Lake Chow, ninety-six thousand square kilometres of fertile and productive land,

give or take a disputed borderline. The council had ruled these lands for more than one hundred years, providing istration, security, and rule of law for the scores of thousands who had settled within the rural expanses of its borders and efficiently held it safely ever since the end of the last Great War. In all, the lands of this alliance ed nearly 75,000 Androgenari in relative peace and harmony, compared with what lay outside—the Riff to the northwest, the Harooj slavers of Kraas in the southwestern flank of the Mountains of the Blood Moon, and the scattered Nooken villages, which dotted the northlands. On the region’s eastern border lay a variety of settlements with fealty to none but themselves, laying as they did between the Hork Valley Alliance and the much wider lands controlled by the Old Pipdom in Pruskinom. Upon the marriage of Giawa and Ping, great influence and stability had come to the valley, for with the Pipling had come its personal guard, seven highly trained warriors sworn to the protection of the Pip’s child. Without delay Giawa had made them all Captains over squads of local warriors and set them the task of building seven forts across the region from which security could be called upon in time of need. As time ed the Army of the Kis grew to a size that was unchallengeable within the area, guaranteeing a peaceful, prosperous existence for the people of the Hork Valley. Trade was well-established between the cities and villages, but with the escort of soldiers it became possible to send caravans of goods to markets across the Lyfgus-Haug and well into the forests to the east, all the way to Pruskinom and beyond. Now, all of this was to be challenged by potential war with the Riff. “The Riff…” announced Forti-la-Baux-Ki, as that Andro stood at its place around the table of Midrib’s Ki, “is not a credible threat to this community. They have only their army of, what, six thousand Andros and a few thousand ill-fed slaves. Their armour is adequate, their mounts adequate, their weaponry, more or less adequate to impose their will upon their population, but they are clearly outclassed by the Army of the Kis. Our weaponry has the advantage of some bronze, our mounts are well fed on grains grown in the summer fields of the Sol’ja’s Grasslands, and in the warm months we have the mobility of the Great Hork to move supplies and Andros up and down the valley. Why are we supposing that they would attempt to take us on?” A buzz of conversation went around the long table as cups of ale clanked on its dark gourtuni wood planked top.

Ping sat at the table’s head, with Giawa at its side, observing the discourse among the Kis with as much attention as the old Andro could muster. Its age had begun to take its toll on the Ki of Midrib, and in recent months its health had begun to fail. As the meeting went on Ping found it more difficult to concentrate, as the old mind began to wander, and then as if by magic Ping’s concentration suddenly focused. Giawa had taken hold of the old Andro’s hand beneath the linen tablecloth and was ever so subtly squeezing it. Just as the Ki’s attention came back a point was being made from the other end of the table. “Call it what you want, Forti, misguided or just plain stupid. If the Riff wants war, I say we should let them have it… but good!” declared Hanki-la-DhourtinKi. “This is an opportunity to take the Black Tower and with it gain a sea port, albeit a frozen one, and a city… next to the Fiery Mount Helen, unfortunately, but a city none the less.” “I see no problem in this at all, but an excellent opportunity,” added the Ki of Astrib, and then as if by way of punctuation it raised its cup and drank a long draught of ale, as Forti conceded the point with a curt nod. Then Ikhacha-la-Gry spoke up to warn of overconfidence. “There is wisdom in striking while the advantage is ours, but more in being certain before we jump into muddy waters. I do not doubt that Xcelpyr-la-Figfo may be overreaching, but there is something else here that we do not see. I am certain of it. Figfo the Hard-hearted is behind this without a doubt, and that means that that former Ki has plans within plans. Xcelpyr may be a lack lustre Ki, but its mother was a masterful one, though cruel. If not for Xcelpyr’s penchant for conservative forward thinking, Eruda would have moved on the Lyfgus-Haug a decade ago, so something has changed.” Up on the balcony the two eldest children of Ping were standing, silently watching the council at work. Khuli glanced from face to face, stopping to take in Forti, the father of Khuli’s child Hexon, who had cemented the alliance between Midrib and Riverib. There was never any love there, and Khuli had born the child out of duty to Midrib and the region. Khuli’s heart was here, with wives Ghurda and Valkry and their two young children. Poopa, on the other hand, was watching Ikhacha with love and a great iration for that Andro’s strength and common sense. While they remained childless, their bond was a thing of legend among the five towns, and as Poopa watched, a smile grew upon its face.

The voice of Nostru-la-Vas-Ki crackled across the room, made harsh by a spear wound many years before at the failed hands of a Nooken assassin. “That is all of course speculation, Ikhacha. While I agree that we must be informed, I cannot see the reason behind your over-timidity. Do we not have spies in the west? What have they to offer on the matter, Ping?” The Ki of Midrib looked up along the table. Poopa and Khuli could see their father’s frailty from up above, and they knew that the others could not fail to see it also. The Ki turned its face to Giawa and silently ed consent to the Pipling to speak in its place. At this Giawa nodded and looked over the table to the council gathered around it, and then the child of Has’ja-la-Sol’ja placed the scroll upon the table before it and spoke in a voice practised in the manners of its father’s court. Its words were elegantly pronounced and, although not uttered loudly, carried the full length of the great table without effort. “We have intelligence from just such a spy that indicates a new trend in the Ebony Tower. It is yet to be confirmed, but we believe that a new alliance is being formed across the Mountains of the Blood Moon, between the Riff and the Harooj Slavers to the south in Kraas. Normally the two compete for slaves and mining resources, but it seems that a wave of religious conversion has reached the Harooj from Eruda and under a common doctrine the two are finding grounds for cooperation. We see the hand of Figfo the Heartless-One in this. Xcelpyr’s mother is indeed an opponent that should concern us all.” The council considered the Pipling’s words for some moments, and in due course Nostru’s voice disturbed the air in the Great Lodge once again. “And why should Xcelpyr’s mother want to challenge us now, usurping the comparatively tame rule of its child, the Ki?” Giawa peered into Nostru’s eyes, trying to discern the measure of the Andro, but those eyes remained empty of signs. The child of Father’s sibling was it seemed, no stranger to the arts of court, and would not easily be read. Giawa had met this cousin several times in younger years and had never formed anything akin to a bond. Certainly, there was no trust between them. The Pipling smiled disarmingly. “Have you never heard the stories of Figfo’s rule, Cousin? The excessiveness, the callousness of its view toward its subjects, or the lengths to which it went to maintain power? Only Xcelpyr’s fear of rebellion forced Figfo from the Ki’s seat

and placed Xcelpyr there instead, but from behind that seat the old gremorah still wields influence and power. It simply wants to seal its legacy before it meets, I hope, some terrible end or other.” “It would not be out of character, Nostru,” confirmed Forti. “That alone could compel the Butcher of Eruda to bring about a war, not to mention the urge it may feel to spread its version of the faith of Austin across the Lyfgus-Haug.” Nostru looked disdainfully at Forti, for that Andro’s contempt for all things religious was well-known across the region, and the Ki of Gastrib was not a fan of such sentiments. “Your vision of a world without faith is known, Forti. It may be popular in Riverib, but I believe that it weakens our alliance, and such tenuous bonds tend to break under stress. Perhaps a little temple would do you good, or did you not see the sign in the sky last night?” Forti sported a brief smile at having annoyed the Ki of Gastrib, and then continued to speak, unabashed. “The consideration of a coming war with Eruda is a worthy cause for the concern of this council, Nostru. What happened in the sky last night is uncertain, and more a matter for speculation than proclamation. You suppose that it has some significance, and perhaps it does, but do not give it power over your judgment.” If Forti’s words had any effect upon the mood of his fellow councillor, Nostru did not show it. “The Monks of Austin are saying that it does indeed mean something worth noting. They are spreading the word across the region, and probably far beyond, that it purports the return of Mankind and with it the judgment of all Androgenari. If so, what can a war with Eruda mean by comparison?” The councillors seated around the table shifted nervously at these words, and Ping drew a heavy sigh. Then, in a voice that spoke of fatigue and of authority all at once, the Ki of Midrib spoke. “We are of a mind that the preparations for war should be made in earnest. The threat from this new alliance is real and not to be taken lightly, but we have a good omen that you all may not know of.” Again, the councillors shifted in their chairs, for the use of spies within the Alliance had always been common practice and they all knew that Ping knew it as well. “As you of course are aware, we have a stranger among us here in Midrib who can provide us with some advantages. Jusk-la-Gurjion has the knowledge that

can bring us much security and strength, should this war happen, and I believe that it will happen. To this end, I am invoking my right as the Chair of the Council to request the pooling of resources, specifically copper, tin, and any made bronze objects. A special forge is being planned in Midrib along with a workshop for the making of weapons and armour that will outperform anything in the possession of the Riff. This should be our first priority, for in four months the snows will begin to fail. Can we count on the council in this matter?” The buzz of discussion flowed along the table of the Council of Hork, filling the hall with energy and building to a climax before falling off to silence once again. In turn, each councillor stood and proclaimed the position of its village. None opposed the request of Ping-la-Dhourtin-Ki, for it was a good and solid beginning. It meant that by the end of winter the region would be ready for anything that might come its way and surely that seemed to be war. Nostru lifted its cup to the head of the table, nodding to Ping and Giawa in accession, saying, “Let them come.” Other matters were discussed after that but matters of smaller consequence. Details for delivery of the metals were settled and a timetable for the firing of the forges lain out, but the buzz of the council chamber remained muted for the duration of the meeting. At its end, the Kis each paid their respects to Ping and Giawa, then made ready to leave Midrib for their own cities to set into motion the plans discussed. Poopa and Khuli descended the staircase together and as one they approached their father, concerned at what they had observed from above. Poopa placed a large left hand upon Ping’s right shoulder and looking into the old Andro’s face the eldest child expressed anxiously, as Khuli placed a hand under its father’s chin. “Father are you ill?” asked Poopa. Ping breathed slowly and with the effort of great fatigue, and then placed a left hand on the hand of its eldest. “I am old, Poopa. My time is nearly done and with the ending of this council, I have made arrangements for you to take my seat.” Poopa opened its mouth to protest, but Ping placed a trembling finger to its firstborn’s lips, saying, “This is the way of life, My Child, do not deny it. Tomorrow the Council of Midrib will meet, and the change will occur. Your mother and I will remain your advisers, even as Giawa has been mine, but you shall be Ki of Midrib and Chair of the Council of Hork, as it is set out in the Laws of Austin

and Yolanda, as I became Ki after my mother.” Khuli stepped backward and settled against the table, somewhat taken aback by the suddenness of events. “Shall I have to call you Ki, sibling? Or perhaps, Master of Midrib,” Khuli quipped. “You’ll be wanting a better place at the dinner table, I suppose?” the younger sibling asked with a smile. Poopa glanced at Khuli without humour, then over to Giawa whose face was full of pride for its eldest child, and then back to Ping. “I can never fill your shoes, Father, but if you are with me I will do my best to be a good Ki,” said Poopa, humbly. Ping patted its first-born’s hand and smiled, weakly. “You shall be a great Ki, My First-born. I have known it for some time, and I shall help you for as long as I can, but you have the strength of Khuli beside you and the respect of all Midrib. Now, I would like to see my bed, for I am truly tired.” And with that the children of Ping helped their father rise from the great chair and ed its slow ascent up the stairs to its bed chamber. Giawa watched them with great pride and the knowledge that all would be as it should going forward. Poopa would indeed be a fine Ki and Khuli a wonderful for its sibling. A single tear welled in one golden eye at the thought of Ping’s failing health, but Giawa also knew that with the help of Yolanda, life would go on.

Chapter 16 Politics and Dances

Hundreds of Riff guard adorned in rust-coloured tunics stood at attention with their backs to the walls along the dark stone corridors of Schroon Tower. They had been there for hours awaiting orders from the council, yet, though the granite was hard beneath their aching feet, not one would think to grumble for this duty was better, by far, than being outside in that bitter cold. The first days of winter had hit hard across the northwestern edge of the Lyfgus-Haug and harder still in Eruda on its perch atop the Zyrk Plateau. Snow and blizzard winds had ripped the Mountains of the Blood Moon like the claws of some vicious monster and overnight had reaped a heavy toll of the old and the weak. Throughout the night’s darkness, ice had covered everything in a thick shroud of crystalline death that bent great trees low in submission, and now and then the quiet outside would be broken by the thunderous cracking of a kolita-pine that could take the strain no longer. Suddenly, the silent hallway echoed harshly with the clatter of spurred boots marching urgently over stone floor. A party of six black-clad officers led by a tall and massive Andro entered the corridor by way of a great stone archway, and in a wave before them the soldiers snapped even more rigidly to attention. The officers marched on through and after they ed, the relaxation of the troops was palpable. Down along the corridor they proceeded with the tramping thuds of their footfalls retreating behind them, and then just around a bend and out of sight they stopped abruptly. There followed the sound of a heavy door swinging on bent hinges, more footfalls, and then the sound of the same door banging shut behind them. One soldier craned its neck to spy the corridor down which they had trod, and gruffly commented to the one standing beside. “Something’s going on, and it don’t feel any too cozy.” A murmur rippled along the lines and then fell off into silence once more. Soon, the only sound in the corridors of Schroon remained the wind beyond the walls and the occasional cracking of a great tree. In the council chamber down the hall, however, the story was very different

indeed, for gathered there was a collection of Andros engaged in spirited conversation. Heads of Riff families stood or sat around the massive table on the uncomfortable chairs, speculating on the nature of the business they had been called to discuss. There was Gour-la-Saxi, the chief benefactor of the Guild of Stonemasons, who oversaw the building and repairs to the structures of the wealthier citizens of Eruda. There was Mordic-la-Bifk, the coppersmith who ran the Riff’s mining operations in the Copper Mountains to the south. There was Klufi-la-Grat, chief boat builder for the Riff, and an old member of the former Pip’s council on matters of seafaring back in Voughorf, and there was last but by no means least, Plung-la-Kagin, a foreigner, first-born of the Ki of the Harooj capital city of Kraas. The first three were permanent of the Riff Grand Council, the last an honoured guest of Xcelpyr-la-Figfo, and as they sat around the table exchanging queries, a fifth sat down with them. It was Klyky-la-Xcelpyr, Master Tracker for the armies of the Riff, Chief of Staff of the Legion of Valour, and first-born of the Ki of Eruda. Even seated, Klyky was an imposing figure, a full head taller than the rest, and although the rest were older Andros of rank in their own rights, they nodded respectfully, each in turn. Klyky returned the nods with a certain bearing that spoke of quiet dignity. It seemed plain that although accustomed to receiving respect from others, that Andro clearly was not unaccustomed to returning it. Klyky raised its left hands and clapped them to call a servant from behind the curtain. Quickly a young Andro appeared bearing a flask. Klyky turned up the goblet that stood before it on the table, and the servant filled it with green-fruit wine from the flask. Klyky nodded curtly and the servant hurried back to its place behind the curtain to watch for more signals that might come from any of the councillors. Klyky raised the bronze cup to its lips and drank a long draught from it. Grimacing slightly at the tartness of the beverage, it placed the goblet on the table. “Not the best vintage,” complained the Master Hunter. “No,” replied Mordic casually, “but it warms the belly none the less. How was your journey back across the Lyfgus-Haug, Master Hunter? Cold, I imagine,” it asked without malice. Klyky looked calmly into the coppersmith’s eyes and when certain that none had been present in its words, the big Andro replied. “It was, and damned windy too, but the thought of this fine company and this fine wine kept me going in the teeth of the storm.” Klyky looked to the five

black-clad legionnaires standing in silence beside the doorway. “Upon my return this good squad of my best Andros greeted me with the news that my father was convening the Council and had requested my presence. I trust that all is well?” queried Klyky to no one in particular, and then cast a questioning glance at each of the others in turn. They returned blank stares, and then Klyky made the most exaggerated show of having noticed Plung-la-Kagin for the first time. “Plung, how are you, My Friend? I don’t believe that I’ve seen you in what, more than a year. How is your Mother the Ki? Keeping well, I hope,” the big Andro prattled. Klyky clearly had some dislike for the Andro, which placed the other councillors ill at ease. “Mother is fine. I, as usual, am here largely to serve my city. And how does the world treat you, Klyky-la-Xcelpyr? How has the past year left its mark on your soul?” The two Andros stared cruelly at one and other, and in the silence that followed the councillors squirmed. In that moment Xcelpyr entered the room through a hidden doorway beside the great hearth and stood there, half-lit by its amber glow. The others stood, Xcelpyr ed a glance across them all, and then the Ki of Eruda made its way to take the large chair at the table’s head. Those standing waited with heads bent until their Ki was seated, and then quickly took their places in the hard, unfriendly chairs to await its pleasure. “Wine,” Xcelpyr ordered and the servant hurried out to fill its master’s cup. “It’s not very good, Father. The green-fruit must have suffered this year,” offered Klyky. Xcelpyr held up its right hands to stop the servant. “Ale then… and the brown one, not that pale purg piss. Councillors, Honoured guest, and Klyky, we are here in the warmth of our meeting chamber out of the bone chilling wind to discuss one thing,” said the old Ki, pausing for an icy moment. “War. The time has come for us to turn this region to our purpose. Eruda and Kraas have common goals and we have spent too long competing against one another for the poor recompense afforded us by the of the Treaty of Lyfgus-Haug. It is time for a new way forward.” The Ki waited for its message to sink in before proceeding. “I have spoken with Kagin-la-Vrex-Ki, of Kraas through our emissaries, and have in fact obtained a writ of peace and accordance between our two cities. In accordance with the provisions of that document, the Ki has sent its first-born, Plung, our honoured guest, to seal the merger by marriage with my first-born, Klyky,” said the Ki with no hint of a

smile. Klyky sat up in the brutal chair and addressed its father with more than a note of incredulity in its voice. “I’m sorry, Father, did you say marriage?” “I did,” the Ki replied dryly, “and the ceremony will not be delayed by more than a few days. Such are the times we live in, Spawn of My Loins.” At this, the massive Andro sank just noticeably in its chair and a look of vexed resentment crossed its brow. “Come now, Klyky, you will offend our honoured guest, not to mention me. Shall I send word to Kagin that you would reject the future of both our cities?” spoke the Ki in gentle rebuke. Klyky rolled its eyes and nervously scraped the tabletop with the nails of its large right hand. “No, Father, but I would have preferred it if you had mentioned it to me first, in private,” grumbled the Master Hunter. Xcelpyr watched its firstborn for a moment, an iron will apparent in the Elder’s eyes. But beneath the Ki’s demeanour, well hidden from its councillors, was tenderness for its offspring. “You were away on a mission of great importance to the city.” Klyky met its father’s eyes, surprised at the public show of regard. “Well, I’m here now, Father, and ready to do whatever I must for the greater glory of Eruda,” said Klyky with exaggerated nobility. Plung glared angrily at the large Andro from across the table but said nothing. Klyky continued with a somewhat less wounded façade. “I left five spies behind to test the waters across the Alliance’s lands with instructions to return to us by year’s end. If not for that blasted storm we would have had your peltor, but Jusk was helped by someone close to Eruda and again by a hunting party on the Lyfgus-Haug. I have several squads of legionnaires combing the hills and forest outside the city, but a good spy will have left no sign.” Xcelpyr frowned and stared into the council fire absorbing the details of Klyky’s report, and then the corner of the Ki’s mouth belied a slight frown. “Then let us hope that it is not a good spy,” interposed Plung somewhat coldly. “Yes,” added Xcelpyr with a note of finality.

Xcelpyr had noticed the tension between the two younger Andros, thinking it potentially troublesome, but then moved on to discuss the elements of the new treaty at some length. Here and there the Ki asked for input on resources from its three councillors, and over the course of the meeting it was determined that production of bronze weaponry could be doubled by the month of Max, the third month of the New Year. Armour production was expected to be somewhat more difficult, as the chief armour-smith had recently died by mysterious means, but wagons were already under construction in both cities to carry supplies for the armies. Klufi-la-Grat assured the Ki that as soon as the Doufi was clear of ice, boats and barges would be ready to transport troops and supplies directly to the front, and in its capacity of emissary from the Ki of Kraas, Plung assured Xcelpyr that similar preparations for truglehoond mounted legions were underway in that city. All in all, it was a productive meeting and as the Ki rose to adjourn it, the others rose in turn and with Xcelpyr’s leave each exited the chamber toward the furthering of their duties. Klyky left with only a curt nod to the Ki, a look of moping written across the big Andro’s face, and the escort of legionnaires short behind, their boots clanking down the hallway. When only Xcelpyr and Plung remained in the council chamber, the Elder took the younger’s measure and looked solemnly into its face. “I know that these things are not easy for young Andros, and I sense some unease between you and Klyky, but I think that with time you will find something to make things work. In the meantime, know that this marriage will bring together two great cities into an empire that will change the whole region. I look forward to welcoming you to the family at your wedding in a few days, and I hope that in time you will come to think of me as a confidant.” Plung bowed solemnly, taking on the manner of one who is submissive to a superior. “I am happy to be the instrument of this alliance, Ki. I hope that all shall proceed without difficulty, for the sake of both our cities. May I take leave of you? The journey from Kraas was long and I am tired.” “Yes, of course, My Child. Hakip will escort you to your apartments,” said the Ki, indicating the servant behind the curtain. Hakip bowed to the Noble-Andro as it had nodded to Xcelpyr before and took its place beside the doorway to wait. Then Plung offered its hand to the Ki and Xcelpyr took it graciously, saying, “Get some rest, and later you will the family for the evening meal.”

“I will be honoured, Ki,” answered the younger and, accompanied by the servant, left the council chamber for the relative coolness of the stone corridor. The soldiers stood more ively to attention than they had for the Master Hunter’s party as the foreign dignitary and its escort ed them. There was no clattering of spurs against the stone floor, no held breath. In a few moments, Plung and Hakip had left them all behind for the accommodations wing of the tower, and one hard-faced Andro said to its companion, “You can always tell a Noble. They smell less musty than the rest of us,” and they laughed quietly as a muffled cracking of kolita-pine echoed outside. Plung and its guide had walked some distance along several corridors with many bends, when Hakip stopped at a wooden door. Turning the latch, the servant pushed, and the door swung inward onto a lavish apartment. “Your chamber, Noble,” said the servant, standing aside to give Plung entry. The Ki-ling of Kraas pressed through the doorway and gave the suite a quick glance. Unimpressed by the apartment’s adornments, Plung sighed. Plung turned to the servant and with authority it waved a hand dismissively. Then, as Hakip bowed and hurried away down the corridor, Plung closed the door behind it. Turning back into the room Plung expected to do nothing more for the balance of the day than sleep, when out of the shadow of a closet doorway sprang a figure dark and menacing! Three arms enveloped the Ki-ling and a hand tightly covered its mouth to preclude a cry for help. Panic raced through Plung’s mind, along with one word: “Assassin.” Then the Ki-ling’s training kicked in. Plung lifted a leg and drove the heel of its boot down hard on the attacker’s instep. A yelp of pain echoed in the stone room. Plung’s teeth chomped down on the hand as its grip was loosened by the shock of the Ki-ling’s first attack. Another cry of pain bounced from the stone walls. Then Plung rolled its body forward, sending the assassin tumbling to the hard floor, but still holding the Ki-ling firmly with three strong arms. When they landed Plung was on top, still backing the assailant, and the Ki-ling’s full weight drove down through the other Andro’s body, forcing the wind from its lungs with a fearsome moan. The arms relaxed and fell away, and Plung spun around to straddle the opponent where it lay, placing an expensive bronze blade against the stranger’s throat. In the poor light its face was not easy to make out, until a moment of daylight spilling from the window found the floor where it laid, illuminating the features. “You!” exclaimed Plung. “You idiot, I could have killed you! What is the

meaning of this? Do you seek to give away our deception?” breathed the Ki-ling from between clenched teeth. Plung sheathed the knife and stood over the other Andro, but refusing the aid of its hands, said rather, “Get up, you great oaf!” The other Andro grunted as it lifted itself off the cold stone. Now standing before the Ki-ling of Kraas, the big Andro moved into the light from the window, a sheepish grin moving across the scarred and rugged face. Klyky coughed once and drew a deep breath to reflate its aching lungs and then spoke, with some degree of discomfort. “You nearly did. I just had to see you, My Love. This last year was a long time to go without your sweets.” The Ki-ling shot Klyky an angry look of disbelief. “You expect me to imagine that you have had no other in a year?” demanded Plung. Klyky cocked its head, marking a note of surprise. The hunter laughed, almost barked. “What want could I have of another after my Plung? Would that not be gluttony, to foul my tongue with bland porridge after feasting on the finest roasted guort?” Plung’s amber eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me fat?” the Ki-ling responded, assuming a menacing stature before the much larger Andro. Klyky’s eyes widened and its face twisted in disbelief, then with a look meant to display submission the Master Hunter took one of Plung’s hands in one of its own. “No, how could you be fat? How could I dare to say such a thing? Have you missed me, My Love?” asked Klyky with great tenderness. A moment of silence ed between them, and then in reply to the hunter’s query, Plung rushed forward to wrap two arms around Klyky’s body. With the two smaller hands Plung cradled the bigger Ki-ling’s face and pressing warm lips upon warm lips the Nobles kissed. Plung then slowly laid a series of ionate kisses along the rugged face held there in its hands, tracing the ridge of Klyky’s jaw. Klyky’s strong arms enfolded Plung’s body once again, this time with great ion, and in moments they were undressing one and other, moving clumsily toward the large bed. A smock flew, a boot, and then a clatter of buckles hit the stone floor. In seconds they were wrestling naked on the bed, its covers rumpling beneath them. They paused while holding each other’s many hands, and Klyky asked which one of them should drive first.

Plung did not answer but found the entrance to Klyky’s female parts and with a single thrust of its hips had impaled the big Andro, who sighed and closed its eyes. Together they writhed in the churning bedding, building their ion and igniting one and other’s lust. Sighs echoed off the hard stone walls and floor, softened only slightly by the drapes that hung around them from the bedframe. Muscles grasped and hearts throbbed to the rhythm of this song that filled the room. Klyky’s eyes closed tighter and as Plung held the sides of its lover’s face in small but sturdy hands the smaller Ki-ling planted a hard kiss beneath the hunter’s chin. A massive ripple of shudders built in the muscles of Plung’s lower back, and as the climax came the shudders seemed to flow into the muscles of Klyky’s own midsection and up through its chest. The hunter felt at once as though its face would burst and wave after wave of sweetness washed over its entire frame. They collapsed in a heap, soaked with sweat and lust, steaming in the chill of the stone room. Plung rolled onto its back, breathing steadily but without effort, and with a husk in its voice the Ki-ling addressed its lover. “Your turn,” it said. Klyky turned its head to gaze upon the beautiful face and the fit, shapely body of its lover. It was the body of an athlete, a warrior in its prime, and although smaller than Klyky’s body was every bit as formidable in its own right. The smaller Andro reached over and stroked Klyky’s maleness with the three fingers of its small right hand, causing it to swell and protrude from its sheath. “Something tells me you’re ready,” announced Plung. Klyky smiled, “Ready, yes,” it moaned, “but able?” Plung grasped the weapon more tightly. “You shouldn’t start what you cannot finish, wife, or are you husband? Perhaps you had better show me which it is to be.” Klyky rolled on top of its beloved Plung. Rising to kneel upon the bed and pressing Plung’s thighs up against its belly the big Andro leaned forward to impale the smaller one. Plung’s head tilted backward, its mouth open in a silent gasp as the big organ filled its sheath, and a moment later the smaller Ki-ling gasped aloud. “Mm!” it reported, “So big!” Then Klyky began the dance of lust that had so enthralled its smaller lover a year before. They danced together on the soaked and dishevelled bed. For hours they danced, and in the evening when they arrived at the long family table for dinner, they seemed tired to the others gathered there. Still feigning their resentment of one and other they played their parts before the rest, but deep inside they had been satisfied and their hearts knew who they loved. In a week they would be married, and then no more

games would be needed. For now, they avoided the cold stare of Figfo at table’s end. “I hear that your mother has taken the vow, Plung. It shall do the world good to have another so pure among us,” said the ancient Andro, with unabashed coldness. Plung did its best to keep its feelings under control with a wellpractised hand. It smiled pleasantly and nodded to the Ki’s mother, thinking, Has the old gremorah been spying on us, or is our condition that obvious? then spoke in a kindly tone, “Yes, Mother told me of that decision before I left Kraas,” Plung lied. “It has long been its wish to the Order of Austin and to take Kraas in that direction.” Plung’s eyes betrayed its true feelings for a fraction of a moment and had Figfo’s own eyesight not been so poor due to old age, that Andro would surely have seen it. But the Ki had excellent vision. Plung smiled and sipped its ale. The Ki-ling sighed and nearby Klyky noticed the change and vowed to know the reason, but not here, later when privacy held them in its friendly arms. Xcelpyr swallowed a long draught of honeyberry wine and ed a lingering gaze over Plung first, and then Klyky. The Ki-ling of Kraas was young and beautiful, and its skin looked soft and well-toned. Klyky was big and powerful, beautiful perhaps of body but with the battle-scar along its right cheek rugged looking was a more apt description. They seemed to detest one and other, but the Ki was not convinced. Clearly, they had met before, but the Ki did not know when or where it might have been. The cities had been rivals for many decades in the trade of slaves, and such a meeting would have been forbidden without approval from both Kis and strict supervision by Austin’s Monks, yet somehow, they had met before. Xcelpyr vowed to have a conversation with its first-born regarding the truly political nature of its impending marriage, and the need to take care of Eruda’s secrets and mysteries upon the marriage bed. Then Xcelpyr moved to take the conversation into less choppy waters, telling Plung a story of its earlier years when youth and adventure had taken a young Ki-ling far and away across the waters of the southwestern sea in search of glory and adventure. Dinner lasted several hours, the Ki recounting tales of a journey mapping islands and coastlands to the southwest, Klyky telling tales of battle against the Nooken to the northeast or the hunting of some fugitive slave or criminal. Plung seemed full of the tales of parties and court life in Kraas and of the glory of that city

nestled in the Red-pine Forest in the foothills of the Copper Mountains, where the Green River split at the salt flats into the Tusk and the River of Austin. Figfo sat silent for most of it and perhaps a little sullen through the descriptions of the finery in the Ki’s palace at Kraas. That would change, thought the old Andro, as the purity and righteousness of Austin swept over the city of Kraas in the months to come. New colours would enter the decoration of the palace and of all official buildings across the city, darker, drabber colours reflecting the piety of Austin. Then the people of that city would come to know the true way, the pure way, the righteous way, and they would forsake their old ways to bow before the agents of enlightenment, or they would suffer. At this thought Figfo smiled, for with this goal obtained its life would have real meaning, and its death, so soon to come, would be a blessing. As the Monks of Austin had foretold it, the gates of Dev Lok would open for the soul of one so pure and all forms of wonder would be revealed. The Andro flesh having been stripped away, Figfo knew that it would enter the halls of Dev Lok as an equal to those who had made it and take its place among them as a Man or as a Woman. Then, Figfo knew that what it had started here below would spread across all of Elysium, converting the faithless and saving them for the halls of Dev Lok, even as it had saved Figfo before them. Austin would rule supreme and His Warrior Monks would reign over Drodenar in His name, destroying the unrighteous and the unclean wherever they abided. Perpetual summer would return to Elysium as it had been in the time before Mankind had cursed the Androgenari and left Drodenar to the ravages of the ice.

Chapter 17 Warning and Fate

Midrib was quiet but for the occasional toning of the muffled bronze gong inside the Temple of the Monks of Austin. Most of the streets were empty, as an unusual number of villagers had taken to the temple that frigid morning five days after the frightening sight in the night sky. That sky had grown thick and heavy with dark grey snow clouds, and a bitter wind had begun blowing through the city from the northeast. It had carried the smell of smoke, not a pleasant smoke as might waft from a cooking fire, but a rancorous smoke, a sour smoke that spoke of the burning of the dead. On its heels had come the first signs of plague, as a flock of small red zaschafry began to fall from that angry sky to land among the buildings of central Midrib, and Hionysh the Elder of Austin had labelled it an omen from Dev Lok, warning that Mankind required appeasing. Within a day the first Androgenari had succumbed to the illness they would come to call zaschafry flu, and panic had gripped Midrib and the rural lands all around. Messengers confirmed that the same had occurred in Astrib, Riverib, and in the garrisons at Fort High and Fort Mid. It was riding the wind due south along the valley of the Hork, bringing terror to the villages and cities in its wake. Many had died in Riverib and in the forts, but it seemed that although initially afflicted, the citizens of Astrib had some advantage, some sort of resistance to this plague. That gave Poopa a place to begin its search for a way to fight this thing. It was Poopa’s first challenge, first taste of real command since having assumed the position of Ki from its ailing father. The timing of this plague had been terrible with a war looming only months away, and the success of the mission would probably determine the course of that war, so it had to be done quickly and without stirring up the frightened residents of the region. Panic could only worsen things. Poopa, while just a youth, had learned this from Father when the village had been beset by a plague of the blueblood. Many had died and many more were deathly ill, and the healers, “the Herbers”, were at their wits’ end. An angry mob had formed, threatening to kill the Herbers if they did nothing quickly, but Ping had known

that such an action would only doom them all. Against the advice of the council, the Ki had brought in soldiers from the seven forts to quell the mob, and fortunately the mob had backed down, but it had been a gamble. There were those who called for the Ki’s head afterwards, but in the end when the Herbers found a treatment and less excitable Andro’s spoke out, Ping was found to have acted wisely.

The plan was simple. A team would be sent into the town of Astrib to determine the reason for their power to control the sickness. Once found, some sort of treatment would be brought back to the other cities along the river. Poopa trusted only one Andro to lead the mission, and that of course was Khuli. Along with silent Skra for its personal bodyguard and a squad of Mother’s personal finest, Khuli was to take a small group of warriors, including Khuli’s first wife Ghurda, a Herber who was second to none among the healers of the Hork Valley. It was likely that they would encounter resistance from Astrib, whose residents might wish to keep them out lest they carried a renewal of the plague, but more troops would only excite a larger response, so Poopa had decided to keep the party as small as possible. Khuli had grasped its sibling’s shoulders firmly with all four hands, and looking the new Ki over, the younger Andro had grunted, as the cold wind whipped snow around them in the purg paddock at the north end of Midrib. “You will see us back in five days or not at all, I believe. Ghurda will find what keeps them strong in the face of this plague. Of that I have no doubt, but whether they will let us have a supply of it, we will see.” Poopa looked at its sibling with some disbelief, “Are we not allies, and would we not do the same for them? Go there with a smile, Khuli, and do not doubt that Astrib is our friend. Hanki has always loved Ping, as I have always loved you, Sibling. That Andro will not let us down.” “And you are certain that we should not inform Forti of this mission? Perhaps we could expect there,” proposed the younger Andro. Poopa dropped its eyes, not wanting to say what must be said. “You know that Andro far better than I, but I believe that Forti would think more of Riverib than of the whole Alliance. It is a hard thing to send medicine south for the region

when your own people are dying. Forti will see it as a betrayal and will call it so to all the other Kis. What is the good in saving the Alliance from the plague, only for it to fail afterwards?” Khuli indeed knew Forti well, knew of that one’s selfish nature, of its temper and eagerness for retribution against slights both real and imagined. Yet Khuli also knew the great respect the Ki of Riverib had for the Alliance, for the marvellous success it had achieved over the past quarter of a century under the auspices of Ping’s enlightened council. “That one can be an asshole, Sibling, but to go against the good of the Alliance is not within its nature. Riverib is critical to this fight, and to the one that yet comes.” Poopa smiled and grasped the side of Khuli’s head in its large right hand. “You always give me good advice, Sibling. Very well. Once you have reached Astrib send a rider back to inform your husband of our plans. When the treatment is secured drop off Forti’s portion on the way back, but do not tarry.” Then Khuli-la-Ping placed a foot upon the loaded sledge and turned back to Poopa for a final parting. “Look after Father. I hope to see that one again upon my return, but if it is to be that Ping should not see me again, give our father my love, will you?” Poopa nodded. “I will, I promise.” And then the sledges were off. Purg sled was the best way, for although a little slower it would garner less attention than a troop of soldiers riding truglehoond. Weapons were well concealed, and the pale blue flag of the Herbers Guild would indicate the benevolent intentions of the caravan well in advance. Before them were sent two fast riders, each bearing the crest of the Ki of Midrib, whose mission it was to inform the Ki of Astrib of their intentions to smooth the way. Riverib was to be avoided, for its situation was no better than that of Midrib and so they could offer no real aid but might in fact confuse the plan and thereby cause its failure. As agreed, only after a treatment had been secured would Khuli inform Forti of the mission. A single sentinel on Midrib’s northeast wall watched them slip away into the greyness of the morning and then they were gone. Poopa walked the quiet street back toward the Great House with a small escort insisted upon by Giawa. It brought back memories of Father walking the streets

of Midrib in darker times when a state of constant warfare had existed with the Nooken and the eastern Khushi who rejected all things civilized. Assassins had been the order of the day, and as Poopa recalled, Giawa often insisted on leading Father’s security personally. As the small party strolled southward along the road beneath the eastern wall the toning of the temple gong began to draw Poopa’s attention. The temple was not far ahead and would take them only a short way off their direct path to the family lodge, so in a moment of curiosity Poopa took the decision to go in that direction. Immediately, Giawa’s Captain Boykin-la-Fru took exception to the change in direction and advised the Ki that it might be better to go straight home, but Poopa shook its head, and continued toward the temple. Boykin was a born hunter and tracker like Klyky-la-Xcelpyr of the Riff. With its fine instincts for smelling out trouble and danger, it was no accident that Giawa had chosen that Andro to be Captain of its personal guard. Boykin possessed a sense of loyalty and steadfastness akin to that the Pipling had found in few Andros, and which it insisted upon in its Captains. Skra had been such a one, hand-picked from the Pip’s own guard to secure the safety of Giawa’s children. Boykin leaned closer to the Ki’s right ear as they walked toward the temple’s gate. “Do you count the Monks as your friends, My Ki?” asked the Captain. “One, perhaps, but they are aware that I do not share their ion for Mankind, and that I reserve my right as Ki to interpret the law. Hionysh has never much liked a Ki’s licence to overrule its dogma in the light of doubt. Do you really think I face some danger there?” Boykin grunted flatly, “I recall when the blueblood felled a quarter of Midrib and the people rose in fear and anger to condemn the Herbers for their failure to stop it. I felt then that the temple stirred the pot, and I feel it now. Hionysh and its Monks are using the fire in the night sky on Winter’s Dawn as a tool to agitate their followers. With fear they will push their agenda and their influence in Midrib and across the region. Unless you can find a way to retain the favour of the people it will become the word of the Kis against the word of Man. This mission you have sent Khuli to accomplish may be the only thing to save the Alliance, My Ki.” Poopa nodded and snorted. “You have always spoken freely and with true council for my father, Boykin. I believe that you are correct in this assessment as

well, but as Ki I cannot hide away from the people, for if I do that, I will surely lose their confidence. Then Hionysh and the Monks will have no competition for it. No, I must be seen.” Boykin studied the temple before them as they ed through its gate. “I when you were born, My Ki, thinking, this one will be a thinker, and I was right. You have seen a truth in this that may be more critical than the power of armies in winning the war to come. You must always have your people behind you.” “Hionysh already understands this,” replied Poopa. “That Andro is wise in the ways of manipulation and knows it to be its greatest weapon against us. I will not give it what it wants,” and with those words the Ki and its party walked through the open doorway into the temple. They ed a single Monk burning kolita incense in a bowl, then another and another as they traversed the long corridor that led into the temple proper. No finery adorned the grey stone walls that rose around them as they stepped from the corridor into a wide circular chamber, filled but not crowded with a number of villagers draped in dull grey worship shrouds. Among them strolled drably cloaked Monks carrying burning candles to enhance the poor light streaming down through murky skylights in the high ceiling. The gong was much louder here than it had been outside. Within moments a Monk approached the Ki’s party with all four hands clasped in front, so as not to appear in any way threatening. It was a fat Monk that Poopa did not recognize and this fact made the Ki wonder just how many of these Andros were unknown to it. The Monk bowed, and with a voice refined by obvious exposure to courtly living, it said, “Welcome to the Temple of the Man Austin. Do you seek the truth or are you believers already?” asked the Monk. “I am Poopa-la-Ping-Ki, leader of the Council of Midrib and the Hork Valley Alliance. Who are you, Monk? I have never laid eyes on you before,” declared the Ki while Boykin studied the Monk’s face and silently scanned their surroundings, ever ready for anything. One of Boykin’s Rangers stood back-toback with the Ki and the other at its Captain’s back, also surveying the room. The fat Monk smiled and bowed. “I am Gordo-la-Jalli, Monk of the Man Austin the Lawgiver,” said the Monk with as formal a manner as Poopa had ever seen. “Having recently ed Elder Hionysh from the court of Sol’ja-la-Noosk-Pip in the city of Eruda to the northwest, I am not surprised that we have never met, Ki.

Do you wish an audience with Elder Hionysh?” Gordo asked. Poopa refrained from showing its displeasure at the self-important posture of the Andro, and simply corrected the Monk in a gentle, even tone. “I wish to speak with Hionysh, yes. Oh, and do please inform the Elder that the Ki is in something of a hurry. Now, run along Gordo,” Poopa added with a courteous smile. The Monk’s eyes fell just noticeably, and without further ado it turned and sauntered across the chamber to a doorway on the other side. “I don’t like that,” said Poopa, under its breath. “How many foreign Monks are in here taking back intel to their Pips and Kis and Elders? That is no way to maintain security within Midrib.” “No, My Ki, it is not,” replied Boykin. “I wonder how many of them are from the west. That could be disastrous for us in the months to come.” The Ki turned to its Captain and without recrimination said, “We must endeavour to guard the es into the mountains and the routes to Eruda and Kraas. Send word to K’jo and the others to watch for Monks and any who may them. This is sizing up to be a holy war, Boykin, and that does not bode well,” whispered the Ki. Boykin nodded, thinking that this young Ki was sharp, thinking that its father would be proud. “I shall address this immediately, My Ki. I will speak freely,” promised Boykin. “As you always have,” answered Poopa eyeing the Captain somewhat brazenly. “Your father could not have chosen a better replacement if all of Mankind had instructed it to be so,” said the Captain. Poopa tilted its head to indicate some disapproval at the Andro’s words, and then placing a hand upon the other’s forearm, spoke softly. “I am not as inclined as you to believe in divine providence, Captain. My father chose me because in its eyes I was the best choice. Whether that choice will prove to be correct has yet to be borne out, and I need no encouragement to grow complacent. While I value your advice on matters that concern us all, I would prefer that you keep flattery out of your responses.” Boykin nodded. If the Andro had taken any offence at the Ki’s words, it did not show.

“Noted, My Ki,” was all it said. Then from across the prayer chamber the tall thin figure of Hionysh approached them, draped in dark grey robes, and ing its left side with a staff of ironwood. Its limp was barely noticeable and when Poopa greeted the Elder and asked after the cause of its infirmity, the Monk shrugged casually and simply blamed old age. Then Hionysh placed a boney hand on the shoulder of Poopa’s guort-skin coat and spoke in a gentle tone. “My condolences on your father’s condition, Ki. We wish to congratulate you on your ascension,” it offered warmly. Poopa’s only response to the Elder’s comment was a silent nod. “I have come to see the state of public morale as this seems to be one of the few places where our citizens are congregating, Hionysh,” said Poopa. “Ah yes, the return of the faithful to the fold in times of trouble, an old story but a good one. They are frightened by what they saw on Winter’s Dawn and rightly come to us to learn of its true meaning. We who know the scriptures well are in the best position to advise them, after all,” advised the Monk. Poopa did everything within its power to deny the revelation of its true feelings on the sentiments expressed by Hionysh, but in the end could only provide a noncommittal, “I see.” Hionysh countered the brilliant response with barely concealed contempt, asking what, if anything, the Ki had managed to do about the illness thus far. Poopa responded something vague about Herbers, which offered no information whatsoever. “Well,” said Hionysh in a mildly haughty tone, “if you could think of anything that can help then by all means, let us know. In the meantime, Ki, perhaps a touch of prayer might be in order.” With this the Elder turned and hobbled away across the chamber, its staff ing its left side somewhat less than before. Poopa stood in silence for a moment, casting a casual gaze over the Andros gathered there, most of whom it had known all its life. There was Aka-la-Golem the boat builder, Mirk’n-laSkiffer the teacher, Kholo-la-Khuli the ale house owner, and so many others. Poopa felt their troubles. “Well,” offered the Ki at length, “that went well.” Boykin side-looked Poopa

with an unconvinced stare. “Not in the slightest, My Ki,” the Captain answered truthfully. “No, not in the slightest,” answered Poopa, turning from the moaning crowd and re-entering the corridor with Boykin in the lead and the two Rangers covering their rears. Poopa felt its escort fall in behind, securing its back from any that might mean it harm. It was a feeling of security, like a comforting blanket, and yet there was in it the unwelcomed notion of being smothered. Such was to be expected, Poopa knew, for with the mantle of authority came the burden of caution and the need to keep distance and restraint in its dealings with all but the most trusted few. Father had made it seem easy, but for Poopa it seemed unnatural, like a new set of formal clothes, too snug and a little itchy. As the gloomy daylight opened around them once again the new Ki found a notable sense of relief at being out of the temple and its heart began to beat more slowly. A sigh escaped its lips, and Poopa cursed beneath its breath. “Good,” murmured Boykin, “a healthy dose of fear can help keep you alive, My Ki.” The Andro smiled wistfully. “It makes my job easier.” Then without much conversation the small party continued toward Ping’s Great House and the safety that dwelt within. Along the way they ed the shuttered shopfronts of Merchant Street, secured against the icy wind and the flu. Here were huddled the families of the cobblers and the bakers, the leather workers and the carpenters who sold their wares on Market Square. The flu had truly cast a pall on every part of the city. Between the shops of Merchant Street and home lay the houses of married officers, whose children usually ran about playing in the streets, but there was no music of small voices there that day, and Poopa felt a darkness in the very air. Across the way were two Andros standing in the doorway of the Golden Guergon Ale House huddled against the wind, lost in conversation. Poopa cast a casual gaze toward Boykin, and chuckled low in its throat. “Even in the darkest hour there are two places where Andros congregate, Boykin. The temple and the ale house.”

Boykin snorted to proclaim its agreement. “Both offer comfort, My Ki, but I would prefer that we were accompanied by a couple more Rangers if we were heading in there.” Poopa knew that the Captain was correct, for although that place had known Poopa’s commerce in times gone by these times were uncertain. Many a night had Poopa, Khuli, Mool, M’zyk and Skra spent hours there, drinking and cavorting with the Painted Ones, while the music of the veryharp and the tub drum spilled out across the square. Never again will life be so uncomplicated, thought the Ki, and then as the companions turned the corner onto Council Road, they were saluted by an escort of two Keep guards who fell in and accompanied them the rest of the way to the main gate of the sanctuary that was home. Inside they were greeted by the wonderful warmth of the fireplace, and the comforting absence of the biting wind. Servants approached and helped the Ki and the Captain remove their heavy vestments. Giawa stood upon the second floor balcony, gazing down upon the vestibule where they stood. In that one’s eyes dwelt a look of deep unease, and upon seeing it Poopa bounded up the stairs two at a time. The Ki took its mother’s four hands in its own and scanned those eyes for meaning. Giawa spoke softly. “Your father has taken a turn for the worst,” reported the Pipling. Together they made their way past attendants and Herbers scurrying in and out of Ping’s bedroom suite, and as they entered that chamber the smell of kolita pitch met them. Poopa looked beyond the servants and Herbers to the bed where Ping lay struggling to draw breath, and a momentary rush of panic filled that one. Stepping forward, Poopa moved across the floor to stand beside its father’s bed and reaching down it took the old Ki’s left hands in its own. “Father, I am here,” announced the new Ki. Ping looked up to its eldest child through the fog of fever, and between rasping breaths that one asked, “Khuli? Is that you?” Poopa rubbed the old Andro’s hands tenderly, and with some difficulty, it replied. “It is Poopa, Father. Khuli is away on a mission to Astrib to find a cure for this monstrous affliction.”

Then Ping looked off as if the ceiling had called that one, and in its fever the old Andro seemed confused and frightened. Poopa reached down then, and having retrieved a moist towel from the nightstand, that one used it to cool its father’s forehead. The new Ki of Midrib turned its gaze then to its mother who, standing not far away, was struggling to maintain composure. Then turning back to Ping, Poopa spoke again with tenderness. “It is Khuli, Father,” said the Ki of Midrib. “I love you, Father,” said the Ki, and as those words managed to slip past the fever, Ping smiled, and being thus comforted the old Andro lost consciousness and succumbed to sleep. Poopa turned away and looking to Giawa found tears in that one’s eyes—tears for Khuli, who would never see Ping alive again, and tears for Poopa’s charity for its sibling in that moment. Most of all, they were tears for the one Andro who had held that Pipling’s heart for the past thirty-three years, and who would be so sorely missed.

Chapter 18 The Powers That Be

The head offices of Life-tech Corporation on the planet Lipitor had been grown from optical quality blue diamond over a towering, seamless, superstructure web of titanium, which showed through the diamond as twenty-centimetre-thick golden buttresses. Standing over the river valley business section of the capital city of New Asgard like the crown jewel in a shimmering setting of lesser yet still beautiful gems, the tower was unrivalled. In the sunshine they all glittered but none as brightly, and by moonlight they were breathtaking, the work of master jewellers. Fanning out around this hub of radiance was a golden city built by the ruling elite of a thousand corporations who had flocked here over centuries, drawn by the scent of authority and profit and power. This was the setting that ruled an entire sector of the galaxy, the one that had survived eight hundred years of war to find itself in a position that nearly rivalled the scope of the Old Empire itself, and at its core was Life-tech. The Life-tech corporate board of directors oversaw everything that concerned the planet, which was directly owned by the corporation. All other entities that resided there did so on the basis of a tenancy and were not permitted to own land or even structures, yet they came in vast numbers to apply for residency. Here was the new Mecca, the new Jerusalem, the place where insight came from and where everything happened for those faithful to the creed of devout Capitalism. The old religions had fallen into the mists of revelation, for they had all been based on supernatural gods, and with the coming of the age of biotech and the extinction of death by science, they could no longer hold their sway over the masses. Science had triumphed, Mankind had learned the secrets of life and in its capacity to create had become as gods themselves. New Asgard was their Heaven. Other such places existed in the capitals of corporate empires across the galaxy, but none were as magnificent as this, none so elegantly conceived or so immaculately engineered. Anna Henderson knew this firsthand for she had stood in all of them and had had personal and professional input into many of them

over her long lifetime. As she stood upon a balcony of white marble gazing out across the city of New Asgard on that crystal night beneath the black and starry sky, she smiled and softly ran a finger along the golden titanium handrail. The air was crisp up there, and fresh, but wrapped in a cloak of the finest phoenix down, one of her own patents, Anna was toasty. She watched her breath turn to billows of fog in the air before her, and sipped slowly on her long-time favourite drink, a lychee martini held delicately in her other hand. A look of clarity was in her blue-green eyes along with the shimmering lights of the city, for she knew the future was hers. A noise escaped from the office behind her as the doorway sphincter opened and the voice of Bruner Van Castle reached her through the chilling breeze. “It’s time, Madame. The board is seated,” he announced. Bruner was always so formal, but he was as efficient a personal secretary as Anna had ever known. His manners were pure Victorian, and had he possessed an English accent might have suggested that he had been torn from the past and hurled four millenniums forward in time, sort of an anachronism. He was tall and strong, athletic in his deep blue business suit, with immaculate blond waves and green eyes. Clean shaven, always manicured with every stitch in place, always crisp yet never starchy, he was what had once been known as a man’s man. He awaited her pleasure in silence. Anna turned away from the vision of Heaven and dropped her gaze upon Bruner. “It’s a beautiful night, Bruner, but for one thing. With all the dazzle of this city the stars are cowed. Onboard my ships I take them for granted as they surround me in their countless trillions, but here, here they seem truly distant.” Bruner offered her an arm. “I should think that they are merely awaiting your return, Madame. Then they will shine as you them. For now,” he said, accepting the empty martini glass, “it is time for you to shine for the board.” Anna took the offered arm, and as they entered the warmth of the office suite the crystal sphincter closed behind them. Inside, the elevated temperature and the martini combined to bring a slight flush to Anna’s face, and she stopped Bruner with the slightest squeeze on his arm. “I won’t be a moment, Bruner,” she announced softly, and disappeared into a washroom to check her look. The mirror adjusted automatically to reflect her image in the perfect lighting and having been assured that all was as it should be, Anna smiled confidently and returned to Bruner’s side.

“Let’s shine,” said Anna, and together they entered the boardroom, Bruner stepping forward to introduce his employer to the board. Instantly, the buzzing of conversation halted as all eyes fell upon the newcomers, and Bruner announced in a voice both commanding and utterly professional, “Ladies and gentlemen of the board of directors of Life-tech Corporation, please permit me to introduce one who really needs no introduction, Dr. Anna Gloria Henderson. The board stood without fanfare to welcome their guest, and the chairperson, a tall woman with deep olive skin and short-cropped auburn hair, spoke for them all. “The board recognizes you, Dr. Henderson, and may I say it is a privilege to finally meet you. Please take a seat and we will get started.” Anna moved to take the seat at the head of the large oval table and with deft and poise Bruner pulled the chair out for her. As she sat, he pushed it forward to accommodate her, and the chair adjusted itself to provide her with perfect alignment and custom contentment. Once Anna was comfortably in place Bruner seated himself next to her and the board seated themselves, each having announced their names. There were twelve sitting of the board of directors of Life-tech Corporation, so the process took almost a full minute to introduce them all, finishing with Dr. Kelsey Atwater, Chair of the Board and Director of Scientific Inter-disciplinary Co-ordination. She, it seemed, was the grease that kept the various departments of Life-tech Corporation functioning as a single organism. Anna gathered her thoughts for a moment and then addressed the board as the office Intelligence recorded the meeting. She used no notes, as the entire presentation had been stored in her nano-memory, and she spoke with enthusiasm and flawless confidence. “ of the board, I have come here tonight to discuss a matter of tremendous potential interest to this body. I come not only as a majority shareholder in Life-tech, but as a well-known and long-established member of the business community of this sector and of the galaxy at large.” The interest of the board was evident as they adjusted themselves in their seats. Anna was well respected for her business acumen across the galaxy, and just to have her here in person would provide a boon to the prestige of the already prestigious corporation, but the true purpose of this meeting was financial

benefit. Where Anna Henderson went, money and influence tended to follow. “As you all know, there has always been money in sporting events. From the ancient past through today this has been true, and thanks to Humanity’s love of competition, it will be true until the universe fizzles out. The success of ‘The Game’ over the past three hundred seasons has had a mushrooming effect, spawning other great league-based programs, such as ‘Ancient Clash,’ that draw vast audiences from across the galaxy to the tune of hundreds of trillions of Alliance dollars per minute. What I have been investigating is a new slant on these great franchises with an eye to producing a lucrative fan base in a related genre, with a bit of a twist.” Anna paused for only the briefest of moments to feel the room. Her Link informed the office Intelligence that her mouth was dry and out of the surface of the desk grew a shimmering glass of cool water. Although the board were watching her with unbridled interest there were, here and there, looks of uncertainty on some of their faces. She sipped the water and then continued. “Blood sport is the name of the game; it excites the fan base as nothing else can. However, the fans are aware that whatever the outcome of a match and whoever is killed in the melee of ancient hand-to-hand combat, they will rise again and pursue their lucrative lifestyles, as sports stars never did before SAF. What if the odds were upped? What if the fans were tuning in to something that isn’t a game? Suppose that instead of rooting for their favourite team of immortal athletes, the fans could have a taste of something more… real?” Dr. Atwater raised her hand tentatively, uncertain of where this was going. Anna acknowledged her with a subtle stare, and the Chair of the Board gazed back coolly. “Dr. Henderson,” she said rather formally, “Are you suggesting that we let the players remain dead?” The board fidgeted uneasily in their chairs, and a buzz of mumbles and uncomfortable sniggers filled the room. Anna smiled sweetly and took a last sip of her water. It was exactly the response that she had expected. She set the empty glass down, and the tabletop re-absorbed it silently. “Does that idea alarm you, Dr. Atwater? Of course it does, and it should. No, I am not suggesting that we allow Human Beings to die permanently under the hot lights of the arena. That would hardly be in keeping with the ideals of our great Galactic Civilization now, would it? I am proposing, rather, that in the tradition

of the great documentary makers of the distant past we go to places where conflict is brewing and record the real thing for fans hungry for the real thing.” The board looked at one and other as if Anna had been speaking some previously unknown language. Dr. Atwater stared down the long table into Anna’s eyes, not knowing what to think of this unusual monologue. “Dr. Henderson, I don’t know what you are proposing and I cannot say that I like the sound of this, so far, but I find it odd to have to state that there are no places in the galaxy devoid of reincarnation technology. Wherever we record these, ‘real conflicts’ that you propose, we would be bound by law to re-incarnate the players. Except…” she started. “Prison colonies and non-Human communities,” finished Anna Henderson. “On prison colony worlds, as we are all aware, the immortality of inmates is suspended for the duration of their term of incarceration. Brutality is the day-today lifestyle of the inmates and if one does not survive to the end of one’s term, well, that’s one season. As for non-Human communities, these are not covered under the conventions, and therefore there would be no legal requirement to reincarnate. There are places in the galaxy where primitive warfare of the kind featured in ‘The Game’ and ‘Ancient Clash’ are commonplace, where lesser beings revel in blood sport for real. Their cultures depend on the outcomes of battles and wars. To them, it is no game and it would be so for our viewing audiences, as well. They would get the full deal, and I believe that they would give us a huge market share from the established networks. The profitability would be remarkable,” promised Anna. The board was mute. Dr. Atwater leaned back in her chair and, twirling a golden stylus between the fingers of her right hand, mused. “I assume, Dr. Henderson, that you have already lined up the necessary connections through whom such a venture can be arranged. What is it that you need from Life-tech Corporation? What have we got that you could not find somewhere else?” Anna Henderson smiled, not coyly, for that would not have played well here, but an easy simple smile. “You have the stage for a grand premiere presentation and a place with all the necessary settings and conditions for this new documentary feature series. That

place is planet Drodenar, where even now the makings of a major war are under way that will decide the future of a Bronze Age people. We would be there to record the real struggle of real beings, who incidentally will fight and die whether we are there or not. We should be there! We should be there to record their story the way such stories were recorded once long ago, when there was such a thing as journalism,” proclaimed Anna Henderson. At this, there came a surge of excited discourse among the board , discourse which flooded the room. The office Intelligence processing the melee filtered the voices of the twelve board and separated them cleanly into files for later inspection. Nothing would be lost to misinterpretation or poor hearing or a question of who said what, when. After some time, Dr. Atwater touched the tip of her golden stylus lightly to the surface of the tabletop and a soft tone ensued from the walls all around them. The tone was in no way harsh, but it slowly built in volume until it could not be ignored by anyone within the room. The conversation stopped and Dr. Atwater removed the stylus tip from the tabletop. There was no sign of commitment in her face one way or the other, but only a calm reserve. The board awaited her next words with similarly blank faces. “Dr. Henderson, I can only assume that you have obtained such information from your son, who is operating under the of a confidentiality agreement with Life-tech as well as the University of Lipitor at New Beijing. That is a matter that we will deal with independently of this meeting,” proclaimed Dr. Atwater. Anna smiled, a smile this time that bore the mark of tenacity. “I assure you, Dr. Atwater, that my resources are such that I am not compelled to entice my son to breach confidentiality agreements to obtain intelligence anywhere inside this galaxy. Industrial espionage is a well-established practice within this Capitalistic Galactic Civilization that we have built, a fine tradition almost. I have always been very good at it and it has always been very good to me,” she answered, curtly. “As for my son, he has no clue of my intentions toward, well pretty much anything, really. He is a brilliant boy, but a bit of a romantic at times. If he knew that this topic was even being discussed, I’m afraid that he would not be happy at all. In any case, the well-being of these Androgenari is not in any way endangered by my proposal, whereas this board has already approved the consumerization of Drodenar for the purpose of radical patents on the entire biosphere. Where is this plan to leave the locals?”

Dr. Atwater stared down Anna Henderson with smouldering contempt growing in her eyes, as the board exchanged glances of confusion and betrayal. Who did this woman think she was, after all, speaking so to the board of directors of the most important corporation in the sector? Just then a finefeatured, red-haired man seated two spaces to Dr. Atwater’s left got an odd expression on his face. Nervously, he raised his right hand to attract the attention of the Chair. Dr. Atwater broke her death gaze and turned her attention onto him. “What is it, Mr. Klemp?” she asked with some annoyance. Klemp put his hand down and addressed the Chair directly. Most of the colour had drained from his face, and his right hand, now on the tabletop, was trembling visibly. “I’ve just had confirmation of a major trade of Life-tech stock, Madame Chair. I’m afraid that as of two minutes ago a controlling interest of the Corporation was sold to… to Dr. Anna Gloria Henderson, President and CEO of TransGalaxy Shipping, President and COO of Interstellar Hospitality Corporation, and Chair of the Board of the University of Titan City, Proxima.” Klemp sort of trailed off at this point and turned slowly and silently to view his new boss. As he saw her, sitting at the far end of the table, elegant, beautiful, and powerful, he nodded to her with a subtle smile that conveyed the thought, well played. Anna returned the nod graciously and returned her gaze to the Chair. Dr. Atwater’s expression had softened. The gazes now being exchanged were of an entirely different order from those that been exchanged a moment before. After a second or two Dr. Atwater addressed the new head of Life-tech Corporation with some degree of humility. “What will you wish to do with this Board going forward, Madame?” she enquired. Anna looked over the Board sitting around the crystal table. There was no mistaking the angst in their eyes, except perhaps for Kemp, who for all her powers of observation seemed to be stress-free for the first time since the meeting had begun. Dr. Atwater seemed somewhat grim in her demeanor. Without fanfare Bruner rose from his chair and stepping behind Anna pulled her chair back, as she rose to stand before the gathering. The others scrambled to stand as a show of respect, ashen faces and somewhat bowed. When Anna

spoke, there was no sign of animosity in her voice. “I will want to meet with this Board tomorrow morning at eight. We have a lot to do, People. We have a network to build. Until then, good night, and think about what I have proposed. I want ideas that do not involve strip-mining or clearcutting. Drodenar must be spared the rampant exploitation that has befallen so many worlds before it. These Androgenari are sentient creatures, made so by my son’s team. They will have the right of self-determination, no matter the cost. It’s a good thing, People.” Then Anna Henderson accepted the arm offered her by Bruner, and together they turned and left the silent boardroom behind them.

Chapter 19 The Mushroom Mission

The morning had been hectic with the departure of Khuli’s mission, and the mood of Midrib, sad and frightened, hung in the chilly air. All who were not needed for essential work at the food storage warehouse or the foundry had been ordered to their homes and the streets were empty. Clinging to the northern breeze was a promise of more ill news, for the temperature was dropping and that breeze had begun to grow noticeably stronger as the morning built into daytime. Within the fearsome gusts that came and went, the booming of the storm bell reverberated from atop the Temple of Yolanda within the Keep. The bell tolled, and the bell told all… “Beware, go home, be safe.” M’zyk-la-Skiffer was mounting the staircase from the Great Hall of the Ki up to the family’s dwellings. M’zyk sprinted up the steps by threes and was at the top in five long strides, then grasping the post with both left hands and swinging around it, that one moved with speed along the balcony’s hallway toward the apartments of Khuli, Valkry, and Ghurda. With a quick knock upon the door the Andro stepped inside to confront their children, Harn and Hash, for as Khuli had commanded, they were to be in M’zyk’s care until their parents returned. M’zyk had begged to ride with Khuli on the mission, but the Ki-ling had refused. M’zyk’s pride had taken a sting, for that one was always eager for adventure and the chance to be needed in a fight. “No,” Khuli had insisted. “The children need a watchful eye, and if you are looking for a fight, I’m sure they will oblige you.” The bastard carried a small linen sack in one hand, which it shook noisily revealing the presence of treats within. “Well, you two, where are you hiding?” called M’zyk. “I have a bag of tree nuts, just roasted by Cook. They’re still warm!” In response up popped a small head from behind a chair. “What kind of nuts?” the head demanded. A second, somewhat larger head emerged wearing an expression of disdain.

“Not those fua berries that the pumpis eat. I don’t like those!” growled the bigger head. M’zyk shook its head contritely. “Fua? No! I would not offer fua beans to the children of a slayer like Khuli-laPing. These are fine, fat kolita-pine nuts, brought from the western flank of the Lyfgus-Haug. I picked them myself while Mool was tying snares down below. I dropped one down on that one’s head as it worked below, and in anger it cursed me,” recounted M’zyk with a grin. “Oh, I like those,” confessed Hash, the smaller child, and it strode out boldly from behind the chair, a serious expression on its round face. “I guess we won’t have to pound you, after all,” it said. Approaching M’zyk, it reached out with all four hands. M’zyk tossed its head to one side, prompting the child to follow, as that one slipped into the apartment and settled onto a long-padded lounge chair. This had always been M’zyk’s favourite part of the Great House. It was comfortable, and not without a touch of Pruskinom or its opulence at least. “What about you, Harn?” called M’zyk to the older child. Harn looked up from behind the chair, softness in its eyes, Ghurda’s eyes, and its long slim face broke into a smile that could not belie the loss of two front teeth. Harn was four years old. “I like gourtuni nuts the best. They are the best!” said the child, but nonetheless it stepped forward toward M’zyk and the kolita-pine nuts. Arriving before the couch, Harn smacked a fist into the top of M’zyk’s thigh. “Oh!” feigned M’zyk. “Why are you always mean to me?” asked the elder Andro, and then from its small left hand it offered six fair-sized kolita nuts to the child. Without hesitation Harn scooped the nuts from M’zyk’s hand and shoved them into a smock pocket. Harn always kept snacks there, easy to reach for when the taste for something good presented itself. “Thank you, Elder. These are my favourite.” “But I thought gourtuni nuts were your favourite?” stated M’zyk, as though that one were completely confused. Harn popped a kolita-pine nut past the missing teeth, and then chewing the child shrugged. “Don’t have any gourtuni nuts,” Harn mumbled around the chewing. Hash had settled in silently beside M’zyk, and with a quick, single motion M’zyk had

snatched up Harn and deposited that one to sit on the opposite side from Hash. “Of course, your mothers have insisted that I read with you from Tales of Drodenar,” M’zyk reported, while scooping a book from a table beside the lounge chair and, finding no hint of rebuke from the children, that one proceeded to browse the pages for something worthwhile. “Now, I will begin and then Harn will read some and…” M’zyk cast a curious eye at Hash. “You learn your reading yet, Little One?” Hash slowly shook its head. “I can say all my letters,” said Hash with some pride, Valkry in the little twoyear-old’s smile. M’zyk nodded knowingly and, turning to the book, said, “We will work on that.” Then M’zyk began to read aloud, and with some degree of melodrama in its voice. “And in time when Mankind first they came to Drodenar, the Androgenari were as the beasts, dumb and simple. Then the Humans said, ‘This is no good that the best of animals should be without speech.’ And the Human Chow conspired to give Androgenari speech. With His two hands Chow imbued the Androgenari with wisdom and the power to understand the world all around. A Human only has two hands, unlike the Androgenari who have four. This is because unlike Humanity, Androgenari are limited in their minds and need two extra hands to compensate. Humans are superior to Andros in other ways, as well, but mostly in that they are immortal and they are not androgynous. They are male and female and some are not, but they are separate. A Man does not bear young. Only a Woman can bear young, and they feed their young Humans from their own bodies. This makes Womankind special and proves divinity above all else.” M’zyk’s eyes swept away from the book and that one grimaced just a bit, but not wanting to interfere with the wishes of the children’s parents that one shielded its expression with its small right hand. “Maybe, you should read the next parts, Harn,” said M’zyk, ing the book to the child and settling into the cushions. M’zyk closed its eyes and its mind began to wander to the things that were occurring, the foreshadowed war in the springtime, the zaschafry flu, and the Kiling’s mission northward. M’zyk thought of Valkry sleeping in the next room. Valkry-la-Dada, Khuli’s second mate, had been the child of a gourt farmer who

lived across the Hork from Midrib. Along came Khuli—that one had always had the desire for desire but never the wisdom for restraint. Soon the Andro had been bedded, of course, and soon after came to Khuli announcing its pregnancy. They were married very quickly then after, and Valkry, having moved into the Great Lodge, began the role of becoming a part of the family, but the story turned dark. Soon after the birth of Hash a fever had ed through the region, and although Valkry had recovered from it, it left that one weak and frail with frequent bouts of tortured breathing. M’zyk could not hope but wonder if this zaschafry flu would take that one away for good. Later that morning M’zyk would slip into Valkry’s chamber to check upon that Ki-ling and to see whether it required anything. Very simple needs were all it ever required, food and drink, kolita tea in the afternoon, and afternoon was quickly approaching. Servants would set the small table in the apartment’s dining room, and Cook would call them to eat. M’zyk would take a tray in to Valkry while the children would dine, and all the while outside the storm increased in power.

Three hours out, a cold, hard wind had begun to blow, driving wet ice pellets before it down through the leafless treetops of the western Hork Valley. Here and there as the expedition raced along over the icy snow, they were assaulted by waves of pellets alternating with patches of comparative shelter as they ed beneath the evergreen arms of massive kolita-pines. At times, the noise of the ice pellets reverberating off of guort-skin hoods was nearly deafening, so that when a stretch of shelter arrived, the party would collectively sigh in relief, then prepare as best they could for the next onslaught. They had endured this awful weather for nearly two hours when they suddenly encountered a fallen tree laying across the trail and had to stop. The purgs were tired. Ice crusted their broad backs and its weight had been slowing their usual pace, accumulating also on the sledge, and causing the progress of the mission to drag. As the warmly attired Andros jumped from the sledge slushy ice fell in chunks from their shoulders and laps, and they shook themselves violently to cast off the remainder from their bulky jackets. Khuli trudged to the front of the purg pack, an ironwood staff assisting as that Andro walked tentatively on the slippery ice. The purgs were miserable and displayed great relief as their Andro masters dragged heavy slabs of ice from

their backs. They shook with great vigour and sent wet pellets in arching fans all over the Andros and the sledge. Skra grunted and moved toward the fallen tree, followed by Ghurda and the two guards. One of the forward riders had turned back on its truglehoond and had dismounted to assist while the other pressed on. They examined the obstacle as the ice-rain blasted them from the northeast. The tree had fallen naturally, as no cut marks could be seen, but the travellers knew that the Riff had left spies in these woods. Caution was prudent and they scanned the trees with great care. An attack here would not be easy to defend against, but for the moment it seemed that they were alone. Khuli turned to the others and, seeing the fatigue in their postures, decided. “We cannot go over this with the sledge and it is too big for us to move. We will have to guide the purgs around it off the trail, but it will cost us half an hour. I reckon that we are about halfway between Fort Mid and Fort High. Two hours journey to reach either, or we certainly cannot go backwards. If we move northwest along the riverbed we can reach Henderson’s Cave in an hour. We’ll make camp inside, but that position will put us in sight of Riverib across the river. We need to be careful with any fire, keeping it well inside the cave.” The others responded without complaint, for though they were tired and hungry they wished to speed their escape from this ice-rain and to get the purgs dry and warm. Purgs were made for harsh weather, but there is a limit to the endurance of any living thing. They were clearly unhappy, and the mission could not succeed without them. The cave was their best choice. With a great effort the group guided the purgs through a tangle of trees, turning the heavy sledge onto its side to make possible its age between massive trunks. The purgs were glad to be free of their harnesses and leaped between the trees as lightly as young pumpi through a field of cane-grass. The ice-rain continued to blow, making progress miserable for the Andros now on foot in the deep, ice-crusted snow, but they struggled on for twenty minutes until at last they emerged from the treeline and dropped the sledge over a metre-high bank onto the river ice. It landed with a satisfying thunk and shuddered and skidded to a stop on the open river ice. Here, they had lost all shelter from the trees and the ice-rains pelted them with renewed vigour, as they gathered the unwilling purgs and strapped them into their harnesses. Only the defiance of their guort skins kept them from being soaked to their skins, as the group of Andros finally climbed aboard the sledge and compelled the purg team into action. In seconds they were rushing along the course of the frozen River Hork, hugging the

western bank as closely as was practical or safe, for the rise, as short as it was, gave a blessed relief from the now nearly horizontal blast of the ice-rain. They bolted onward, and as they leaned low aboard the loudly rattling craft, they were ed on their right side by Giawa’s Captain Frin on its deep black truglehoond, who galloped ahead to scout the river before them. The open sky gave them no cover against the watchtowers of Riverib or the unfriendly eyes of any Riff spy, but unrestrained by the trees their view of what lay before them was clear and uncluttered. The Hork spread out before them and to the east, a mighty valley across which a sledge could fly like the very wind, and they began to make back some of the time that they had lost at the roadblock. The purgs felt the freedom of it too and they drove themselves forward against the persistent gusts of wind and ice toward the northwest. The hour slipped by them and soon across the kilometre and a half width of the Hork they could see the south wall of Riverib rising above the east bank, partially clouded by the flying ice-rain. It was as commanding as the stone walls of Midrib, but erected three metres taller, and backed by logs of gourtuni eight metres tall it was formidable, none the less. Two hundred metres out was the southern-most guard tower, where an Andro could command an excellent view of the river, and Khuli hoped silently that the blowing ice-rain would be enough to obscure them as they ed. A few minutes further and the commands were given to rein back the team. As they slowed and finally stopped snuggled up against the frozen riverbank the group leaped from their sledge. Quickly they led the purg team up a shallow rise and behind it the heavy sledge climbed the embankment and slipped into the thickets at the top. Once out of sight of Riverib the purg team was directed back into the kolita-pines and along a trail so rough that the sledge jumped and shuddered as it went, buffeting the riders like sailors on a storm-thrashed boat. They would surely be bruised by the time they reached their destination. As they lurched forward the sledge began to tilt backward, for the way was getting steeper by the moment and would not level off for some time until the crest of Henderson Hill had been reached. Finally, the sledge levelled off and the ground became less rocky. Only then did the purgs ease up on their harnesses, and under the hand of their Andro driver they pulled the sledge onto a small clearing, open to the sky and the ice-rain, where they stopped before the maw of a great grotto. As if on cue, the ferocity of the wind picked up and the pounding ice pellets hammered them all with viciousness hitherto unfelt. They spilled from the sledge and unharnessed the purgs who complained loudly in their gurgling tongue.

Through the opening they lurched, purg and Andro in a boiling mass each pushing for entry soaking wet like a mass of wendols forcing their way inside a carcass. Once through the mud-slick opening, bodies tumbled en masse onto a hard floor made slippery and treacherous by ice and muck. There they sprawled, writhing to find footing on the greasy surface, glad to have left the ice-rain behind, adjusting their eyes to the darkness into which they had fallen. Now on foot, the Captain led its truglehoond in behind them. Warm dampness reached their nostrils, the smell of something unsavoury, perhaps dead. No sound reached their ears at first, but for their own breathing, and then at length the cave’s own breath began to envelope them. A dank, warm zephyr was bubbling up from the bowels of the place, carrying with it the stink of the grave pit. It inundated the chamber for many seconds, before retreating into the guts of the cavern drawing cold dampness into the cave by way of the entrance. The sledge driver placed a mitted hand over its nostrils and grunted in disgust. “Surely this cave is the maw of some monster,” it said. Khuli pulled back its hood to reveal a grimace of revulsion. “If so, it has eaten something very nasty,” answered the Ki-ling, and it snorted loudly in an attempt to force the smell from its nostrils. Ghurda stepped forward gingerly on the slick floor, peering into the shadows before them. “Huck moss,” replied the Herber. “It is all over the ledges and walls. It is very good for Andro digestion, but it is not good for the purgs. Keep them away from it.” The Herber cast a calm gaze across its companions and seeing their distress, smiled. “You will get used to it, but for now we should go forward and find a place to build a fire. Once the air in here becomes a bit dryer the smell will retreat. Henderson’s Cave can be treacherous, so watch your step.” The Herber led the team forward, and as they advanced the cavity widened rapidly into a major hollow trimmed with ledges covered with feathery orange huck moss. From the ceiling hung long, greasy black tendrils that seemed to threaten them with sudden strangulation and dripped a foul-smelling liquid down upon them all. “Oh, Man!” bellowed one of Giawa’s guards. “This is a place of evil without a doubt!” Khuli looked back over its shoulder at the Andro, with a mischievous grin. “I

have heard it said that this cave is the opening to the rectum of Drodenar and that those who enter it are damned, Mukla,” teased Khuli. Mukla-la-Bik was not amused, but covering its offended nostrils shook its head in loathing. “It smells as if that saying could be true, My Ki-ling. It is enough to put one off its food, and I for one, will be glad for the comfort of a good, smoky fire. Now, please, let me lead the way, for the Pipling Giawa has sent me here to keep thee safe. Thy presence is most necessary for the success of this mission,” said Mukla, taking the lead as they entered the cavern proper, which widened further and became a vaulted necropolis, its broad floor covered in places with piles of bones. “Some of those are Andro bones,” reported the sledge driver darkly. “This gets better with every step. Perhaps we should pull our weapons, Ki-ling?” Khuli responded with a thoughtful nod and drew the short sickle-bladed ripper from the sheath at its hip. The driver ed a glance across the blade, which smouldered with a pale green radiance under the influence of ultraviolet. It was razor sharp with a subtly curved blade of bronze about sixty centimetres in length. The Andro frowned and pulled a shredder from the long sheath at its own waist. The blade was nearly ninety centimetres long and mounted on a sturdy ironwood hilt. Its edge bore centimetre wide teeth that could inflict disastrous damage, hence the name shredder. “Ain’t that a bit small, Ki-ling? I don’t think that the muncher of these bones wants to be tickled.” Khuli glared at the driver. “I’ll tickle you, Jouf. This blade has seen plenty of gremorah blood in its day,” menaced Khuli. Jouf-la-Lour chuckled grimly and nodded toward the shredder. “I prefer a little reach when dealing with such beasties, My Ki-ling, but I’ll wager no gremorah dropped a turd the size of that,” said Jouf, pointing toward a pile of droppings half a metre high and more in width. Khuli ran its eyes across the mass and sheathing the ripper drew a half-metrelong bronze sword from its sheath instead. The Ki-ling met the driver’s gaze for an instant. “Good call, Jouf. This cave is home to a bone-cracker blixonhog, unless I am mistaken, and if I am mistaken then only Mankind knows what kind of monster

dwells here. Ghurda, what can you tell us about that shit pile?” asked Khuli. Ghurda examined the dung closely with an experienced gaze and glancing back over a shoulder, nodded. “Blixonhog, and it’s a big one, pregnant. I expect it will drop a litter in the next two months. If we’re lucky it’s in hibernation. If we’re not, we’d be better off outside in the storm. The six of us are not properly armed to fight it.” Khuli digested the information. None of them was eager to go back outside, but the cave was not friendly and even if the beast were in hibernation, they could not risk a fire. The rise in warmth would surely awaken it, and there were few things more dangerous than a roused blixonhog. “We will rest here for a few hours, no fire, and then we must continue on,” announced the Ki-ling, grimly. “Skra and Captain Frin will keep a listen to the cave in case our friend stirs. I shall keep watch by the entrance. Snuggle with the purgs for warmth and let’s hope this weather improves by the time we set out.” Jouf and Mukla settled down between two of the purgs on a dryer spot on the rocky floor. “I reckon two hours to Fort High, unless we ride the river, My Kiling,” reported Jouf. “It will certainly be dark before we get there.” Skra and Captain Frin settled down a little further into the cave with two other purgs, and Ghurda accompanied Khuli toward the entrance with the last two. Just before the ageway thinned and became a mucky icy mess, they stopped and settled down upon the rocky floor. They snuggled in together, a purg on Khuli’s left and one on Ghurda’s right, mates held fast in one another’s arms and Frin’s truglehoond not far away. Khuli set the long bronze sword against a stone and peering down the corridor toward the outside found that the outside was out of sight. Only a faint light, a grey and gloomy luminosity, filled the last few metres of tunnel before it turned just enough to hide what lay beyond. A faint echo of ice-rain hitting hard surfaces could be heard, and just a whisper of the wind, and it seemed to Khuli to be somehow comforting. In minutes they were all sound asleep. Skra the Mighty awoke with a start and switching rapidly from heat to ultraviolet to common light, the assassin’s eyes panned the width and breadth of the cavern. In silence the big Andro searched for intelligence that would reveal their condition. Frin and the two purgs were slumbering close at hand, and Jouf was not far away, practically buried between the big lead purgs. Khuli and Ghurda were not within the scope of Skra’s vision, and this did not please the protector.

Slowly and carefully Skra pulled away from the warmth of the purg that had served as both pillow and blanket, its purring a reassuring tell that it was still alive, yet something was wrong. Somewhere in the cavern something was moving and with all the senses Skra possessed, that Andro could tell that it was big. Silently, the assassin drew sword and shredder and moving with remarkable silence placed a small hand over Captain Frin’s mouth, rousing that Andro discretely to the knowledge of their plight. Frin rose slowly onto one knee, sword at the ready, wishing for an axe. Quickly reconnoitring the situation, the Captain moved toward the entrance to search for Khuli and Ghurda. Skra went quickly to Jouf, awakening that Andro as silently as before, but found no trace of Mukla there. Frin reached Khuli and Ghurda quickly thereafter and aroused them without a sound, but upon looking back toward the others the Captain’s blood ran cold. There beyond them in the depths of the cave, visible only by its massive heat silhouette, raised a hulking form and in its jaws, limp and nearly cold, was the body of an Andro that could only be Mukla. The purgs had begun to move, and Skra and Jouf were quietly herding them toward Frin and the entrance. A noise of heavy rustling came from the mountain of heat, and then the sickening sounds of tearing flesh and cracking bone filled the cavern. There were no cries, as mercifully, it seemed that Mukla was already dead. Led then by Ghurda and Frin, the party backed away from the grizzly scene toward the cave mouth, careful not to make a sound, but Fate having its twisted sense of humour intervened against them. As Khuli stepped backward in the narrowing entryway its left foot found a loose pile of stones, which being wet slipped and scattered. With a sudden clattering alarm, the stones tumbled along the rocky floor, their voice echoing off the cave walls, and the blixonhog looked up toward the noise. Dropping Mukla, the monster turned and bolted toward them. As quickly as they could the party exited the crypt that was Henderson’s Cave, and lashed the purgs into their harnesses, while Skra and Frin stood in the opening, hoping to dissuade the beast with the tips of their long spears. Alas, the blixonhog was faster than it looked, and in short order was upon them, mounting the rise toward the cave maw at speed, when Fate’s second act intervened to their favour. The same loose stones that had given them up, met with the clamouring feet of the monster and it slipped backward, struggling to reach the intruders, snapping its massive jaws, and squealing infuriation and frustration.

The first real noise the party made came from the heavy sledge as it scraped the ice, and with Captain Frin leaping onto the back of its truglehoond, the purgs and sledge exploded from the small clearing and headed down the slope toward the river. From the cave mouth came the maddened grunting roar of the terrible thing that had been awaken two months too early, and it howled and squealed in anger at the insult. Distance dulled the sound of the angry protest, as the party sped away toward the Hork, and soon it was drowned completely by the grinding noise of the sledge upon the ice and rock. Suddenly the tree line broke and there before them laid the open expanse of the frozen river. With a bound the purg team leaped from the bank and the sledge took to flight behind them. It landed with a solid crash and bounced on the ice, sending a shower of snow and ice pellets in a wide arc behind it, but no one fell off, anchored as they were by their knuckle paling grips upon the ropes. In a cold heartbeat the purgs recovered their stride and the sledge sped off along the river to the northwest. Several minutes ed before anyone spoke and when the silence was finally broken it was Khuli who cracked the spell. The Ki-ling shook its head in anger and cursed both sexes of deity’s.

Blixonhog chasing Khuli’s team from Henderson’s Cave.

“I have cost the life of a true Andro! Why has Poopa placed this trust in me when the county’s ranks have such born leaders as Captain Frin?” Ghurda looked sideways at its husband and raising both right hands landed a solid thump across Khuli’s left arm. The Ki-ling gripped the assaulted limb with both right hands and rubbed the spot with some vigour, and then turning in the sledge confronted its wife. “Why do you strike me, Wife?” asked Khuli angrily. “Was it not my decision to remain in the cave and rest?” Ghurda looked stoically into Khuli’s eyes and watched as the anger softened, replaced with a look of sadness. The Herber placed a hand firmly under Khuli’s chin and they fixed their gazes upon one and other, and then with great strength Ghurda spoke. “Soldiers do not ask for a perfect outcome, Husband. They learn to deal with the hard things that come, and they learn to accept them. Mukla was protecting us, as was its duty. I believe that Andro must have heard the beast and went to assess. It ambushed our brave guard, and it was Mukla’s cry that awoke Skra and saved us all. As for Poopa’s judgment, your sibling is Ki. It is that one’s place to make those calls and not yours to question them. If you must place fault, then put the blame on Mankind for sending this cursed plague in the first place. You have a mission to complete and fussing over what has happened does not advance that goal,” Ghurda onished. “When we have completed the mission and saved our people, then you can grieve for Mukla, as I will also,” Ghurda said, and taking note of Jouf and Skra in the front of the sledge, added, “As we will all grieve for Mukla, when the time is right.” Khuli cast a gaze toward the others and to Captain Frin riding out ahead. It had not occurred to Khuli that each of them must be feeling the loss of Mukla according to its own sense. Who was that one to think that the torment was its alone? Only then did the Ki-ling realize that the storm had begun to ease. Yet even so, the sky remained grey and angry, pelting them all with freezing winds, as they dashed onward sombrely, and for the rest of the ride to Fort High a heavy silence rode in the sledge with them.

In Midrib the ice-rain had been blowing in since noon and the frozen streets possessed the quality of a ghost town, barren and lifeless, slashed by wind and loneliness. In the little stone and plaster house that Ping-la-Dhourtin-Ki had generously provided to Jusk, young Kuiper sat upon a bed more splendid than any it had seen. The mattress was thick and comfortable, the blankets warm and soft, no straw, no course canvas. There were no leaks in the well-built walls, not like the shop. The floors were covered with guort-skin rugs that were warm and easy on the feet, the windows with tightly stretched pumpi skins, and a wood burning stove kept the whole house warm against the harsh winter weather that boiled outside. The young Andro sat cross-legged with a stack of parchments in its lap, studying the scratches upon them with a will. Jusk had always insisted that Kuiper should read and read well, for the skill had become dangerously uncommon among the young, and since the Great Fall of Voughorf reading had been forgotten by too many. As Kuiper read through the text of Yolandic law, a noise not related to the storm outside caught its attention. The youth looked up from the parchment and toward the heavy curtain that was its bedroom door. “Father?” called the young Andro, but no answer came. Quickly Kuiper sprang from the bed and snatching a skinner’s knife from its place on a wall the youth dashed to a place beside the doorway of its room and pressed its back against the wall there. Several moments ed before the voice of an adult Andro reached Kuiper from the room outside the doorway. “Is anyone home?” called the voice. Kuiper did not respond. “I am looking for Jusk-la-Gurjion. My name is Mool-la-Xix; we met on the Lyfgus-Haug. Do you me?” Kuiper recalled the Monk of Austin who had seemed somewhat unfriendly that stormy night and, gripping the knife in its large right hand, the young Andro replied. “My father is not here. You will find that one in the smelting house. I am armed,” said Kuiper bravely. Outside the bedroom doorway beyond the guort-skin curtain, Mool stood silently in the shadowy antechamber that served as a corridor between the bedrooms and the front of the house. Water dripped from its guort-suit onto the skin covered

floor as the Andro listened, hood pulled back, nostrils flared to catch the scent of fear, finding it. Mool cocked its head and chuckled softly. “Very well then, Young One. I shall leave you in peace. Thank you for your hospitality. Your parent must be very proud of such a spirit.” Then after listening to the silence beyond the curtain for a moment longer, Mool withdrew and left the little house. Once outside, the Monk was ed by another and they exchanged hushed words beneath the moaning rasp of the ice-rain’s breath, before turning east toward the garrison road and the foundry smelting house situated there. As they proceeded in that direction Mool shouted to its companion, saying, “Jusk the Wise has taught that one well. Perhaps it can be retrained one day to see the true light, perhaps not, but today young Kuiper will have none of us.” The other Monk shrugged with neither conviction nor malice at Mool’s words. “Why not just kill it and be done?” asked the Monk. Mool side-looked its companion and shook its head. “Are all of you western friars so cold-blooded? Why waste such a prospect without first making the effort to plant the seed of our faith? Kuiper can be shown the way to true enlightenment and the path to Austin’s Glory. Is this not the purpose of our order?” The other Monk remained silent for several moments, as though digesting Mool’s comments, and the ice-rain pattered harshly down upon them as they splashed on through ice-skinned puddles. Then, as though some conclusion had been reached inside its mind, the western cleric leaned inward toward Mool and spoke in that were both deliberate and concise. “Mool, you must not be naïve in these matters. In the time that is before us there will be no room for fence sitting. When the spring arrives, the battle shall begin in earnest for the souls of all who dwell in the lands west of the Hork. From on high comes the order to sweep away all who will not believe in the Gospel of Austin, and there is to be no discrimination. That child and its guardian are a menace to the edict of the Holy One. Their contamination of the world by Yolandic values cannot go unpunished, and likewise those who have brought such blasphemy from the east, Pipling Giawa, for example, must be killed or driven from Austin’s lands. Figfo the Holy has proclaimed all of this before the highest council of the order so harden against doubt and embrace the light that is to come, lest you falter in your duty to the true Pip.” Mool remained silent for the remainder of their march to locate the wayward

forger, Jusk-la-Gurjion. Now newly aware of the seriousness of their intentions, Mool could not help but question the outcome of their mission. Was this strange Monk an assassin sent by Figfo to kill that Andro who was here under the protection of the Ki? Could such an outcome as the prior had described possibly be co-existent with the principles of Austin’s Laws, as Mool understood them? The Monk’s mind was reeling. Who could be consulted about this, Hionysh the Elder or Poopa, the old friend now Ki? Either choice felt to Mool like a betrayal, and the confusion of this was intolerable. The Order or the community, service to which was the most central tenant of the Order’s gospel; how could this be happening? On through the slush they trudged, to some fateful meeting, onward toward harsh consequences yet to find. Around the next bend and just downhill toward the river stood the stone-walled structure of the foundry, nestled as it was between the fishery building and the east gate parade circle. Its ancient walls were dark and sooty from the constant fires that dwelt within, and two great columns of black smoke rose upwards from tall black chimneys, only to be driven southward by the wind and ice-rain. A single guard was gathering shelter beneath its eaves, just outside the double front doors, lance in hand, and to the prior’s eyes did not seem to offer much of an obstacle to them. Mool was now truly beginning to feel uneasy as they boldly trudged the final few metres, splashing through puddles filled with slush. The guard took them in as they approached. Recognizing Mool, the Andro nodded a greeting and studied the stranger there before it. “UnManly weather!” complained the guard. “Indeed,” answered Mool. “We are here to speak with the smelter. I am Mool-laXix, and this is my companion, Broat. May we enter?” Mool was known to all in Midrib as a friend and confident of the family of the Ki. The guard hesitated for only a moment, and then grasped the handle of the heavy door and pulled. Locked. The Andro pounded three times upon the bronze plate with the butt of its lance, and in due course the door was unsecured by another guard within. The great door swung on well greased hinges and opened just enough to provide age. Without delay the two Monks of Austin pressed through the opening and escaped the ice-rain outside. Before them spread a wide stone floor, and at their sides stood not one, but two stout guards carrying lances much like that of the soggy guard outside. From deep within the building reverberated the sound of hammering and a stifling heat.

“State your business, Mool-la-Xix,” demanded the taller of the two guards. Mool examined the guards in silence for less than a moment and responded in a friendly manner. “We are here to speak with the smelter, Jusk-la-Gurjion,” replied Mool. The shorter guard side-looked them with some suspicion. “You have an appointment?” it queried. Mool projected a look of surprise and dismay. “Surely, you Andros must know who I am?” Mool protested calmly. The suspicious gaze of the guards did not waver until at length the shorter Andro snorted out a laugh and broke the tension. “We do, Monk of Austin. But in keeping with the situation—we find ourselves in nose to nose with the west—we are inclined to be careful.” The guard paused and nodded to its companion. “What do we think, Resnik? This one okay?” Resnik studied the Andros as they stood dripping on the stone floor, then shrugged without malice. “This is Mool the Righteous, Koork. What doubt can there be of its loyalty?” Koork looked along its nose into the Monk’s eyes and shrugged, as well. “Good enough for me,” insisted the shorter guard. “I will escort you Andros. Resnik will remain here. Please, follow me,” directed Koork, and as that one briskly sauntered toward a stone archway the Monks fell in behind. Mool’s mind scrambled to find balance. It struggled to reconcile its position of trust within Midrib, with the earlier words of its companion. Mool the Righteous. That title had been bestowed upon it so very long ago, by friend and adversary alike. Yet here in the act of approaching Jusk-la-Gurjion for who could say what purpose, Mool felt confused, dirty even. Through a high Blackstone archway Koork led the Monks in silence for only the first ten seconds before that one spoke. “What is it that you want with the smelter?” Koork asked in a voice that spoke with ease. “Is this Midrib business or Temple business?” Mool and Broat exchanged glances of surprise. Neither had expected this forthright interrogation from a simple city guard. Mool turned to look ahead again to find the back of Koork’s domed head bounding up and down on its thick neck just two metres away. This is no oaf, thought Mool.

Broat, too, was watching the Andro before them, wondering about its weaknesses, studying for any sign of ill health. There was an almost imperceptible limp on the left leg, apparently the ankle had been broken a very long time ago. The shoulders, although broad, were carried somewhat slouched and the head leaned out upon that great neck slightly forward as it walked. Broat concluded quickly that Koork could be dispatched without much trouble. Suddenly Koork stopped, standing there, backing the Monks for the count of two and then turning slowly and calmly to face them. Koork looked them over and deliberately took several seconds to do so. “Andros,” asked Koork, “are you going to answer my questions? Or not?” The Monks stopped short, and Mool looked again to Broat. The other Monk was standing there, eyes fixed on the eyes of the guard, taking in the Andro with the contemplation of murder. Every fibre of Broat’s body had become a coiled spring. Even beneath the bulky snow suit one could see the murderous tension. Mool’s mind reeled with a whirlwind of conflictions. That one had seen battle before and knew the rush that built just before engagement, but this was different. Two loyalties tugged, nay tore at Mool’s conscience. At that moment came an explosion of muscle sinew blood and bone, as Broat flew forward having drawn a previously hidden blade some nine centimetres in length. Koork did not move until the Monk was nearly upon it, then sweeping aside the blade with the handle of its lance the guard deftly twisted its body to the side and flung the would-be assassin to the floor. Broat twisted its own body and rolled, landing with surprising lightness upon the stones, then lunged and swung with an outstretched large right hand just missing Koork’s left calf with that blade. Broat was impressed. This Andro had deceived it, and that was not ordinarily easy to do. The level of Koork’s fighting skill was equal to its own, and Broat grinned ever so briefly at the contest it had found. Then Koork thrusted with its lance, the blade all shimmer in the yellow lamplight of the hallway. Turning to the side, Broat dodged the deadly blade, turning the shaft away with its two large forearms while tossing the knife from its small left hand to its right. Thrust!… but the lance shaft turned it effortlessly …and in all this time, Mool had stood there frozen.

Mool’s eyes grew wide with realization and that one came alive! The Monk moved swiftly toward the conflict, on the way snatching an ironwood shafted torch from the wall. As Mool now bolted forward it swung the long torch up and around, spilling sparks and droplets of flaming oil. Into the clash it raced, slamming into the space between the combatants, blocking blade and lance and ing beyond them both into the hallway. There Mool stopped, crouched and ready to spring on whomever might move against it. The violence stopped for a pregnant moment, time seemed to stand still, and then Broat saw an opening and went for it. The blade tore forward through the lamplight as the Monk lunged with incredible speed, the guard’s throat was so close, and then the space in front of Broat’s face erupted in flames as Mool’s ironwood torch impacted the assassin’s arm, shattering the radial bone in the large forearm. Broat’s whole body reverberated from the impact, and then the butt end of Koork’s lance struck the Monk directly between the eyes, whereupon that one collapsed in a heap on the floor. Koork now shifted its gaze to Mool who stood uncombative two metres away. Mool raised a large right hand slowly to indicate submission, and slowly replaced the torch upon the wall from whence it had come. “I do not stand with that one, Koork.” The other Andro stood fully upright now and placed the butt of its lance on the floor at its side. “Do you not, Mool the Righteous? Is that one not one of you Monks of Austin?” Mool’s expression crumbled from one of conflict to one of peace. The decision had been made. “No,” vowed Mool. “I have seen an evil that cannot be condoned and a movement that must be opposed. You command here, so tell me what I can do to help.” Koork reached into a large pocket within its uniform and pulled out a pair of bronze shackles, which it handed to Mool. “Put those on,” commanded the guard. Mool began to place the cuffs on its own hands, but Koork shook its head roughly. “No, put them on the assassin. My Captain will want to question this spy, this Dirty Nooken! Once this thing is in a cell, I will take you to see Jusk-la-

Gurjion.”

Chapter 20 Matters of a Disquieting Nature

Early that morning a column of riders had snaked its way southeast from the gates of Eruda along the frozen road that winded along the edge of the Kolitapine Forest and descended gently onto the valley of the Mighty River Doufi. In summer, the road was a thoroughfare for traders and trappers, and for those who pulled yellowbacks and razor-eels from the rich waters of the river to sell in Eruda. In winter, it was a barren and mostly empty path, whipped by frigid winds and dangerous to travellers, who were prone to occasional ambush raids by Nooken packs on the hunt for easy flesh. In single file the riders descended slowly on the icy surface, the broad fleshy feet of their truglehoonds deftly gripping the frozen ground. They were twenty in all, well-armed, experienced soldiers and in their midst rode a party of four NobleAndros dressed in finery beyond a soldier’s grade. Among them was one a full head taller than the rest, broad in shoulder and chest and powerfully built. As they rode along, this Andro pulled closer to another of nearly equal stature who carried in one hand a small object cast of brass, which glinted in the light of the morning suns. “Father,” began the Ki-ling. “What shall we hunt this fine winter’s day? Something fierce, I hope. Something to give our soldiers a taste of blood before the war to come.” Xcelpyr cast a short glance across the Andros riding single file before and after and then turned an eye to its child, its heir. The Ki then addressed Klyky with a muted but just noticeable tone of irritation in its voice. With just enough volume so that its words would not travel to the others, Xcelpyr spoke. “Klyky, you might not be so eager to start a war that once begun cannot be stopped. I know you have seen battle many times and have come home triumphant, but this war promises to be unlike those of your youth. I believe that this war may take on a life of its own and very quickly veer out of our control.”

Klyky examined its father’s face as it spoke these words, and the Master Hunter found reason for disquiet in Xcelpyr’s expression. It was not like Father to be afraid of anything, not battle, nor death, nor even Mankind itself, but something had clearly unsettled the Ki. Its rugged face bore the scars of many fights but just now it bore evidence of something that cut even deeper. Klyky leaned forward to make certain that its words would reach Xcelpyr alone, and in guarded tones put a question to the Ki of Eruda. “You do not trust our allies, do you?” Xcelpyr cast a cautious glance around the company of riders and then set its eyes on those of its child. “At this time, I do not even trust my own personal guard. I find politics in every corner and shadow of Schroon Tower and intrigue from both ally and foe. Even you, My Child, have sought to deceive me over the Ki-ling to whom you have been betrothed.” Klyky feigned ignorance for but a moment, and then turned away in embarrassment from Xcelpyr’s gaze. “You are a good and noble offspring, Klyky, strong and principled, impressive in the arts of battle, but you could never hide your true feelings from me. I saw your love for Plung of Kraas despite your efforts to hide it, and I am certain that so did your grandmother.” Klyky met its father’s eyes and spoke plainly. “I met that Andro while hunting on the Lyfgus-Haug some years ago and was impressed by its bearing and poise and by its beauty and refinement,” Klyky confessed. “Plung is not like any Andro I have ever met.” Xcelpyr nodded knowingly and replied. “It happened that way with your mother and I. I loved that one like I have never loved any before, but there is a trap in that. Figfo saw it at once and in it found a means to ensnare me, using my devotion to Klar as a weapon to manage me in my position as Ki. I see that Fate lurking in the shadows for you as well, My Child. Your grandmother is not to be trusted, even as I do not trust this alliance it has made with the Harooj Ki.” Klyky saw the obvious truth in its father’s words and snorted, “But Figfo was Ki before you. Why would that one not simply retain the title and control you from that position?” Xcelpyr placed a large hand on Klyky’s shoulder and drew nearer. “As you well know, Figfo had become a terribly unpopular Ki due to the iron-fisted methods

of its rule. To continue in that capacity was to court rebellion and ruin, so my mother placed the burden of rule upon me and with the strength of sway that one carried over me it retained true power for itself. My beloved Klar had been taken to Kraas as a guest of Figfo’s cousin Kagan, Ki of that city, and remains there yet.” “My mother lives. But I have been led to believe that one gone to Dev Lok in the years after my birth. What evil is this, Father? How do you justify keeping this from me for such a long time?” Xcelpyr gripped Klyky’s shoulder tightly as if to pacify its child, and fixing its stare upon the younger Andro’s eyes, the Ki silently expressed the necessity for calmness in the presence of those who might well be the enemy. “I justified it for the sake of your safety, Offspring. This is the evil of Figfo and Kagan and their accursed religious obsession. That is why I have warned you now of the folly that awaits us in the spring. There will not be glory or righteousness as there was in your campaigns against the Nooken cannibals to the east. Only death will pour from the gates of Eruda and Kraas—death for all who are found by the Monkhood of Austin to be unclean or unworthy.” Klyky sat frozen atop its restless truglehoond, digesting the words that its father had spoken. In time the Master Hunter snorted once again and spoke in a voice filled with dark apprehension. “This cannot be allowed, Father. How will the armies of your Andros ride in such a cause?” “They are soldiers, Klyky, simple Andros who have been fed a diet of dogma and propaganda most or all of their lives. They follow orders and damn the consequences. Many of them see Figfo as a Messiah of sorts.” The Ki ed a silent gaze across the company of soldiers there with them, and in its father’s eyes Klyky noted an unaccustomed hint of pity. “Klyky, my one true light in a life of darkness, we are but two leaves adrift upon a black and stormy sea.” “This cannot be allowed, Father,” repeated the Ki-ling. Just at that moment Gour-la-Saxi ambled up beside them, its poor truglehoond

clearly overburdened by the stonemason’s shear bulk. To call Gour stout or plump would be akin to calling a mountain a rock, and even beneath that Andro’s guort-hide trappings the rolls of blubber were evident enough. The truglehoond, having come to a halt beneath its owner, seemed greatly relieved and as it drew a deep and laboured breath the beast released a thunderous fart. “Man!” complained the Ki. “Was that you or the beast, Gour?” The stonemason feigned ignorance for a moment and then with mock humility the Andro shrugged and spoke. “Not me, Ki of Eruda. Alas, my own fine hoond is down with leg strain and the stable has provided me this poor excuse. I am afraid that if the necessity arises to gallop the beast may drop dead beneath me,” Gour quipped, not feigning its disdain for the palace stables. “Yes,” interjected Klyky. “I can see how carrying you might produce more than leg strain in a beast. Perhaps a team and cart might suit you better, Stonemason? Let us hope that no need arises to trot, shall we? I have no desire to return to Eruda with our only prize being a crushed truglehoond.” Gour eyed the Ki-ling sourly and then, turning its attention back to the Ki, spoke in a gruff and humourless manner, “The Guild has asked me to address a concern to you, Ki. A noticeable slowness of funding from the Riff coffers has raised questions of our preparedness going into the spring. What can I tell them about prospects for completing the bolstering of our forward defences before the ice begins to melt?” Xcelpyr shrugged and turned its face toward the front of the column. “Tell them that if the defences are not in place by that time, there will be a swelling of the frontline troops. Tell them that we are in need of more slaves to shovel purg shit in the stables, Gour. Funding is at its limit for the moment and depends upon our successful prosecution of the war and the spoils from that war. Oh, and assure them that Figfo and its cloister will have no humour for poor results in that affair.” The Ki then cast a dark glance back over its shoulder toward the stonemason and added with finality, “Or something like that, I suppose.” And then Ki and Ki-ling fell into line with the column of the hunting party and continued their descent onto the valley floor.

Gour sat momentarily flummoxed upon the back of its tired mount and then with muffled anger in its deep voice commanded the beast forward. The unhappy creature complied with a short cry of protest, and as the party of Andros pressed on, the stonemason thought darkly, Who is this Ki to treat a Master of the Masons’ Guild in such a fashion? Not to mention the lack of respect of that brat Klyky. If not for the of The Guild in years gone by, where would Eruda be now?” And into the valley they rode, slowly, under a gloomy cloud of resentment, beast and rider both cheerless at their lots. Within minutes the party had begun to enter the vast stand of kolita-pines that towered over the brushwood of the Doufi Valley, and soon thereafter they were swallowed by the shadows. The sweet musk of kolita sap grew thick in the air as they rode their truglehoonds deeper into the forest, keeping to the lumber trail upon which they had entered. Frozen leaves squeaked and crunched beneath the footfalls of the procession of hoonds as they followed the road paralleling the river. In the absence of other sounds the noise was deafening. “Halt!” ordered Xcelpyr. “We are not trying to run off anything edible. Dismount and billet the hoonds in that clearing on the right. We will go quietly on foot from here.” The Ki then dismounted and turned to eye Gour, as that Andro slid from its tortured mount. Xcelpyr grinned at the thought of the stonemason carrying its own weight through the twisted brush into which they were about to rummage. “Fortunate beast,” taunted the Ki. Gour grimaced unpleasantly by way of reply and tugged on the animal’s reins with unnecessary roughness to lead it into the clearing. Although fat, the stonemason was a hard Andro, strong and able in a fight. Xcelpyr had once witnessed Gour take on four able-bodied Nooken warriors in hand-to-hand combat, armed with only a ripper and a wooden club. He’d vanquished the cannibals in good time… but that had been many years ago. Now, as the Ki watched the podgy stonemason it occurred to that Andro that those days were probably gone, yet there remained a certain air of menace about Gour. An opponent might yet be wise to regard that one with some degree of wariness. Xcelpyr allowed its attention to slip from the stonemason to the rest of the party and seeing that they had tied their mounts as directed, the Ki called out an order. “Master Hunter! Take those eight Andros and Gour. I shall take the other eight

and the coppersmith. Let us see what game has not fled before the racket which we have unleashed upon the forest this morning.” “Yes, Father,” answered Klyky, “and what wager should we place on the outcome of the morning’s hunt?” As these words were being spoken the soldiers began to move into the teams that Xcelpyr had assigned. The Ki smiled and examined the brass article that it held in its small right hand. It was the image of a Human Woman cast in a polished zinc alloy of bronze and mounted upon a solid hilt of blixonhog tusk. Representing Helen, Woman of the Hunt, the sceptre was a powerful talisman carried only by the greatest of hunters in the Pipdom. It had belonged to Xcelpyr for many decades. One day the Ki would it on to Klyky, but today would not be that day. The Ki shifted its gaze onto the distant face of its offspring and waved the sceptre. “One thousand silver coins,” replied Xcelpyr. Klyky shrugged. “Is that all? What about that sceptre in your hand, Father?” Xcelpyr cast a stern look toward its offspring and chided that Andro in a gentle tone, “So, you think yourself worthy of such a prise, Ki-ling?” The soldiers laughed, caught up in the spirit of the familial exchange. Klyky cocked its head and eyed the Ki in an expression of rebuke. “Am I not called Master Hunter throughout the Lyfgus-Haug, My Ki? Do I not inspire fear and awe among the troops at my command? Surely, Father, you have held that clunky ornament long enough. Does it not tire your arm? Would you not wager it now for the sake of real sport before this company of valiant searchers?” Klyky grinned and shrugged, a casual gesture intended to indicate a gentle nudge between familiars. The Ki cast a provocative look around the faces in the clearing and saw that every Andro there seemed eager for the of the wager to be raised. Even the dour expression on the face of Gour-la-Saxi had changed, becoming enthusiastically animated by the prospect of a game of chance. Mordic the coppersmith was alone among the company with a look of distraction on its slim, grey face. Xcelpyr noted it for future consideration. “This?” responded the Ki. “You want to wager for this little stick?” “Yes, Father,” replied Klyky. Xcelpyr waved the sceptre over its head and then tossed it from one small hand to the other. The hunters became rowdy. Mordic

remained detached, watching the exercise as though not a part of it, watching first Klyky then the Ki, and then the faces of the hunting party. “Very well!” exclaimed the Ki with a rapturous thunder in its voice. “The challenge will be for the Sceptre of Helen, Woman of the Hunt!” The group erupted in a cheer that must surely have frightened off any game remaining in the Kolita-pine Forest, and then Klyky bowed to the Ki in acceptance of the new wager. “May the best hunter be victorious, Father,” answered the Ki-ling. “How long shall we set the time of the hunt?” Xcelpyr bowed its head for a moment, as though in heavy contemplation, and then looking upon the face of its heir, the Ki of Eruda spoke. “Let us hunt until the moon Blue casts its soft light across the Valley of the Doufi, and at that time we shall gather back at this clearing. Whichever team has taken the greatest prise in flesh shall be declared victorious,” announced the Ki, to which the Andros gathered there began to chant. In breathless words of tribute to their ancient deity, they grunted several times, low, and respectfully, “Helen, under your mountain of fire, bestow us your blessing! Give us victory in the hunt!” Klyky and its father cast their gazes across the company of hunters gathered there, each taking a measure of every Andro. Amid the dank musk of kolita and the low humming of the chants, they found each other’s eyes, and an unspoken understanding ed between them. There was a wendol in the party, an ear for Figfo among the company. It was as certain as the coming of the moons or the coming of the seasons, and it was as dangerous as any prey that might be encountered in the deepest forest. Together they would find the parasite and engineer its separation from the world, but for now the hunt had started. It pounded within their chests, surged in the pulsing of the blood through their veins, and together father and child ed in the chanting of the hunting party. “Helen, under your mountain of fire, bestow us your blessing! Give us victory in the hunt!”

In the austere council chamber within the dark stone walls of Schroon Tower, Figfo sat alone in the high-backed chair at the head of the council table. In its

large left hand, the gaunt, old Andro held a writing implement, the hollow bone of a small zaschafry filled with black ink concocted from the beast’s own blood. With it, the Andro scratched upon a parchment. With a single final stroke, the Ki’s mother stopped writing, set down the quill, and blew upon the parchment to dry the ink. Having done so, Figfo ed its grey eyes over the script. A subtle smile ed over its crooked lips at the conclusion of this reading, and a low dry wheezing ed those hard lips in expression of its satisfaction at the text. A solid knocking came from the large council door, and the old Ki looked up from the parchment and croaked, “Enter!” With invitation given, the door swung on its hinges with the tortured cry of worn bronze, and a lone figure entered the chamber. The Andro was tall and fit with grace and bearing in its step, and as it moved across the stone floor its footfalls were silent. Its face was veiled in the shadow of a woven hood, which had concealed its identity from the guards that lined the corridor while a badge of authorization had served to allow it to . It had not hesitated to knock forcefully upon the chamber door as most might have, suggesting a certain comfort and ease with the occupant within, a rare thing where Figfo was concerned. “Ki-ling,” croaked the old Andro, as it extended its withered right hands in greeting. The hooded Andro took Figfo’s offered hands in its much younger ones and bowed with great respect to the former Ki of Eruda. “My Ki,” answered the Andro. “Mother sends respect and asks for your blessings in the crusade to come.” With these words the Andro pulled away its veil and knelt before the old one, but Figfo’s wrinkled fingers caught the tip of its chin with surprising gentleness, bidding it to rise. “Take a seat, My Child. We have much to discuss.” The Andro complied at once, still holding the old one’s hands. It sat kitty-corner from Figfo at the table, and in that same motion, replied, “I live by your command, My Father.” Figfo smiled with satisfaction and affection and then queried, “Tell me, Plung, how did you leave Kagan? Is that Andro well?” “Mother is well. Although the cold makes its bones ache at times, that one is

aflame with the glory of your struggle for the souls of all the Andros of Western Elysium, as am I, Great One. Mother has amassed an army of six thousand in the Red-pine Forest and awaits only your command to launch them eastward. Before them will erupt the horde of slaves who fight for promised freedom, tough fodder to soften the teeth of our enemies before the jaws of our armies reach them.” Figfo smiled, revealing two missing teeth on the right side of its crooked jaw. “That is fine news. With the five thousand soldiers I have stationed concealed within the Mountains of the Blood Moon, we shall be a force such as none have seen since the days of the old Pipdom in Voughorf when Sol’ja-la Sol’ja commanded eighty thousand brave Andros, and Mankind still loved the Androgenari. We shall renew the old and re-ordain the Laws of Austin across all of this land and in the process regain the love of our Creators.” “And in the glory of your purpose, Father, we shall capture the hearts of the people. Many shall see the light and our cause. Our ranks will swell with the faithful, turned by the Monks of Austin long before our arrival,” answered Plung with the fire of true belief in its green eyes. “And Elysium shall once more be a land favoured by Austin and Helen and Maximillian and Eugene, and by all of Mankind! Oh, Father, let the spring come and the great Doufi flow once more through the Mountains of the Blood Moon from the Lyfgus-Haug and beyond, carrying our barges filled with retribution.” Figfo nodded and placed a wrinkled hand upon Plung’s shoulder. “And what of your betrothed, My Dear One?” asked the old Andro. “How shall you secure the faith of that unbeliever?” Plung smiled at the question. “That one is all sex and pleasure, Father, and will be as pliant as mud in my hands, for that Andro sees in me an ally and a true love. Mother has trained me well in the art of bending such a one to my will, and I shall not fail the cause. Yet, if Klyky proves uncontrollable, I know where that one sleeps. Do I not?” Figfo nodded once again and sat back in the hard chair. It ran its grey eyes across Plung’s face and ired the child that had grown into this fine Andro, one that had come to hold its father’s vision in high esteem. “You have always been precious to me, Plung, unlike your older half-sibling

who holds no faith in Mankind but only cares for this crumbling city. Only through my insistence and urging has that one kept the slaves at bay, and the Noble-Andros under control, as they should be. All of that is soon to change, for the hunter shall find more than quarry in the forest today. With that one gone, those still faithful to it shall fall in step behind me, and its beloved Klar will have outlived its usefulness as our guest in Kraas.” “I never liked that one,” itted Plung. “Too much Yolanda in its head, too little Austin—like Klyky and Xcelpyr. I will be glad to see them all gone.” “Your lover, too?” asked Figfo, a crooked smirk upon its thin dry lips. “My lover, too, once its usefulness is ended,” replied Plung, icy as the frozen northlands. “All that cleverness will be bound to get in the way before long. Perhaps before the coming of the thaw we will know with certainty, but for now it is a handy tool for the focusing of the troops.” “And a handy tool for your needs as well, My Child,” reminded Figfo.

Chapter 21 Rochester

A dense and shimmering ice fog hung thick across the grey and rocky spine of the island the Androgenari called the “Isle of Giants” shrouding all its lower valleys in frozen mystery. Beneath it lay a world apart to which few Andros had visited and returned. Frightening stories of this place had been told at the bedsides of every Androgenari child across the eastern half of Elysium for the last century. They were stories of monsters, giant beings of terrible power with a taste for Androgenari children, especially those who did not heed the words of their elders. It was said that the giants had been cast down from the heavens on a flaming sledge by the wrath of Mankind, and that they had crashed into the island with a din so thunderous that the world itself had shuddered at their coming. From time to time there had been shadowy sightings reported by fisher Andros, casting their nets in the sea off the Great Desert of the Gold, of great shaggy things walking along the coastline among the dark and evil Shaba trees. Many called them drunken fishers, out too late into the dark hours to be taken seriously by responsible adults, and yet the stories persisted. The island had been proscribed by the High Council of the ruling Pip in Pruskinom soon after the crash, forbidden to all Androgenari upon pain of death lest such tres should bring down the retribution of the giants, and it had stood unmarked by Andro feet in all that time. Still, other feet had marked its beaches, large feet with five toes, feet that would have easily carried creatures more than twice the height and weight of the largest Andro across the mud, now frozen by winter’s malice. Beyond the ice-bound dunes the footprints disappeared into a mat of evergreen half buried in snow to be swallowed up by the deep dark tangled fronds of Shaba that receded into blackness, punctuated by splashes of ice and snow. Ice fog had touched everything in the night and painted countless frosty hairs all up the rumpled Shaba stalks and over the black basalt rocks that marked the broken ridge of a long-dead fire lake, which had been the island’s heart and soul in eons past. Beyond that shadowy forest of Shaba there was no seeing, but its abysmal depth was betrayed by the distant screeches and answers of zaschafry somewhere within.

As the searcher drone ed over the frozen dunes it scanned the scene in every wavelength, but the tangled Shaba seemed to have a propensity for scattering the machine’s beam. It rose silently on the shimmering cushion of its gravity wave drive, and as it did so the drone began to over-fly the tangled Shaba mat. In seconds it had crossed a wide swath of the island, recording every feature that it could, but the Shaba and the ice fog resisted its probes and frustrated the scans. Bit by bit the drone persisted and mapped and recorded for the best part of the morning and when the Intelligence on Dev Lok station was satisfied with the quantity of data it had gathered, the drone just suddenly and silently shot up into the clear afternoon sky and made a beeline for home. It had not ed unnoticed, for eyes had marked its hunting from the depths of the Shaba, and from those shadows they watched for some time longer. Then a face broke the shadows for a moment and in that face lived some distant kinship with the faces that lived on Dev Lok station. The brow was ridged with wrinkles and creases, and lines lived around the eyes. The skin was tough and dry like overworked leather or poorly stretched pumpi hide, the lips rough and cracked, but unmistakeably that face was Human. From the shadows it had appeared, to witness, to peer out at the silent drone and mark its movements, and as it withdrew the face dissolved into the shadows once more. Its comrades would need to know what had transpired and so the Human departed the tangle of Shaba and with urgency scuttled along a twisting pathway laid down by the gnarly red runner-roots of that same misshapen vegetation. The roots, as thick as a man’s wrist, ran for kilometres in fields of lines half a metre wide that separated clumps of Shaba stalks into stands many metres across, some of which rose to great heights above that mangled forest floor. To run along these pathways was a true art, for at any twist or turn a foot could slip, an ankle sprain or break, yet the Human seemed at ease in the task. Weaving and bobbing, scaling rises and sliding down along the root paths where they descended, this creature made it seem almost a kind of dance, a woodland waltz to the music of its footfalls alone, until suddenly the Shaba parted and the roots spilled out into a wide glade. Here the Human left the cover of the woods without missing a beat and bolted into the open clearing, still hidden from the sky beneath the heavy shroud of ice fog that hung in billowy domes a metre above its head. The Human skirted rock and shrub to seek a path toward a mammoth structure at the far end of the glade, and as it approached wrapped in winter clothing that obscured its face, others

took notice and stood to guard that structure with weapons drawn. The runner eased its stride and approached the guardsmen at a less threatening pace, and as it did so it unbuckled a strap at the side of its hood and revealed its identity. The guards at once relaxed and disarmed themselves, and a robust fellow with a rusty grey mass of beard called out in a humourless tone, “You take some risks, Burk. Busting out of the brush like that could get you speared.” Burk approached the man and slapped his shoulder solidly. She breathed heavily, although she was not winded by the run. “I have to speak with the Wardens,” she reported, as she lifted a water-skin to her dry lips. “I saw something in the Shaba that can’t be from this ball of ice. It has to be from outside, which no doubt makes it a threat.” The ruddy bearded man took a moment to review the woman’s face, the grey-blue eyes, the weathered pale skin with just a touch of flush from the exertion of her run, the way it smoothed the sharpness of her cheekbones despite the lines of tribal ink, and a crown of tight, coppery blonde curls with ropey streaks of silver. “Come,” he said. “They are in council debating the fate of a thief.” He said this with neither condemnation nor sympathy in his tone. “Are we not all thieves, Rufus? Is that not what brought us to this place?” she replied. Rufus turned away to lead her into the darkened gateway of the grey and hulking metal structure, and as he did so, he cast a grumbled reply back over his shoulder. “Not in the mood for philosophizing, Burk. It’s too damned cold out here.” With a subtle snort of a laugh the woman followed and soon they had ed the doorway sentry to enter a corridor of grey and white metal walls illuminated sporadically by smoky burning torches. Winter always brought with it a heavy drain upon the output of the reactor, and so where possible low-tech options were deployed to help carry the demand for power across the poorly rigged network of structures that made up the colony. Thirteen was the number of outpost buildings lashed together from the wreckage of the crashed prison transport, and without the advantage of engineers or an onboard Intelligence, all lost in the crash, the community had been forced to make do with the rude expertise of its . The rigging held up for the most part, but the level of sophistication was crude and primitive and sometimes faltered to say the least, yet for over eighty years it had served to keep the colony alive.

Proceeding along the corridor they found a pace not fast nor slow, but rather tempered by the urgency of their mission and their desire to take on the warmth of the shelter that they had entered. Rufus grinned across to Burk as they marched side by side, showing off the gap between his coppery stained front teeth, and he chuckled, asking whether she could feel her toes yet. Burk just shook her head and replied with no trace of humour that she had not felt her toes in months. A moment came when the smoky light of torches was replaced by the fullness of electrical illumination and Burk had to squint before its brightness. Then the hallway opened up before them into a large chamber full of light and the sound of voices and the clattering of a bent blade against the housing of an overhead fan. “Recon report!” announced a male voice just off to their left, although it took a moment longer for their eyes to adjust to the point at which they could see the voice’s owner. “North woods, my snitch tells me,” he added. With a wave of his right hand the man urged them forward and they stepped smartly into the centre of the auditorium, onto a circular stage of sorts ringed by a dozen guards outfitted in the blue and silver uniforms of Imperial Correctional Officers. The uniforms were old and not well fitted to the men and women who wore them, and in the unforgiving light it was evident that so, too, were the faces of those guards. They were faces unlike any that would be found across the civilized galaxy, for youth had left them some time ago, and although they were not yet withered too much, the lack of vitality would have been striking to anyone from outside. Before the stage on which Burk and Rufus stood within the Circle of Twelve, stood a raised semi-circular platform with two levels of seating. Upon the lower level were seated four official-looking officers dressed in brown and rather plain-looking suits. Above them sat three more in much finer chairs, wearing much finer-looking brown suits, with rust coloured epaulettes on the shoulders. These men and women were obviously less age-worn than the guards, and certainly seemed better fed, yet still they would have seemed ancient and out of place in common society. Looking up from something she appeared to be reading, the official in the centre of the top row cast a gloomy gaze down upon the two who stood there before her and after a very brief pause, she addressed them with some disdain. “What is so urgent that you would interrupt us, Shia Burk and Rufus McHenry?” she recited their names from the list inside her head. “What’s this news you have

that couldn’t wait for the regular mid-morning role?” “Warden,” answered Burk. “I was out in the north woods doing my regular scout of Peckerhead’s traplines along the creek bed where it falls off toward the beach. Well, I heard this noise, like wind kind of, but not. Then I heard it again and I looked up from between the Shabas and saw some kind of tech flying over the island. It looked pretty new wave, if you get my meaning, like a spy flyer but really sophisticated. No engine noises, none I could hear, anyway. I thought you’d want to know.” The Warden nodded. “Well, Burke, it appears you thought right. Where is it?” queried the Warden with some impatience. “Flew straight up, Warden. Looked pretty eager to make a beeline for that small moon,” reported Burk. The Warden conferred briefly with the two men seated on her left and right, then looked down at Burk with a little less disdain than before. “Well done, Burk,” she said. “Take that red-headed reprobate with you. Chief Cluny will give you an extra ration card on the way out. Cluny,” instructed the Warden, “one, extra ration card, if you please.” The man who had announced their arrival nodded up to the Warden and pulled the prize from the breast pocket of his brown suit jacket. “One, Warden,” replied the Chief, and having said so handed the ration card to Burk directly. Rufus grimaced in silence, knowing better than to grumble, and together he and Burk left the room the way they had entered. Fifty metres along the corridor Rufus snorted and Burk rolled her eyes knowingly. “Yeah, Rufus, half of one ration card ain’t much, but I guess some clean socks would do you a world of good,” she said. “Won’t do the rest of us no harm when you take off them boots of yours in the block neither,” she added to Rufus’ delight. “Oh now, Burk,” Rufus replied feigning hurt feelings. “You know my feet have the boot-rot and it ain’t my fault.” As they proceeded, the end of the electric lighting dropped them back into the relative gloom of the torches. Up ahead the open end of the tunnel became visible and the temperature began to fall noticeably. Almost in unison they drew their hoods up over their heads and fastened the straps. Long before they reached the doorway their gloves were on their hands, and as they stepped outside the solar cells in their shoulder pads

began to suck what sunlight could make it through the ice fog to power the tiny heaters in their boots. “Thick socks?” enquired Rufus. “I like the thick ones, Burk, for when these heaters don’t work so well.” “Okay, Rufus, thick socks. Now come on with me. I need a hand because Peckerhead’s trapline has a few good catches on it and we don’t need the meat falling into enemy hands. Let’s grab a toboggan so we can pull it back here.” Burk and Rufus gathered an old, battered aluminum toboggan from a small wooden shack and headed out toward the north woods, the cold wind whipping ice crystals all around them as they went. Down in the valley below the island’s jagged ridge of peaks known to the Androgenari as the Serpent’s Spine the ice fog had begun to thin beneath the onslaught of the suns. There, halfway up the rocky face of a volcanic rise, the sunlight glinted off something shiny. Had the searcher drone made its but an hour later it would certainly have spotted this anomaly, but it had come when it did and so missed the opportunity. In the rugged western face of the Serpent’s Spine, just at the level where the Shaba growth began to thin out before stopping altogether, the glint repeated, like some glistening eye. It would have been obvious to an observer that this action was the work of Intelligence, but there was no one there among the wind-swept wastelands to notice. In a gust, the chilling wind hurled a shower of tiny ice crystals in a dance of swirling splendour up the rocky slope, and in among the black and wrinkled stands of Shaba to the very place where the glint had transpired, above a rocky ledge. At that moment there was movement in the undergrowth atop the rugged jutting basalt ledge that overlooked the valley from that spot. The bows of a thin and wispy kolita-pine were pressed aside by a gloved five fingered hand, and from the cover extended the cylinder of a small telescope. For some time, the instrument took its vigil, while from the shadows came the voices of two men in hushed tones exchanging observations. It was amazing just how far a voice could travel down these valleys and it would not do to be discovered spying here, for the Penitentiary possessed a rail gun that could split the Earth asunder even at so great a distance. It was best to remain discrete, although no open hostilities had existed between Penitentiary and the settlement of Liberation for many seasons.

In a squatting position one of the men moved sideways toward a better view of the valley and his face became exposed, though still in shadow. Quickly the man dropped a darkened visor over his eyes to protect them from the brilliance of the double suns, and then turning to his companion he nodded and slowly began to make his way out of the shadows and down into the Shaba. He was dressed from head to toe in a warm winter coverall, patterned in stripes of black and white and grey camouflage, and wore a re-breather mask that eliminated the vapour produced by warm breath in these cold temperatures. So adorned a man could slip among the Shaba unnoticed, even approach an observer close enough to attack hand-to-hand, if he could do so in silence. The man wove expertly down the slope between the stands of Shaba, stopping, restarting, and stopping again until he had covered a distance of about a hundred metres. The Shaba was denser here, providing better cover. He rested against the trunk of a particularly large growth and lifted his visor to search the woods below him. When he was satisfied that all was well, he touched a small button on his left shoulder, sending a signal of all clear for his back-up to follow. Within a few seconds the evergreens rustled behind him and another man crept forward from the foliage. Together they crouched low and soon began a slow meticulous descent along the red runner-root pathway deeper into the Shaba wood forest. Soon the ground began to level out as they left the slope for the valley floor and the trickling sound of a stream reached their ears. They carried no firearms, for the of parole and resettlement had been explicit; however, each man was armed with a beryllium-copper alloyed cutlass, which while lighter and less tensile than the blades carried by Penitentiary guards, were more than adequate to the purposes of hunting and survival. These men, however, did carry weapons that were in direct violation of the of the armistice signed only twelve years before. They were stun sticks, personal sidearms typically carried by guards on active duty inside the Penitentiary proper for the non-lethal takedown of unruly inmates. Generating and delivering an incapacitating shock by touch, such weapons had been used since primitive days on Earth, and although they were intended to be non-lethal, their misuse could cause deadly results. To be caught with such devices in Penitentiary controlled territory would mean summary execution. In seconds they had located a place where the pathway of roots was interrupted by a gap about a metre wide where thick ice concealed the presence of flowing water beneath. The first man motioned to his companion to go eastward while he

veered west along a ridge of Blackstone, and as their paths deviated, the two men slowed and crouching low stopped among the frozen foliage of dormant berry shrubs, some twenty metres apart. As though connected by the Link both trained their eyes on a single spot about eighty metres along the path from which they had diverged. They were, of course, not linked, for as convicts of the Imperium their links had been shut down at the time of their incarceration, along with their enhancements of every kind. No longer were they connected to Methuselah and so were rendered men of old, mortal, until the date of their release from prison. They had both long since completed their sentences, of course, but this was no ordinary incarceration because crashed and stranded on this wintery planet with the transport ship’s Methuselah complex damaged… well. The best that any inhabitant of Penitentiary or of Liberation Village could hope for was the tender care and tireless efforts of the prison ship’s medical staff. If not for them, it was fair to say that all survivors of the original catastrophe would have long since ed from existence. Through extraordinary commitment and a willingness to try unusual, even experimental techniques to procure longevity among the population, the doctors and nurses had succeeded in pulling off a miracle of sorts. It was no wonder that the armistice had so meticulously insured that the medical staffs were shared equally between the two communities. For now, though, unlinked and relying upon their experience for survival, the two men froze in place and quieted their breathing until it seemed that they were hardly breathing at all. A footfall came from the direction upon which they had become fixated, and then another and another, until the hushed Shaba woods virtually rang with them. Snow crickets began to trill from beneath the runner-root trails, a zaschafry screeched, and the echo of its discordant vocalization bounced around the Shaba stalks most disquietingly. The men instinctively drew their blades and awaited the onslaught they knew was to come. A moment ed in which the tension grew almost too much to bear and suddenly a voice broke the cacophony of startled woodland creatures. “What do you mean you should get two pairs of socks, you red-faced buffoon? All you did was to walk me in there! You didn’t even speak!” berated Burk as she and Rufus burst into the clearing at the end of the runner-root trail along which they had been trudging, oblivious of their proximity to danger.

“Well, I volunteered to come all the way out here to help you with Peckerhead’s traplines,” Rufus complained. “Volunteered, my ass. I drafted you with the promise of socks! Could you pick up that toboggan, you’re making enough noise to wake the dead!” retorted Burk with frustration spilling from her gestures. “They should be,” she added studying the trail, “here. I don’t see them. If you’ve led us down the wrong path, I’ll…” she squawked, but she did not bother to finish her threat. “You were leading. See, you’re in front. How was I leading?” asked Rufus in annoyance. Burke had stopped walking. She was scanning the Shaba and the bushes for something, and Rufus pulled up alongside her to see if he could help. The squawking of the disturbed forest slowly died away and a silence overtook the clearing but for the faint gurgle of the stream beneath the ice. “Ah!… I know that sound,” announced Burke. Peckerhead’s trapline should be just over there beyond the berry bush,” she stated with clarity of purpose. Just beyond the berry bush was the first man’s comrade, crouched in hiding with a long sharp blade clutched tightly in his right fist. A look of fear ran across his face and beads of sweat burst forth on his wrinkled brow, chilling noticeably under the influence of the cold breeze. He waited, hesitating to leap from his cover in case the newcomers were heavily armed, but when they drew noisily too close for his comfort the man leaped out ferociously, wielding the deadly blade above his head with murderous intent. Rufus cried out in terror and stepped trippingly backward over the hodgepodge of twisting roots as Burk grabbed the toboggan and swung it up in front of her for protection, screaming, “Holy shit! Rufus, you gutless prick! Get back here!” The blade clattered horribly against the bottom of the toboggan as the man cursed loudly out of a mixture of fear and adrenalin, but Burk held her ground gripping the toboggan with both hands and handily turning the cutlass once and once again. Then, as if a spell had been broken, the first man leaped from his own cover and rushed toward the clash, just as Rufus stumbled and crashed into a stand of berry bushes flat on his back. Reaching his companion, the first man intervened grasping the knife hand and trying desperately to calm his friend. “Kent!” he shouted, attempting to override his companion’s feverish excitement. “Kent, stand down!” Just at that moment the toboggan swung in from his right

side and the flat of its bottom crashed into the side of his face, knocking him to the frozen ground with a dizzying sensation that nearly overcame him. Kent stepped back into a defensive posture with the cutlass held out before him in a threatening manner, but the terror in his face was unmistakable. Rufus was struggling to pull his bulk out of the berry bushes while Burk brandished the aluminum toboggan like a Roman battle shield, shouting at the top of her lungs. “Had enough? Hell’s bells! Who are you guys? Holy shit-crap-damn-it!” she profaned. Kent looked nervously to his companion, sprawled across the runnerroot trail like a dead deer. “Roche!” he squeaked, “Rochester! Are you okay? God sakes, Woman, are you nuts?” he chided with a tremble in his voice. Burk’s cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed. Rochester lay motionless. “What do you mean me? You’re the one who came out of the bushes with a cutlass! I ought to ram that thing down your throat!” By this time Rufus had recovered his footing and was looking over the scene from a safe distance as he pulled dry leaves out of his hair and beard. Upon hearing the name Rochester, the crusty old reprobate stopped and spoke, almost against his will. “Rochester? Rochester Henderson? What the hell!” he cursed. Burk half turned to eye Rufus, keeping her other eye on Kent. “You know this guy? You sure?” she asked. Rufus cocked his head, eyeing her as if she had asked the single stupidest question ever asked. “How many mothers in this part of the galaxy do you think would really call a kid ‘Rochester,’ Burk? How many people would go around with a name like that thinking it was a good thing? Yeah, I know this pompous tit.” Kent piped up somewhat coyly. “This pompous tit just kept me from killing your girlfriend, Red.” Burk turned back on Kent with a true rage burning in her eyes, her breath, swirling up from flared nostrils, swept over her burning cheeks and hung in the frigid air around her crown of gold and silver hair. “You push your luck, Kent,” she warned coldly. Rufus chuckled, but made no attempt to move any closer. “She does look like an angel when she’s pissed, don’t she? Check your friend,

Kent. See if she killed the poor bastard,” he quipped, as he chuckled again and picked more leaves out of his beard. Burk moved to a less threatening position so that Kent could go to his comrade, and before bending over the fallen tobogganing victim, he sheathed his cutlass by his side. Turning his gaze to Burk from a half-bent position he spoke with some disdain and more apprehension. “You’re not going to kill me with that toboggan while I’m down here, are you?” he asked. Burk had begun to cool off and looking at the slightly bent toboggan in her hands, she sighed and dropped it into the bushes. “I guess not,” added Kent, and then he reached down and taking the collar of Rochester’s coveralls in his left hand he shook the man vigorously. “Rochester! Are you dead? Has this crazy woman sent you to Hell?” A groan escaped Rochester’s lips that led Rufus to think that perhaps she had, but then the injured man’s hand came up to grab the sleeve of Kent’s coveralls. He groaned again and with help from Kent sat up on the rutted runner-root trail, holding his right hand to his bruised face. After some short time had ed, he looked up to where Burk was standing, watching him. “You’re welcome,” he said, more than somewhat accusingly. Then Rochester smiled and the contest began to see who would break eye first. Rufus watched them for a moment and then turned away just in time to miss seeing the answer to that question. “Shit! It figures,” he grumbled, as he moved to retrieve the toboggan from its resting place in the bush. “Ain’t we got traps to clear, Burk?” he added. At the mention of traps Rochester suddenly perked up. “Traps?” he asked curiously. “We’re here for traps. We couldn’t possibly be talking about the same traps, could we?” Burk stared at Rochester coldly. She could not quite grasp the fact that this man might be a member of one of the galaxy’s wealthiest and most prestigious families. It bent logic a little too much to suit her. “You know, this is Penitentiary territory. You guys are way out of your jurisdiction and carrying restricted weapons that will get you chopped if the wrong folks find you. You better turn around and climb back up to Liberty Village, before,” but she was interrupted by Rochester before she could finish her sentence.

“Liberation Village, not Liberty Village,” he said, correcting her. She scowled at him, burning him with her eyes. “You want another toboggan beating? Liberation Village, then. Go home before you get killed or start a war or something. These traps are ours. They were set up by Peckerhead to feed Penitentiary, not to get robbed by the Third Earl of Macaroni or something,” insisted Burk. Rochester tilted his head back and opened his brown eyes in horror. “Third Earl of… what the hell are you talking about, Darling?” he enquired with a true air of confusion in his manner. “First of all, Jonathan Jordan Peckerhead Lang is the one who approached us with the offer to harvest his trapline for a fifteen percent commission of proceeds,” he said. “Second of all, if you are looking for a rich Henderson spouse it is not me. My mother cast me out nearly five centuries ago for rejecting the family business or something. It seems there is no room in the Henderson Empire for a free spirit.” It was Burk’s turn to be aghast. “The thought of me looking at you in any way, shape, or form romantic is enough to make me lose my lunch, Mommy’s Reject,” she spat. Rochester shook his head disparagingly. “Romantically, not romantic, Darling,” chastened Rochester with a grin. “And don’t call me Darling… you with your upper-class grammar. Fifteen percent… huh! Peckerhead saw you coming, you with your prep-school manners. What did you ever get incarcerated for anyway, being a lousy free spirit? You can take this to the bank, Mister Henderson. If you don’t get off Penitentiary land in a hurry, this incursion will be reported, and a guard squad will be coming to Liberty Village to haul your skinny ass back for the Warden’s Council to deal with,” insisted a rather excited Burk. Rufus cleared his throat by way of interruption and Burk glanced back to where he was seated on a slab of Blackstone, still pulling the odd leaf from his beard. “Thing is, Burk, Peckerhead’s been playing both sides of this game for years now. Warden Gold has an arrangement with him too, and half of the guards are on his payroll. I have a feeling you may not be completely on top of the comings and goings of our lovely island,” he added with some note of finality. He cast an eye to Rochester, who, still considering himself at least a bit of a gentleman,

declined to onish the lady further, but with a silent nod indicated that Rufus had spoken truthfully. “Politics and damned politics, I’m afraid,” he said instead. “Shall we say fiftyfifty, Dar… Burk?” he proposed. She looked finished. Her eyes smoked less and less as the realization of this new reality began to sink in, but at least she could feel that as she walked away from this strange encounter, she had learned something about the world of Snake Ridge Island that she had not known before. Perhaps there was much still for her to learn, and this unusual alliance was only, after all, a first step. Rufus helped her to load their portion of the trapline catch, and as they parted company with their new partners, she looked back over her shoulder at them as they began their ascent of the slope. “I bet he won’t soon forget that toboggan,” she said with a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Rufus nodded and in silence they began the journey back to Penitentiary. Just as silently, overhead another searcher drone recorded all of the events that had transpired. Left behind in the tangle of ice-covered runner-roots and snow, Rochester brushed himself off and, feeling more than a little worse for wear, took to the trail and headed homeward for Liberation Village. As he fought to keep from stumbling and tripping over the runner-roots, Kent took hold of one of his arms for . “What the hell, Roche? You gotta stop pissing off people!” he onished. Rochester side-looked his comrade with disdain, born of frustration, and grunted. “You’re the one who freaked out and attacked that nut job! I could have been killed.” Rochester found a nervous laugh escaping from his swollen lip. “Death by toboggan,” he quipped. “On some backwater lump of a frozen planet… my dear mother would have loved that.” Kent shook his hooded head and by way of a mumbled apology said, “Jeez, Roch, I thought they were guards. I thought we were in for trouble.” Rochester sighed and held a glove full of snow against his bruised face. “Just let’s get home without any more excitement, okay?” he griped, and as the two men trudged off toward Liberation, the silent drone skimmed away overhead.

Chapter 22 Astrib

The first sun had just peeked out from behind the Great Gourtuni Forest that stood nearly a kilometre to the east of where Khuli and its mission had stopped at the gates of Astrib. Its radiance cast long amber fingers from between the silhouetted trees and over the open icefield of the Great Hork on their left. Across the river it painted the tall banks and the hills with a warm orange glow turning the kolita-pines into towering flames against the western sky, where, as the ice storm of the previous night had subsided, it had left the world a crystal realm, cast in glaring jewels, feigning warmth, yet deeply frigid. Having leaped from the sledge and having approached the massive gateway of the post-walled city of Astrib, Khuli stood staring upon its deeply carved gourtuni wood gates, strapped with wide bands of casted and hammered bronze. They were magnificent and quite unlike the more simply decorated gates of Midrib, but the walls of Astrib were simple ramparts constructed of massive uprighted logs of hard gourtuni, punctuated by sections of stonework along their length. They were of no comparison to the great high stone fortifications built from the vast quarries of Midrib, which had held back barbarian and legion alike since before the fall of Voughorf. Standing there before those gates, Khuli was ed by the rest of its missionaries, and then extending a thick staff of black ironwood, that Andro hammered three times resoundingly upon the deftly crafted bronze knocking plate. From atop the gated fortification there came the rustling of motion as a tin helmeted Andro peered down over the massive square-cut stone lintel, as though the creature had not been previously aware of their presence. Perhaps out of some sense of power that it held over them or the need for a touch of drama, the Andro paused aloofly before calling down to them. Then, in a voice somewhat less than impressive, it inquired, “Who goes there, down there?” Khuli cast a glance of amusement to Ghurda who was standing at its right, and then after a brief pause of its own the Andro raised its voice in a deep and mockingly respectful tone, saying, “Oh Great Guard of the Gate! We are but

poor and humble travellers from the stone city of Midrib who seek an audience with the Wise and Powerful Hanki-la-Dhourtin, Ki of your great village of wood. I beg thee, grant us entry?” Skra side-looked the younger Andro with an expression of bewilderment on its weathered mug, leading Ghurda to cough out a chuckle behind the cover of its small right hand. Captain Frin observed Khuli out of the corner of one eye and allowed but the subtle curl of a smile to touch the corners of its mouth. The purgs fussed and grunted as though they, too, had enjoyed the moment of levity, but in truth they were simply eager to be inside and free of the burden of their heavy sledge. The Andro high above them stared down blankly, seeming bored by Khuli’s taunting. It looked away for an annoyingly long time and then finally peered back down over the parapet and replied with a taunt of its own. “Who sends you on this foolish errand through nasty weather, Midribians? What kind of idiot would travel here in such a storm as we had last night?” Khuli was not amused and grumbled under its breath a curse to whatever Man or Woman might be listening. “I’ll show you my boot when I get inside,” muttered the Ki-ling. Then, swallowing the resentment that was arising in its throat, the Andro managed to reply without sounding as though the guard’s words had bruised. “I am Khuli-la-Ping, Ki-ling of Midrib, sent on an urgent mission by the Ki. Hanki will want to see us at once, Guard. Pleasantries have been exchanged, now let us in.” The Andro stared down for a few moments longer, and then having thought better of its place in the scheme of things, it called down in its unimpressive voice. “As you say, Ki-ling,” the guard replied, and motioned to the Gate Master to open the massive entrance. Far below in the corridor between the outer wall and the inner, a heavy-set Andro slapped the rumps of a pair of large truglehoonds, which responded by ambling forward, pulling tight the thick ropes to which they were harnessed. As they strode along the corridor the hempen cables heaved and groaned through a series of large bronze pulleys, causing the massive latches to separate with a deafening clack. The beasts continued to pull and with the scream of hinges to spur them on they pulled until the colossal gates had swung fully open, whereupon they stopped and stood panting great puffs of vapour in the frigid air. Another Andro at that far end of the corridor approached the grunting blue engines and gave them each a ball of grain and

suet for their trouble. Patting and stroking their massive necks, the Andro smiled, pleased with its beasts. “Good ones,” it crooned, “fine ones.” With the great gate gaping before them the small group pressed forward and entered a sizable vestibule, bordered on the right by the corridor that housed the truglehoonds, and on the left by one that led directly to a barracks where soldiers were warehoused, so as to be ready at a moment’s notice to crew the walls. Stairways and ladders ascended on either side to the boardwalk colonnade, which ran the entire length of the ramparts, equipped with further access at intervals from multiple towers along its vast span. From this point they followed a covered corridor for about fifteen metres until it opened out through a second, less magnificent set of gates into the wide central courtyard often used by Astrib’s troops as a parade ground. As the sledge exited the corridor the air became instantly fresher, for they left behind the musky aroma of truglehoond dung that had hung thick in the air of the vestibule. Skra snorted and drew a deep breath through flaring nostrils, and Khuli, looking up at the big Andro with a smile, asked, “Better?” The family assassin nodded unashamedly. The purgs dragged them into the middle of a frozen crystal courtyard into the full brightness of the now risen second sun, where they slowed and finally stopped at their driver’s urging. Ghurda cast a wide gaze around them, taking in the courtyard in minute detail, as did each of the others as they huddled back-toback atop their sledge. Their contemplation, instinctive not aesthetic, was a gathering of subtle aspects of their surroundings in case a need should arise to fight or to flee. They had not been approached in the vestibule for the surrender of their weapons, neither had they been greeted by any official. Khuli looked to its mate, a question ing between them in silence, and then Khuli put it into words. “Piss-poor security, wouldn’t you say?” asked the Ki-ling. Ghurda brushed its large right hand across the hilt of its axe where it hung at hip level, and with the small right hand unclipped a breast pocket where lived a set of deadly throwing knives. “Yes, I would… I smell trouble,” answered the Herber. Skra had moved closer to both of them, and without bidding the others had come to rest elbow to elbow with their leaders. Captain Frin piped up in a tone most sombre and subdued, warning all to watch for incoming spears. Jouf touched the hilt of its shredder for

a little peace of mind. “Where are the town’s people?” asked the driver. “This feels very odd.” The next moments stretched out murderously slow, and as they stood alone near the centre of the empty courtyard the companions shared a sense of dire foreboding, like one condemned waiting for the falling of the axe. Then at the north end of the open field of snow there was movement, followed by movement all around them as the enclosure came alive with Andros carrying staffs and rods and farming tools, surging toward them. There must have been over two hundred of them, making their way toward the little group, several raising their voices in anger, almost chanting out their warning and calling out, “Go home! We are not sick here!” The mob advanced and quickly formed a partial ring around the newcomers, with the only opening toward the gates through which they had entered. “Ghurda, are you also feeling unwanted?” quipped Khuli. Ghurda slipped its fingers around the knurled hilt of its war axe, feeling the grip. Frin and Jouf also palmed their weapons, each knowing that an overt show of force would bring the fury of the mob down upon their heads. Skra was contemplating throwing the Ki-ling and Ghurda over its broad shoulders and bolting for the door, when suddenly the gateway came to life as a steady stream of soldiers poured forth from the inner set of gates moving straight toward their little party. There were dozens of lancers and perhaps thirty axe-bearers. Behind them emerged a score of sword-bearers, and all of them dressed in the blue and green tunic of the Astrib guard, adorned in fine bronze breast plates and helmets. Finally, sixteen Rangers swept in from behind, mounted on battle-ready truglehoonds, adorned in bronze armour, and carrying wood and leather shields. “Shit!” grunted Jouf. “We are only five. Do they think us Men?” Khuli side-looked the driver and half grinning proposed that perhaps they had heard of Midribi battle prowess and were simply being prudent. In the next seconds, the army had advanced in lockstep and now, led by the mounted Rangers, moved around the small party, and took up positions facing outward toward the mob, which had grown to over three hundred strong. From the now empty gateway a single mounted guard galloped toward the small group of missionaries, dressed in Midribi colours, and a welcome sense of relief flowed

over the missionaries as the truglehoond pulled up short before Khuli and the officer bowed in salutation. “Sergeant Iskar reporting, Ki-ling. I was able to alert the Ki of your mission. Hanki-la-Dhourtin, Ki, awaits you at the keep and sends greetings and sadness for the news of your father’s dispossession. Your party is safe from the rabble, Ki-ling. Please, follow me,” instructed the mounted Andro. Khuli eyed the Sergeant cruelly and cast an unspoken reprimand its way, but then, with a column of Astribi soldiers to accompany them, the missionaries took leave of the mob and proceeded toward their mission’s objective. It had been a stressful ending to a stressful journey, and Khuli was ready for a bath in the keep’s famous hot pool, while Ghurda, ever the compulsive worker, would no doubt dig in and consult with Hanki’s Herbers. All was good as it had turned out, yet there was heaviness in Khuli’s heart for the loss of Mukla. The Ki-ling knew that there had been no avoiding it, for as Mother had constantly warned both of its children, “Destiny will always find you.” It would be up to Khuli to inform Mukla’s family of its horrible death in a cold, dark cave, and there was dread in the young Andro’s heart for their tears. Astrib Keep was a true stronghold, with stone walls two metres thick and reinforced with ribs of ironwood half a metre in diameter. It was commonly said across all of eastern Elysium that it would outlast the very sky under which it stood, and in all the centuries of battles that had followed its building, it had never been breached. During the last Great War between the Children of Austin and the Children of Yolanda the castle had guarded the forward line of the northwestern most territory held by the Eastern Alliance ruled from Pruskinom. At that time, a great Yolandian Ki named Farnist-la-Qon lived in the keep, and its armies ranged far into the dwindling territories of the Western Coalition, ruled from Voughorf in the north. Astrib was the first among the outposts that had sprung up along the Great Hork and it was from here that the prosecution of the front line had been run. With victories won further south along the river, came the building of the other castles, Riverib, Midrib, Gastrib and Straerib, but Astrib had been first among them all. Time had worn on harshly, and with the ing of centuries and the fall of Voughorf beneath the onslaught of the glaciers, importance shifted to the younger castles. Alliance funds moved southward as well, and when, finally, the Ki of Midrib married into the royal line, favour became concentrated upon that

town over the rest. Midrib became the centre of the Pip’s influence over its most westerly province, and the great stone walls of that village were built, much to the chagrin of the other Ki’s. Of course, it was no wonder, for with the Pipling Giawa dwelling there its father had spared no expense to secure the safety of its second heir. It could be argued, in fact, that it was Giawa who ruled in Midrib, but nothing could be farther from the truth, as the Pipling had always taken great pains to ensure that Ping retained the honour and respect of its station. Always at the Ki’s side, fiercely loyal, the Pipling had foregone the true privileges of its rank and remained in the background where Ping could rely on its wealth of knowledge in matters of government and law. Even now, with Ping unable to fulfill its position as Ki, even as Khuli followed the mission orders of the newly appointed Ki Poopa, Giawa elected to remain behind the scenes. It would be easy to step forward, to assert royal authority, for the law and the Pip would have ed it, but to do so would compromise the autonomy of the region and that would never do, especially not at a time of impending war with the west. Especially now, Giawa knew that the smooth succession of Ping’s heir to the position of Ki was critical for stability within the Alliance. Still, in the quiet hours of night, the Pipling had sent trusted couriers across the frozen grasslands and through the vast gourtuni forests east to Pruskinom to acquaint its father, the Pip, with the situation at hand and to request ing troops for the garrisons at the river forts. Even as Khuli was strolling the stone ageways of Astrib Keep, Ghurda at its side, recalling this place where Poopa and itself had run and played with their cousins long years before, those riders were anticipating the massive granite fortifications of distant Pruskinom, beneath the cold glow of all three moons.

Meanwhile, the mood within Midrib Keep had turned sombre, and a sickly pall hung eerily over the comings and goings of servants attending to their duties. When voice was given, it was in whispers with tones of sadness, and the impression that it all gave was of a mausoleum awaiting its occupier. The Great Lodge of the Ki, Ping-la-Dhourtin, that stood at the very heart of the Keep, was in a mood much darker still. There, a profound tension gripped the Great Hall where a group of stone-faced officials sat silently around the massive table, each unprepared to speak for fear of what might be said or what could be said in return. Silently, a servant ed along around the table offering to fill their cups with ale, but few were receptive. It seemed that Ping, in its weakened state had

taken a turn for the worst and they were there to officiate at a rite of age. Beyond that, they had been kept ignorant, but some of them suspected that due process might be in jeopardy. For many hours they had been waiting. Once the chamber’s guards had been changed. Once a small group of Herbers had scurried through the hall and up the staircase toward the Ki’s chambers, and still no word had reached them of the goings on within. Here and there a stomach growled and gurgled for want of food, or a cough might break the silence, or the ing of official wind, but conversation seemed to have been stifled. Ottenhaf-la-Grute, the Assistant Minister of Public Works, was fidgeting with a charcoal quill on a small piece of parchment. Using its large right hand, the Andro would scribble a few notes, only to rub them out and start again. Tederk-la-Faffle, the notary, shifted on its chair from one cheek to the other trying to keep them from falling asleep. The other three being recently promoted officers of the court sat miserably, staring mostly straight ahead so as not to meet the gaze of any of the others, while time dripped on painfully slow. After what had seemed like the ing of an epoch there quite suddenly came the thud of a heavy latch being turned and light spilled out from the doorway of Ping’s bedchamber over the landing and down into the Great Hall. As one, the Andros seated around the table cast their gazes up toward the doorway to see a small party emerge in silence, illuminated by the light of a single lantern in their midst. The party moved along the landing and gathered at the top of the long staircase, pausing there for but a moment before slowly making its way down the steps to the Great Hall, and then led by the Pipling Giawa they approached the table. In quick succession the officials struggled to their feet and each of them nodded with respect to Giawa first, and then to Poopa as that one stepped into plain view from among the others, its eyes set like cold marble. Giawa returned their nod but standing as if dazed the young Ki-ling did not. Then softly, and with great control, practised control, the Pipling spoke. “The Ki of Midrib has ed into the Realm of Mankind. You must now stand as witnesses to the official age of those duties to the Ki-ling Poopa, Poopala-Ping-Ki. Tederk, you have the documents ready?” asked Giawa. “I do, Pipling, but should not a representative of the Temple of Austin also be here to bear witness?” inquired the notary. Giawa looked into the Andro’s eyes, but seeing only concern there, swallowed its pride at the notary’s comment, and

then without malice the Pipling nodded. “You are correct, Tederk, but there must also be a representative from the Temple of the Woman Yolanda. Send your people to fetch them both and tell them not to tarry. I will have this matter concluded within the hour.” The notary whispered orders to two of its juniors there and with all haste they ran to the great door that led to the outside and were gone, and silence hung heavy over the Great Hall for what seemed too long a time. Suddenly, dragging a heavy chair across the stone floor from under the table, Poopa broke the pall of silence and then slumped down into the padding of its seat. Both large forearms plopped lifelessly onto the table as the two small hands cradled the Ki-ling’s heavy chin and jaws, whereupon it sat dejected, now staring down the length of the table in silence. After several moments had ed, Poopa called somewhat weakly to a nearby servant to fill a cup with ale, and as the servant scurried to oblige, the Ki-ling sighed deeply, numbness in its expression. “Gently, My Child, for you need your wits about you until this is done,” counselled Giawa softly. Without the slightest change in its demeanour the Ki-ling onished its mother, saying “Mother, my father has left me with the burden of its office, and I shall do what is expected of me, but right now I need a drink, if not to drown my sorrow then to toast Ping’s ing. Midrib has lost a great Andro and a great Ki,” said Poopa, and as the cup of ale was placed before it, the Andro grasped it and lifted it to its lips. Then the Ki-ling paused, drawing some strength from the act it was about to perform. “To my father, Ping-la-Dhourtin-Ki,” Poopa said with vigour. “To my mother Giawa-la-Has’ja-Pipling of the Realm, and to my sibling Khuli-la-Ping, whose heart I know will be broken by the fact that it could not be here to witness our father’s ing. Khuli, who has ridden out on a mission to save this Alliance, has given up a great treasure, for Ping’s final words were spoken for that Andro. They were words of great love, and I shall ensure that they are ed on, but for Khuli it will be small comfort, not having heard them from its father’s lips.” Giawa laid its large right forearm around Poopa’s right shoulder, and with the small right hand the Pipling stroked its child’s brow gently, sighing as it did so. At length, the Pipling spoke, as if to someone far away. “Khuli is stronger than

the credit you give it. You are both. You shall make a Ki as great as your father was, and Khuli in its turn will show Ping’s great strength in times of adversity, for you are children of Ping and you are children of Giawa, grandchildren of the great Pip Has’ja-la-Sol’ja. Do not forget that, Poopa.” Poopa rested its head against its mother’s strong shoulder, knowing that one was probably correct, but the Ki-ling’s grief was deep and a tear found its way from the corner of a large grey eye to wet Giawa’s palm. Then Poopa-la-Ping-Ki, Chief Elder of the Village of Midrib, put the cup to its lips and swallowed the ale in one gulp, eyeing the servant with an unspoken demand to fill it once again.

Khuli and its entourage having ed beneath the carved sandstone archway of an upper floor bridge had found themselves before the large and open doorway to the Hall of Heroes. Like the Great Gate, the woodworking was a wonder to behold, though at a scale far diminished in lavishness. Inside the hall, the works and decorations spoke of a time gone by, a time of grandeur in the Age of Wood, and by comparison the Great Hall of Midrib seemed simple in its more modern style. Khuli ed running through this part of the Keep as a child, dodging servants carrying tableware in preparation for a meal. It was here that Khuli, Poopa, and Skra had enjoyed the company of relatives for the feast of Midwinter and the feast of the Woman Yolanda. The Ki-ling caught a memory in the corner of one eye and, turning, was fixed by the sight of the large crack that sibling Poopa had put in the leg of a big chair at the age of eight, while swinging over the massive table on the chain of a candelabra. Poopa had foolishly released the chain in mid-swing, feeling, Khuli supposed, that the over-padded armchair would cushion its landing as it came crashing in. Poopa hit the chair back high and to a side, and instead of stopping the young Ki-ling the massive chair had lurched backward and tipped over into the stairwell two metres behind it, pitching Khuli’s sibling headlong down the stairs. It was the youth’s rigorous training that had saved it that chilly afternoon, for in mid-flight it had tumbled and turned itself to a position that afforded it a handhold on the railing. Bruised and hanging from that handrail Poopa had called to its sibling and its cousin to pull it up before Father caught them. The memory brought joy to the Ki-ling and Khuli found that a smile had spread across its face. Ghurda happened to catch the expression while running its gaze around the vast chamber and stopped to ire its husband.

“Don’t tell me,” the Herber instructed. “Is that the chair? Poopa must have had a death wish. Seeing the size of it, that one was fortunate that the chair did not follow down the staircase on top of it.” Ghurda wondered at the smile that lingered still on Khuli’s face. The Ki-ling pulled its eyes out of the memory and looked at Ghurda. “Oh, for the happiness of that time, Ghurda,” replied Khuli. “No responsibility of command, Father young and strong, no sickness or impending war…” It was at that moment that Hanki-la-Dhourtin-Ki entered the hall from another direction attended by an entourage of servants and its Master Herber, the Sage, Vurkor-la-Boont. La-Boont was the chair of the Herbers’ Guild of the Hork Valley Alliance, and had been, among other things, one of Ghurda’s teachers long ago. “Your good wife is referring to that notorious episode of Poopa and the chair, I’ll wager,” shouted Hanki from across the width of the Great Hall. Khuli turned to face Ping’s sibling and cheerily responded while striding toward that Andro. “You always had an eye for a good bet, Elder,” stated the Ki-ling. As they met the two Andros grasped all four sets of hands running their eyes over one and other to make up for the recent infrequency of their meetings. “It is good to see you, Elder,” Khuli said with enthusiasm, and the pair embraced roughly, then standing off a step Hanki shook its head. “Man and Woman!” exclaimed Hanki. “You have filled out since your second wife had its child, Khuli. And you, Ghurda, have you no embrace for me?” asked the portly Andro turning open arms to the young Herber. Ghurda smiled and approached the Ki, grasping hands and then embracing it. “I have missed you, Elder. You always bring such warmth with you.” As if suddenly ing the company, the Ki stepped back and turned to laBoont, saying, “I believe that you are acquainted with my very dear relative, laBoont? May I have the pleasure of re-acquainting you with the Herber Ghurdala-Ping?” asked Hanki. The older Andro bowed to its one-time student and Ghurda returned the gesture. “It is an honour to see you again, Learned One,” offered Ghurda.

The Sage patted Ghurda’s hand and chuckling replied, “The honour is my own, Young Andro, for it is what you do with what we have taught you that proves our worth as teachers.” Then Vurkor added as an aside, “Shall we draw up chairs and have some refreshment? Then we can talk about the matter that has brought you to Astrib.” Without delay the group convened around the massive table which dominated the centre of the Great Hall, and the dragging of heavy chairs across the hard gourtuni wood floor echoed through the cavernous chamber. Instantly the servants swarmed and scurried about the Nobles serving a hot broth made from dried kolita flowers from a previously covered pot upon the table. Two servants carved fancy cakes of sweet bean and hairy-date pie, and served them first to the young guests and then to the older Maestri. Having done their duty, the servants stepped back to stand around the table at a respectful distance. “So,” began la-Boont, “I hear that they have taken to calling it ‘zaschafry flu’ south of Riverib. An apt name, if somewhat erroneous in origin, as it fells them as well as us. In fact, The Guild has rightly labelled it ‘pneumonic lice’. They originated from a glacial melt some kilometres north of here and infected a flock of red zaschafry, small ones, scavenging the region. They were preyed upon by swoop-winged zaschafry on their late fall migration south across the region. Tens of thousands of them fell dead from the skies and the lice found a home in the lungs of Andros and purgs from here to Gastrib. Straerib alone was spared as the zaschafry never made it that far south.” La-Boont paused and sipped hot broth from a silver cup, while absently playing with a slice of hairy-date pie. “Learned One, how is it that Astrib has recovered so quickly from such a serious illness?” asked Ghurda. The Sage cocked its head and dropped an eye upon its former student, who sat transfixed just down the far side of the table. “Luck… as is the usual answer in times such as these. We scrambled to find a treatment, of course, without much luck at all, I’m afraid. We thought that it would wipe us all out before we could get a grip on it. Two hundred and ten Andros died in a matter of a week. Purgs got sick, too, but not as terribly sick as we did. Then, they began to get better and as we struggled to learn why a simple paddock hand discovered the answer. It was mucking out the purg paddock, a truly disgusting job, I will say, when it saw the animals eating black-root

mushrooms that they had pulled in from under the paddock wall. These purgs had been sick, some dying, but after eating the mushrooms they coughed up bloated lice and soon improved.” “Lovely,” mumbled Khuli, pushing away a slice of hairy-date pie. Hanki grimaced with disappointment. “I thought you loved hairy-date,” it exclaimed. Khuli met its gaze somewhat sheepishly. “I did, but I’ve lost my appetite. Good kolita though, Elder,” claimed the Ki-ling swallowing a draught. Hanki chuckled and tossed back a large piece of pie, followed by a gulp of warm kolita broth. Shaking its head, Ping’s sibling cast a knowing glance to Ghurda, and in jest queried, “Weak stomach, My Dear?” Ghurda glanced quickly to its mate and sighed. “That one was never meant to be a Herber, Ki, but I love it anyway.” “Oh!” exclaimed the Sage, onishing Ghurda in gest. “Don’t go giving away all the secrets of The Guild, Young One. That’s some powerful healing you’re telling of.” And laughter filled the Great Hall of Astrib Keep as it often had in Khuli’s far-off memories of simpler times.

Ceramic inlay.. 2meters x 1 meter on the floor of Astrib Great Hall

Once the missionaries had been fed and old times retold, four barrels of concentrated black-root mushroom powder had been loaded onto their sledge, one each for Riverib, Midrib, Gastrib, and one also for Straerib, lest a second wave of infection should find that town. To Khuli’s dismay there was no time for a hot soak afterwards, and with all haste they made ready to re-embark upon the mission that had brought them to Astrib. As they stood ready inside the great gate an hour on, Hanki took its young kin by the hands. Looking into Khuli’s eyes, the Ki of Astrib saw the happy days of times gone by, but in Hanki’s eyes Khuli found a sadness that remained unexpressed. Hanki gripped the young Andro’s shoulder with both right hands and nodded. “Give your mother and father my best wishes, Khuli, and to your sibling,” the Ki paused. “To Poopa, Ki of Midrib, relay my respect and tell that one Astrib will always stand at its side.” “I shall, Elder. Once this sickness is beaten, I think that Poopa will wish to call for a Council of War. Midrib will once again look forward to your presence and to your wise council. Until then, we must ride for Riverib if we are to reach it before darkness. Thank you for your hospitality, Elder.” The great gates opened to the driving of the truglehoonds as they had before, and as the party pulled out beyond the ramparts Khuli heard the booming voice of Hanki as it fell away behind them. “Say hello to your husband for me, Khuli!” called Hanki, and Khuli thought that it had detected a note of amusement in the tone of the Ki’s words, but then a chilly gust of gourtuni scented wind came up from the east and Hanki’s words were gone. Khuli leaned back against the padding of the sledge and settled its shoulder against Ghurda’s own, seeking some comfort against the cold wind and the memory of Mukla’s sacrifice. Then, behind the grunting purg team, the heavy sledge resumed its journey on the road to Riverib, trailing tracks that quickly disappeared beneath the blowing snows.

Chapter 23 The Hunt

Having resumed their mounts, the two parties of hunters exchanged calls of “Good seeking!” and vanished their separate ways, moving out along disparate paths into the depths of the kolita woods. The Ki, along with eight soldiers and the coppersmith Mordic, had chosen to advance southeast, abandoning the shelter of the riverbank. Klyky had determined instead to move northeast along the Doufi, and then to mount the northern bank, favouring the hills there. Within minutes, the Ki and Ki-ling had drifted far out of earshot from one and other, and the hunt was on in earnest. Tracks were plentiful if unimpressive in nature in the new snow, and the thought of coming up short had crossed the minds of every Andro there. What the Master Hunter truly craved was to find the prints of a guergon or even a gremorah or two, but the woods seemed unwilling to provide them. Over the first hour of their adventure, only grange-rat and small gourt tracks could be seen, and the stonemason had become annoyingly vocal in its boredom. Then, as if in response to Gour’s sour ruminations, the sky began to change. The morning had grown suddenly colder with an influx of northwesterly influence, dragging with it a biting breeze from out beyond the vast frozen sea behind them. Almost unexpectedly, the roiling wave of snow had spilled in over the walls of Eruda, erasing Schroon Tower from the skyline and plunging the Kolita-pine Forest into a shadowy gloom. Moments after the first sting of snowfall was felt upon the faces of the hunting parties, all tracks had simply vanished, obscured beneath a bleached and swirling carpet of crystal. The stonemason’s croaking protest cut through the frigid squall, the first of many to be caught and flung by the spinning eddies of icy wind. The startled cry of a truglehoond echoed through the woods, nearly obscured by the rattling of needles among the huge trees. Klyky fought the raging torrent of snow to place a strong arm across the creature’s shoulder, to settle it down. “Blue Fire,” called the big Andro. “Settle down, My Warrior! Do not be afraid of such a little thing as the wind.”

Klyky stroked the massive neck, and the beast responded to its touch. A strong shudder rode the muscles of the truglehoond’s neckline, all the way down to its thick shoulder blades, but then it settled. “Good warrior!” soothed the Master Hunter, and with a deft hand Klyky turned its mount and pressed it into the shelter of the overhanging trees. “You Andros! Calm your mounts or you may be hunting for them once this snow devil es! Stonemason, come over here, beneath the outcrop!” Klyky’s voice, calm and firm, led them out of the chaos of the winter’s rage, and in short order the group had secured their animals and their wits. Beneath the undulating kolita fronds the fury of the wind was lessened, and the snow no longer stung their eyes. Klyky cast a wary gaze about its charges, soldiers, and beasts, all momentarily disoriented, but no worse. In all, they lost no more than an hour before the winds died down and the suns returned, but now even the smallest trace of trackable prints were memories. Klyky tossed its thick shoulders from side to side to cast off a mat of snow and kolita needles, and with determination, that one turned Blue Fire back onto the path. One after the next, the riders followed suit and soon the hunting party was on the move again. They found a stony ridge after only a short ride, and as the wide feet of their truglehoonds began to climb, they rose above the valley and into open sky. The forest glistened below them now, as the party cast their eyes across the landscape of rocky hills and snow. Before long, a scout snorted and then, pointing across the distant crest line of the ridge, it drew Klyky’s gaze to that point, where a dark break in the snow-cover revealed recent movement. The Master Hunter pressed its mount forward, and Blue Fire responded with a burst of muscle and sinew that propelled it from a standstill to a gallop, splashing deep snow all around. As the beast made a beeline toward the dark stain of shadow at the far side of the clearing the others followed, as though pulled along by its force of will. Klyky, holding the rein in its large left hand, crouched forward low in the saddle, rolling with the springing strides of the blue rocket between its legs. In thirty bounds they reached the other side of the clearing, and Blue Fire skittered to a stop not two metres from the spot in question. The Master Hunter dismounted, dropping silently into the half metre of snow at Blue Fire’s feet, as the others rode up to stop in a semi-circle several metres away, so as not to disturb any sign. The young Andro who had been responsible for the sighting leaned forward, low in its saddle, and peering into the impression, which had seemed so much more

impressive from a distance, asked, “What is it, Master Hunter? Did my eyes trick me?” After a moment of silence, the Ki-ling looked up over its shoulder to the mounted scout, and with a glint of intrigue in its eye, Klyky spoke. “Your eyes are sharp, Nim-la-Fou. This is not nothing.” Klyky turned, rising, and placed its large right hand on Blue Fire’s neck. “We may have stumbled upon a worthy quarry, indeed. See? Its tracks rise toward the very peak of the ridge there, and then descend the other side in long strides toward cover in the trees beyond.” Eyeing the young Andro, the Ki-ling awaited a response. The workings of Nim’s mind were apparent behind its brow, and presently an expression of excitement grew in its ashen eyes. “It was startled, perhaps by us, and darted for a hiding place among the kolitawood. The tracks are large, but not toed, Ki-ling, suggesting booted feet. An Andro for certain, but why of interest to us?” responded the young scout. “Why indeed?” interjected the stonemason, unimpressed. Klyky smiled and clucked its tongue. “That is a very good question, Young Scout. Why should we care about the footfalls of a lone traveller in the woods not ten kilometres from Eruda… in the dead of winter, in the months before impending war with the Eastern Alliance? Why indeed?” Klyky added, in a mocking retort to the stonemason’s query. “A spy, Ki-ling?” proposed Nim. Gour’s expression soured even more than usual. That one did not appreciate being made to look the fool, and quickly struggling to rescue itself from such position, replied, “As I said, Young Scout, why indeed? We must call for re-enforcements from the city, Ki-ling.” Klyky looked sternly toward Gour and took the Andro’s measure in silence. “Well done, Young Scout,” added the Master Hunter, while fixing its gaze upon the stonemason. “We are here, Gour. We will find this mysterious Andro long before anyone else could get here from Eruda. However, perhaps you should turn back to the city, so as not to encumber us on our mission,” said the Ki-ling, with some finality. Gour met the Ki-ling’s glare for perhaps an unwise duration and then, visibly onished, the stonemason nodded. “As you wish, Ki-ling. What shall I report?” inquired the chastened Andro. Klyky stared back coldly, tenderly stroking Blue Fire’s neck. A pause ensued, which noticeably agitated all those gathered there.

“If I learn that you have ‘reported’ a single word of this to anyone, Stonemason, you will not live to regret your action. Do I make myself clear?” demanded the Ki-ling. All the colour drained away from Gour’s face in one instant. That Andro bowed, curtly, nervously, aware of the Master Hunter’s reputation. “Understood, Ki-ling, I will say nothing,” promised the stonemason, who then turned its poor mount downhill toward the main trail back to Eruda. All the way until it had been swallowed by the trees, Gour could feel the eyes of the Master Hunter on its back. All that way sweat dripped into that Andro’s own eyes, as it fully expected to feel the impact of a spear at any moment. Klyky had thought about it for a few seconds, though that one realized the value of a chastened acquaintance at the head of the Stonemasons’ Guild and thought better of such action. Then, unbidden, the image of Klyky’s mother held ransom in Kraas flashed across that Andro’s mind. For a moment, the Ki-ling’s musings turned inward, and Xcelpyr’s warning repeated in its mind. “My Master?” interjected the young scout, jumping the Ki-ling out of itself. Klyky turned its eyes to the youth, then coming fully back into the moment, drew a settling breath, and swung up onto Blue Fire’s broad back. “Follow at ten paces behind me, Andros, so as not to disturb the tracks. We are hunting for a spy, and very likely a well-trained and deadly one. Be on your guards, and be quiet,” commanded the Master Hunter of Eruda, and in single file the remaining party of nine riders descended the snow-covered hill. Long into the day they tracked the stranger, deep into the kolita clad hills beyond Eruda’s easternmost guard tower. They rested for fifteen minutes in a small clearing where the bandit’s trail had split into two separate paths, while Klyky poured over the assassin’s tells, and then they resumed, split into teams of four and five. It seemed that the spy had taken to the trees, but to little avail, as its age there had disturbed the snow so newly gathered on the kolita fronds. Then, while the group of five riders was searching the branches high above, they were stopped by the loud and sudden cracking of a twig. Unexpectedly, a violent thrashing came from the underbrush just off to their right, as leaf and snow and twig erupted in a frightening shower toward them. From within this storm of confusion flew a volley of short, but lethally pointed spears, flung by the release of a hidden weapon, most likely triggered by the unsuspecting footfall of one of the truglehoonds. The mounts exploded in panic beneath their riders, who struggled to settle them down, and in the confusion,

several slammed into one another’s flanks. Three riders fell, one thrown, the others knocked from their saddles by the impact of spears. Klyky dismounted, quickly searching the bushes for movement. The other remaining rider followed suit, taking shelter behind its hoond and fully expecting a second volley of spears, but none came. “Andros!” called the Ki-ling, now leaping from one fallen soldier to the next inspecting their conditions. Klyky’s mind whirled, a flurry of evidence assaulting its senses. Spear wound to the right shoulder, spear wound to the chest, not good. Spear wound to the hip, not too much blood, less serious; but when Klyky found the young scout Nim, the Master Hunter’s heart skipped a beat. No spear wound, no blood to speak of, but in falling from its hoond the youth had landed poorly. Its neck had been broken in the impact, and it lay nearly motionless on the leaflittered trail. Nim’s eyes darted wildly from its terrified face, and finding Klyky there, looking down in pain into its own searching eyes, the young Andro knew. It could not feel its body, could not feel its feet or hands. A spasm rode the young scout’s frame, and there came a moment that it realized that it was not breathing. Vision slipped away, and then the sound faded… and then it was over. Klyky stared down into the open eyes of the young Andro, whose head was cradled in its large right hand, and with the three fingers of its small right hand, closed the poor creature’s eyes. A surge of nausea tried to overwhelm the Kiling, but with great effort Klyky pushed it down and drew a slow and agonizing breath. “Helen!” roared the Andro. “You take this child so cruelly? What kind of Woman are you?” A moment ed and, knowing that there would never be an answer to its plea, Klyky shook its head and grunted in disgust before rising to assume control of the situation that was still salvageable. The Master Hunter and the other unwounded Andro tended to the others, and with the use of a signal whistle the second squad of hunters was recalled. Two truglehoonds had been felled by the spears, as well, and they were quickly put out of their suffering by the returning party of hunters. Meanwhile, patched and separated from its spear, the hip wounded Andro was made ready to travel and was sent with all haste back to Eruda for care, a soldier accompanying it. The second rider had not been so lucky and having succumbed to its wounds, was bound to Nim. Their bodies were sent back with the others for funeral. Within an hour, the whole thing had gone so wrong. Klyky stood alone, while the remaining four soldiers sat awaiting that one’s orders, and somewhere in the forest, the spy had slipped away to safety.

Three hours into the day, the hunt resumed. The spy’s tells were subtle, but the forest could not hide that one forever. If it were possible, Klyky would have loved its father’s assistance, for between them they could find a single drop of water in the vastness of the sea. To the Ki-ling’s regret, however, that one was out of reach, deep in the kolita woods to the south, and with only four riders left, the odds of finding the quarry was already lower than that Andro preferred. Four hours in and the Ki-ling had come to realize that the spy knew these lands well, perhaps as well as itself. The Master Hunter scoured the depths of its memory to mine its training, its stores of knowledge about the secrets of the hunt, and at each turn Klyky found that in truth, its knowledge should have been bringing better results. Frustration was getting the better of it. At this point, the only way that Andro could see a good outcome was if the spy made a mistake. At once the Ki-ling knew that that was unlikely, for all indications were that this quarry had a wealth of skills of its own. Questions began to crop up in Klyky’s mind. How could it not have seen the trap that had cost it so dearly? How could this infiltrator have steered the great Master Hunter so far from its standard, then in a moment of shock the Ki-ling made a discovery. Ego had blinded it. The trail had been left to deliberately carry the Ki-ling as far away as possible. The game was a distraction to weaken the hunters, to separate them and in so doing to expose the true target, the Ki of Eruda. Klyky pulled back hard on Blue Fire’s reins and stopped dead in the middle of the path. Quickly, the others rode up alongside and pressed their leader for answers, but upon hearing its response, they were incredulous. “Master,” said the nearest rider, “how can this be? This spy would have to have arranged all of this weeks ago, and yet we saw it bolt from the ridge.” Klyky frowned. “Did we? Or did we only want to see it. Nim saw it, but perhaps not. That one pointed out the patch of darkened snow, but did any of us actually see a figure move from that spot?” A second rider, seeming unconvinced by the inference, shook its head. “Master Hunter, can you be saying that Nim deceived us? But that one is dead at the hands of this spy we seek.” Klyky dropped its chin to its chest and thought hard. “I think that it was coincidence, good for the spy, bad for Nim, and worse for us. The Ki is in

danger! We have a long way to go Andros, come!” cried the Master Hunter, and turning Blue Fire back in the direction from whence they had come, that one led the charge to the south. They did not rest as the hours flew by, not to eat, not to drink, for the moments could not be spared. In desperation they left the lumber trail and crossing the frozen Doufi steered deep into the forest range on the other bank. Gripping the signal whistle between its teeth, Klyky blew blast after blast, hoping that it might be heard, that it was not too late, hoping against hope. Dusk was creeping into the sky, and with it the shadows began to thicken beneath the overhanging kolita fronds, casting pockets of darkness beyond the reach of common light. In response the Andros’ eyes adjusted and swung into the other wavelengths available to them. Ultraviolet was of little use, less so perhaps than the range of visible light that had begun to fade. Infrared then, and the shadows began to move as small creatures cast their warmth into the icy evening air. A multitude of sparkling movement now guided them through paths otherwise buried in darkness, around curves in the trail. Still the whistle blasts reverberated through the trees, bouncing here and there, deflected by some and absorbed by others, but were they being heard? Suddenly, a second whistle pierced the freezing air from somewhere far ahead and to the west. Klyky calculated the source to be at some altitude above their current location. Turning sharply at the junction with a westerly lumber path, the Master Hunter and its crew pressed onward for another kilometre before they felt the ground beneath their mounts begin to incline sharply. Klyky understood. They had begun to climb the slope of Mount Helen, and that meant that Father had led its party to the old temple near the cauldron of that peak. It meant that the spy had indeed attacked them on the trail below and that Xcelpyr had sought the relative safety of walls from which to mount its defence. Only one question remained unanswered… would the Ki-ling’s party arrive in time to help?

Chapter 24 Ping

Nearly three thousand warmly dressed Andros stood in silent reverence beneath the moaning of a frigid wind, gathered around a massive tower of wood upon the frozen Hork. The immense pyre had been constructed two hundred metres off the docks of Midrib by the Monks of Austin and the Monks of Yolanda, working in unaccustomed unity over the course of the previous day. Dignitaries had arrived from Astrib, Straerib, Gastrib, and Riverib, as well as a party of Highborn Guild Masters from Pruskinom, all to be witnesses at the funeral of the great Ki of Midrib and the Changing of the Charge. The gathering stood in apprehension of the arrival of Giawa and Poopa-la-Ping-Ki, who would be carried in across the ice from Midrib upon a great sledge resplendent in the trappings of office by twelve of the strongest truglehoonds, accompanied by fourteen of the Ki’s personal guard. The wait was becoming a burden for many among the crowd, but never once was heard a grumble. Ping had lived and died for Midrib and for the Hork Valley Alliance, and in the quiet dignity of the throng of citizens there gathered was displayed an abiding love for their fallen leader. Even the High-Born Pruskinomers stood subdued, affected by the deep sorrow projected by those gathered there. When the Riverside Gate slowly opened, and the procession of Ping’s family began, the crowd let out an audible sigh of grief. As the Ki’s guard carried the litter forth and across the ice, a prayer of succession was whispered by every mouth, and though subdued in volume, the strength of that prayer could be heard above the haunting wind. Oh, the words were by no means understandable from the river’s edge, where the procession had begun, but the meaning was clear to those riding within the litter. There, a mother comforted its child, and a child comforted its mother, for the loss that both now endured, so profoundly. Yet, as the long ride proceeded from the river’s edge to the landing that stood before the pyre, both thought not of this morning, but of long-gone days. Giawa ed the first time it laid eyes on a rather hard and wiry Andro being led

through the parade grounds of Pruskinom by a gathering of the Pip’s advisers. Outshone by the most ordinary among them, the young Andro yet possessed a bearing that had impressed the Pipling. Adorned by no frills or shiny medals, as were many of its escorts, there remained a certain something about that one that conspired to catch the Pipling’s eye. Shortly, the procession had disappeared from view and been mostly forgotten by Giawa, as the many duties of royalty had cluttered up the balance of its day. That evening, before the gathering of the Kis for the Feast of Mid-Summer in the court of Giawa’s father, Has’ja-laSol’ja-Pip, ruler of all Elysium, the rather plain-faced young Andro had become a sudden item. Led now by the Royal Sergeant-at-Arms, the Andro, dressed in the uniform of a Major-General, complete with ruffles and flourishes to spare, was presented before the Pip’s table and all the royals and special guests seated there. As it stood there, nervously shifting its golden-yellow eyes here and there around the opulently appointed grandeur of the throne-room of the High Pip of Elysium, Ping was truly overwhelmed. It could not seem to keep its eyes on any one face for more than a fraction of an instant. Its heart, once injured by the tip of a dagger, now raced, almost a quiet buzzing in its chest. As Father had told it so very long ago, “Deep, slow… in through your nose, out through your mouth… that’s it… just breathe.” That was the moment that Ping first saw it. That was the moment that the panic started to fade. That was the first time since Ping had set foot in the room that its eyes had remained on a single face for any time at all. It was a happy face, one that spoke of honesty and with a great strength and a beauty such as Ping could not seeing before. Oh… thought Ping. This is better… Breathe… This Andro had not been looking at Ping, not directly, anyway. Suddenly it was, and as Ping realized it, that heart began to race again. Ping was conflicted, wanting to avert its eyes, and totally unable to. Oh! Mankind almighty! ran through its mind. The other Andro, still smiling and still holding its stare, seemingly into the depths of Ping’s soul, nodded. It was a small nod, but by no means curt, and at once Ping was set at ease and returned the nod. The Andro averted its grey eyes, shining with the fire from the hundreds of torches that lit the throne room. It was staring to the left, then looking back at Ping the Andro

motioned with those shiny grey eyes, a motion indicating that Ping should also look to the left… its right. Doing so, Ping saw the face of the High Pip looking back at its own from a few seats to the left of that enchanting face. The Pip’s face was wearing an expression of query, and its somewhat harder eyes held a hint of impatience, as well. Ping was realizing that, while smitten by the stranger, it had managed not to its own introduction to the Pip before the Court of Pruskinom. Now embarrassed, nervous beyond knowing, Ping bowed as deeply as it could to the High Pip, and with a tongue schooled early in societal politeness, announced, “Thank you, My Pip. You do me great honour.” The Pip’s eyes never wavered, although after what seemed like an eternity to Ping, they softened just a bit. “So, Young Andro, are you enamoured with my second child?” queried the Pip, who, as embarrassment engulfed Ping’s face for a second time, revealed a wry wit at the corners of its own mouth. Ping’s eyes opened wide, its mind raced, its heart roared. Its eyes darted to the Pipling who, until that moment had been just a stranger in the crowd, a beautiful stranger in the crowd. Ping’s eyes darted back to the Pip, who simply stared back without expression. After a moment longer, when it seemed as though Ping might really make a fool of itself, Has’jala-Sol’ja addressed the young officer again. “Well, Ping-la-Dhourtin? Is that one not one whom you would like to meet and to know?” queried the Pip. The question seemed an honest one. Ping swallowed and breathed deeply. Slowly the Andro replied. “Yes, My Pip, I would. Thank you,” answered Ping, and turning to view the Pipling once more, saw that that one was still looking back, smiling. Turning to address its father, the Andro nodded to the Pip, and the Pip nodded back. “Then,” spoke Has’ja, startling Ping from its vigil of adoration. “Then, a meeting will be arranged between you in the Court Gardens. You, Ping-la-Dhourtin, have proven your loyalty to this realm by having orchestrated the great victory west of the mighty Hork. Your victory in the distant fields of the Lyfgus-Haug has ensured the overall defeat of the Western Alliance. Your remarkable leadership along the Valley of the River Hork has saved countless lives and inspired me to name you Hero of Elysium, and the people and lands of Midrib Village shall

henceforward be bequeathed to you and your descendants. Have you anything to say to the Pipdom, Young Andro?” Ping was truly at a loss. In its eyes, the victory had been a monumental effort by countless Easterners to stave off the advances of a slave culture bent on dominating the continent. There was credit due to more than just itself, and despite its apprehension of inducing the Pip’s displeasure, Ping spoke up. The Andro began unsteadily at first, but incrementally its courage came through. It was the courage of an Andro who had been brought up in a household of courage and of honour, and of duty to its people. “My Most Gracious Pip, I can only say this in response to your kind words. If not for the loyalty and bravery of every Andro under my command on the fields of the Lyfgus-Haug, I would have achieved nothing at all. If not for the sacrifice of the villages that fed us and those who lodged us at great risk to themselves, I would have achieved nothing. I humbly submit that it was your people who gave you this victory, My Pip.” And it was then that Giawa knew that Ping was its soulmate and that they would make a great future together—the Pipling and the Newest Ki within the realm. They met formally two days later and were buzzed about by over-attentive servants and minders, but from the start, the two Andros meshed. They understood things in much the same way and shared a vision for the future of the newly won western region of the Hork and the now free lands of the LyfgusHaug beyond. As the litter was placed atop its stand, the light jostling pulled Giawa back to the present. Suddenly, the past fell away and the present pressed its truth against the Pipling’s consciousness. Ping was gone, and the knowledge of it cut that Andro like a razor. Giawa gripped her new Ki’s hand tightly for a brief moment, and Poopa looked up from its lap to study its mother’s face. The Ki saw there a reflection of some disturbed truth that had taken its mother away for a moment, only to return that one cruelly to the world as it was. Poopa placed an arm around its parent’s shoulder and for the first time since Ping’s ing two days before, the Pipling wept. The Captain of the Guard opened the corner of the curtain and seeing the painful moment within the litter, it nodded respectfully and closed the blind again. The crowd outside murmured and gathering up their courage the Pipling and the Ki composed themselves and exited the shelter

together. The crowd did not cheer, but only stood in silence to honour the ing of the Great Ki as they thought it should be done. There, at the centre of it all, elevated to the top of the tower of wood, lay the body of a fallen hero, an Andro who had cared more for its people than for itself, truly. There had been, in their opinion, none who could compare. Standing there amid the anguished masses, Poopa felt alone and tiny, yet even in its own suffering, the new Ki knew what its father would expect it to do. Letting go of Giawa’s hand, Poopa-la-Ping-Ki of Midrib, stepped forward to address its people. As the Ki’s grey eyes beheld the great circle of Androgenari, there gathered for a single solemn purpose, its heart found some small degree of solace in their unity. For several seconds Poopa soaked in the soul of the moment, amid the moaning of the whipping wind, and then began. “People of the Great Alliance of the River Valley Hork… People of all the lands that stretch to the vast, Eastern Sea. People of Pruskinom, and those who still inhabit the ghostly ruins of Voughorf, lost in the Aftertime of Dev Lok. I salute you! Here lies a hero, here lies a Ki among Kis. Who can be its equal?” The crowd stood silent. “Who can give as this one gave?” asked the new Ki of Midrib. Still, there was no answer from the crowd. “Ping believed that you could be that one,” Poopa said, raising its left hands toward the body of its father, wrapped in oil-leaf atop the structure of kindling. “That one, who awaits the company of Mankind in the Great Dev Lok, knew that you are great. Ping-la-Dhourtin, Ki of the Hork Valley Alliance, by the blessing of the High Pip, Has’ja-la-Sol’ja, and ruler of all of Elysium!” said Poopa, and then that one paused to breathe, for fear that emotion might overwhelm it. Poopa rested its gaze on the decking at its feet and drew several deep, soothing breaths. Then, raising its face to the throng of friends and neighbours, merchants and makers, Andros that Poopa had known since their births, many elder Andros who had known Poopa since its own birth, Poopa was speaking to them for the family, for Mother and for Khuli, for Ghurda. “Set your torches to light from the pans that burn before you… and let us send my father to the Ones who gave us all life!”

The crowd became active in an instant, like the soft, deep, gentle hum of a hive of bees. Each in turn and with great purpose pulled a short rod of firewood from its belt. Andros then mingled toward the burning pans of coal, and each lit the tip of its torch, which burst into flames of extraordinary temperature. Then one after another, they strolled past the base of the pyre, and one after the other they tossed their torches among the tangled branches. It took over an hour to throw the final torch, and by that time the last few Andros had to run up and toss and run away. The base was a virtual firestorm, and the flames were orange and yellow, pulsing, whirling feathers of destruction. The tower of long gourtuni beams, dispersed as a chimney, fed fresh air to the hungry flames as they swirled among them, and at the hellish top, the body of a great Andro, wrapped as a gift to their deities, was delivered to Mankind, to Helen and Eugene, Maximillian and Austin and Yolanda. Into the afternoon and evening, the pyre raged, sending a deep black column of smoke high into the winter sky above the Valley of the River Hork, and beneath the base of the flames the ice could be heard hissing and cracking in protest. Soon the ice would fail, and the river would claim the blackened tower to the rushing currents below the ice. Aboard the racing sledge, bouncing and rattling over the frozen Hork on its way from Astrib to a fateful meeting in Riverib, Khuli could see the blackness of the column against the grey-white dome of snow clouds, but could only guess as to its meaning. Was Midrib on fire? Had a western spy succeeded in getting inside the walls and wreaking havoc? Or was it a vast pyre of the dead from the zaschafry flu? Khuli saw that all of its companions had also been transfixed on the frightening omen and swore that Riverib must not slow them down from getting home any more than absolutely necessary. Yet the Ki-ling was fully aware that there was no way to hurry things. Forti was inclined to be far less accommodating than Hanki, and if Poopa had been correct, the Ki of Riverib might want more than its fair share of the cargo they bore. In any case, the eastern riverbank was coming toward them at great speed, and above it the massive wood and stone ramparts and Keep of Riverib loomed larger by the moment. Then they were upon the riverbank. In a sudden explosion of power, the purgs hurled themselves from the flat river ice up onto the frozen boat launch ramp of Riverib harbour and the sledge flew along behind them onto the landing platforms beyond. Jouf holding the reins in all four hands pulled back with everything it had and the purgs, ever responsive to their driver’s touch, pulled up and drove their wide paws into the snow, sending such a fan of heavy

slush before them and soaking the Andro dock guards positioned on the causeway. Several of the engers raised a loud hoot of excitement while the slush ran in sheets from their gourt-skins as they leaped from the sledge. The dock guards having shaken the soaking slush from their own gourt-skins in quick order, had moved toward the sledge. Khuli stood to face them and had to raise its voice to be heard above the harbour wind. “I am Khuli-la-Ping, Ki-ling of Midrib. We come from Astrib with urgent business with the Ki of Riverib. You will arrange a warm and dry place for our purgs and feed them. They have been worked hard and will need the best your paddocks have to offer. Announce our presence to the Dock Master so that we will not be kept from our business.” One of the dock guards arranged with Jouf to lead the team and sledge out of the wind and into a hangar just off the docks, while the other waved to the main guardhouse a signal for the Dock Master to come urgently. Khuli, Ghurda, and the others moved to a covered shelter out of the wind and began to loosen the fastenings of their gourt-skins while they waited for the arrival of the Dock Master, and Khuli spoke briefly with Captain Frin who immediately disappeared into the hangar to ensure that their cargo remained secure. Then Khuli, with a feeling of unease nagging in its mind, moved to a place with an unimpeded view southward along the frozen Hork and wondered again at the meaning of the black column that rose high into the late afternoon sky.

Chapter 25 The Road to Pruskinom

Great waves of snow had been falling heavily for several days, while the caravan of sledges had followed the rise and fall of the main road between Midrib and Pruskinom. Six large sledges they were, laden with leathers and cases of crockery and Midribi handcrafts and cakes of Gastrib salt. Each had a driver and two spear carriers and was pulled by its team of ten hefty purgs, and each was accompanied by a troop of mounted soldiers, ten before and ten at the rear carried by powerful truglehoonds. A golden mist from the fog of their breathing lit by the flickering glow of their raised torches accompanied them all in the late evening gloom, and as they advanced, the forest of winter bare gourtuni trees seemed to dance in silence all about them, while high above, Blue cast down a glow to lift their spirits. As fortune would have it, the wind had seen fit to give them all a little peace in which to toil, while they mushed for the distant capital on the orders of the Pipling Giawa. Their mission was twofold: to carry a wealth of trade goods for the capital marketplace, and to seek an audience with the Pip to request military aid for the Hork Valley Alliance before the impending hostilities in the spring. At the column’s head rode a solidly built Andro whose olive-skinned face protruded from its hood, casting a weary gaze into the darkening woods. Its name was Kork-la-Semkin, Second Captain of Giawa’s personal guard, and it rode tall atop the truglehoond Yolanda’s Warrior, a battle-hoond of great distinction. Beside them rode the warrior Lemkin-la-Druse, Chief Ambassador for the Ki of Midrib and Emissary to the Pip, atop a snow white hoond of nearly equal reputation, named Winterfire. Together these Andros made a fine frontrunner for the troops, where from time to time a scout would ride up from the rear or from the advanced point to offer up a report. Mostly, they rode in relative silence, ing infrequent observances between them, while occasionally from the convoy a sharp command would ring out to the purgs from their drivers. As if one being, the teams of purgs drew their sledges with grace and ease over the frozen roadway. Their massive and

powerful feet, thickly padded and rough, gripped the ice without equal among all the beasts of Elysium. Once a wild species, the family of purg had wandered widely across the vastness of Elysium and with the eons, they adapted. They were hunters, creatures of Helen, Woman of the Hunt, according to the scriptures of Yolanda, and as such, had been tasked to trail the great herds of gourt and pumpi, and to cull them and keep them strong. Purgs, the blixonhog, and the gremorah, the guergon and the zaschafry, had ruled the lands of Drodenar for all of ancient times and had kept Helen’s order for the good of all… but that was all to change. The Man Chow, it was said, had given to the Andro the gifts of speech and language, and the power to make technology, beginning with fire, then agriculture, and woodworking, stone, and metal. Chow had taken the Andros out of the swamps and the trees and onto the land to rise up to become the dominant creature on all the lands of Elysium. At the direction of the Man Henderson, they had made settlements across Elysium, spread out with room to grow, so as not to encroach upon one and other. All was well, so the story goes, and Androgenari society grew and thrived. Fighting between settlements was rare, due to the distances between them, and the fact that Henderson had seen fit to place his colonies in locations rich with resources. Book of Yolanda, Mankind: “They grew like the Fryx and changed the places where they settled to suit themselves.” A rider appeared from a point just then and ambling in on its frisky hoond, approached Captain Kork and Lemkin-la-Druse. Coming to a stop before the officers, the scout bowed curtly and as Kork and Lemkin drew up their mounts that Andro spoke first. “Scout la-Gong reporting, Elders. There appears to be a group of Andros just off the road ahead, about a kilometre. I left scout la-Perna to maintain a watch… What are your orders?” Kork and Lemkin exchanged a brief glance, and Lemkin nodded its head as if in punctuation to the scout’s words. “Raiders or bandits, either way, we shall not be deterred.” The Captain nodded and turning to the scout, queried, “How many?” The scout replied that it was difficult to say, but it had seen ten personally, armed with

mostly staves and knives. Kork sighed. “So, there might be a lot more beyond the trees.” He nodded to the scout and said, “Ride back along the convoy and inform the rear guard, la-Gong. Tell everyone along the way to prepare for a fight.” La-Gong nodded. “Elders,” it said, and began to trot its hoond back along the line of sledges to carry out its orders. Kork turned back to la-Druse, saying, “Well, it looks as though we are to have a little break in the boredom,” and then the Captain turned its truglehoond back to take command of its Andros. Lemkin-la-Druse turned its wizened gaze upon the ten riders at the front of the column, two abreast, saying, “You Andros are with me. Long blades, Warriors, long blades and shields, as it seems we have company up ahead.” The warriors complied without a word, efficient in their training, and as they moved along, they scanned the forest with their eyes, alternating from common light to infrared. They did not adjust their speed as they advanced, for they had been moving at a good pace, and as they advanced, two warriors leaped from each sledge and took up position marching alongside, leaving the drivers alone on board. The bronze weapons glinted in the cold, blue moonlight. Long and sharp they were, and some had teeth. Some were curved, but all were deadly and the Nooken feared them as magic, for they possessed no metal. Still, a Nooken axe with a blade of obsidian was nothing to disdain, and every Andro knew it. They were razor sharp and frequently imbued with the sap of the scab-flower bush, a deadly poison that breaks down with cooking. To be eaten by the Nooken was a fate worse than death, for it was said to corrupt one’s soul and forever bar an Andro from ing to Dev Lok after its time of trial. Wounded limbs were immediately amputated, and that would sometimes save a victim, but a gash on one’s body was beyond healing in the field. Only at the hands of a truly gifted Herber could such a wound be treated successfully and not always then. So, onward they pressed, anxiously. After almost an hour the caravan rose over the crest of a shallow hill and found itself ing through a much thinner section of trees. As the forward guard entered the partial clearing, a voice rang out from just ahead. “Stand!” it warned. “We have your Andro!” called the voice. La-Druse pulled up on Winterfire’s reigns, stopping the battle-hoond and casting

its own gaze toward the sound of the voice. The Chief Adviser caught sight of a big Andro holding la-Perna with a long knife pressed against its throat. La-Druse allowed its riders to come up alongside, presenting the owner of the voice with a line of eleven well-armed mounted warriors in hopes of dissuading it. The column slowed to a stop behind. The Andro seemed unimpressed, and la-Druse turned to the scout la-Gong, who had ridden back to serve as go between from Kork. “I don’t think they are Nooken,” said la-Druse. “Tell the Captain that.” La-Druse turned back to the hostage taker and drew a long breath. “Who are you, and what do you want?” enquired the Chief Ambassador. Twelve more Andros became visible at the treeline and attaching short blades onto the tips of their staves turned them into spears. Immediately these were ed by ten more, and in the dim light, la-Druse recognized the outline of armour on more than a few of them. Definitely not Nooken. This struck la-Druse as perhaps a squad of infantry. They could be good fighters, but there was only one way to find that out. La-Druse called out again, calling for a parley with the group’s leader. An Andro stepped forward from the treeline and walked out toward the centre of the small clearing, stopping fifty yards away and planting the blade of its spear into the icy ground. “What is your business here?” that one called out to la-Druse. La-Druse dismounted Winterfire and, handing its shredder to a mounted Andro, turned and began to stroll toward the stranger. Spreading all four hands to indicate that it was not armed, la-Druse approached the other and stopped no more than four metres away. The other spread its four hands as well at that time and stepped forward leaving its spear behind. “What is your business here?” the other demanded. La-Druse sized the Andro up, assessing whether it could defeat it hand-to-hand, and decided that it was possible, but not certain. “Why are you interfering with a caravan that is clearly carrying the insignia of the House of Ping of Midrib?” laDruse enquired. The other stared at la-Druse for a few moments longer, and then nodded curtly. “I am Khuli-la-Murgha, first-born of Murgha-la-Kint, Chief of the village of Rib.

My Chief requires compensation for the age of this road between here and the capital. You have many splendid things aboard those sledges,” assessed Khuli-la-Murgha. La-Druse looked back along the column of sledges and nodded just perceptibly. Immediately, the spear bearers advanced toward the clearing and stopped behind their cavalry Andros. La-Druse, having turned back to la-Murgha, shrugged, and said simply, “Release my Andro and then we will talk about compensation. But know this: we are preparing for a war in the spring. When it comes, your village may prefer to be in the good graces of the Ki of Midrib and the Hork Valley Alliance. What happens here will determine whether you have friends or stand alone.” La-Murgha stood firmly and snorted, “Rib is under the protection of the capital. Your threats do not frighten us.” At that very moment, the line of truglehoonds parted, and slowly and with great presence, Yolanda’s Warrior stepped forward with Captain Kork on its back. Kork’s eyes met la-Murgha’s and froze there. The other stood motionless, staring up at the Captain. A flicker of surprise rode across la-Murgha’s brow, and the expression of arrogance deserted that one. “Captain la-Semkin!” spoke the Andro with some surprise. “I did not know that this convoy was under your protection,” stammered la-Murgha. Turning to the hostage taker, la-Murgha signalled to release the scout. It seemed that the Ki of Midrib did not worry la-Murgha much, but the Captain of the Guard to a member of the royal family of Pruskinom was an entirely different matter. Within a minute la-Perna had reed the convoy and the road was made clear for their advancement. Kork glowered down at la-Murgha for a few seconds more, and then leaning forward over the powerful shoulder of Yolanda’s Warrior, the Captain embarked on a booming rebuke. “If I hear about Rib conducting robbery in this forest again, I will ride out with a seasoned division and hang the entire village. Do I make myself clear, laMurgha?” The first-born of Murgha-la-Kint backed away a few steps and bowed respectfully. “Pardons, Captain. I will relay your words to my mother. Please, pardons.” The Captain’s scowl did not waver, and as Yolanda’s Warrior advanced menacingly past the Andro, Kork called down without looking back, “You and

your party will fall in behind us as a rear, rear guard, and you will provide us escort for the balance of the road to Pruskinom. Perhaps four days ride out of your way will give you time to contemplate your choices.” “But, Captain, we are not all mounted,” mewled the Andro. “Really?” replied the Captain. “Then I suggest you double mount whatever animals you do have. It’s likely to be a long and unpleasant trip.” And upon pressing forward into the road, Kork called back to the column to proceed double-time toward Pruskinom. La-Murgha dropped its chin and proceeded toward the Andros in the treeline to relay the Captain’s orders. As the convoy pressed forward through the little clearing and entered the narrower space of the road beyond, the spear bearers hopped back up onto their sledges. As the mounted rear guard disappeared from view, a grumbling collection of small village Andros began to take up the rear, twenty-three in all ed by ten truglehoonds out of the underbrush. Two days to Pruskinom, two days back, and when they returned to their village Ki, there would be a reckoning.

Chapter 26 Long Live the Ki

The night before had been bleak for Poopa. Watching as Ping wheezed out its last breaths had torn a great wound in the young Andro’s heart, yet the morning seemed determined to torture that one further. Sunlight was pouring through the window above the Ki-ling’s head, driving prickly needles of agony deep into its brain. Cramps came and went along the whole of Poopa’s body, as steady as waves against the banks of the Hork. The Andro felt the swoon of nausea for a second or two, followed by a burning sensation of panic. Its large, grey eyes blinked and tried to focus, as if to will the world to stop spinning around them and, fighting the compulsion to swoon, Poopa dug an elbow into the gourt-skin covered mattress and forced itself upright, slowly, unsteadily. The right shoulder scraping along the bedpost provided stability and the chest and trunk followed sluggishly behind. The Andro halted then and drew a long, slow breath, and after some time, exhaled noisily. Only then did its head begin to clear and the room caught itself and stopped spinning. Poopa roamed through its pupils, adjusting to ultraviolet in the end, for that seemed to sooth the intensity of its headache. Gently but deliberately, the Andro reached for a silver cup upon the table beside the bed. Slowly, raising the cup from the table to its lips, Poopa took a sip of water and noisily cleared its throat. A few more sips were needed, but finally the burning dryness in its throat gave way to relief. A muffled belch escaped the Pipling’s throat, followed by a long sigh of satisfaction, and a grimace rode across its lips ending with a smack. Replacing the cup, the Andro pulled its legs around, swinging them over the edge of the bed, and gingerly sat upright with its eyes fixed on the floor. Poopa closed those eyes then and the image of Ping came, unbidden. As it had done in the minutes before its ing, Ping stared peacefully upon the face of its eldest child. The Ki did not speak then, for speaking had been exhausted, yet in its father’s eyes Poopa had seen volumes. There was the sleepiness of impending death, and still there was room for pride and joy for the child before it. A touch of sadness lived there also, and Poopa had known that that sadness had been

there for Khuli, far away on important business, and robbed of its father’s final goodbye. As the Ki-ling sat there, feet upon the cold floor, the memory lingered and Poopa became aware of the feeling of Ping’s frail hand resting within its own. Ping’s eyes had closed, for sleep had taken that one, and the features of its face had grown soft. Long puffs of breath came softly from between the Ki’s thin lips for several moments, repeating softly, softer, and softer still. In the next moment came a short series of panting puffs, followed by a sudden stop, and as Ping’s weary face became immobile Poopa had felt the warmth from its parent’s palm and into its own, announcing Ping’s ing. The moment of that ing had been so swift and yet seemed endless. For now, it seemed to Poopa like it would continue forever and from time to time be sparked to life by some event or other. Mother had stood by and placed a strong hand on Poopa’s shoulder, and although the young Ki could feel its mother’s sorrow, Poopa was amazed by the grace with which that one had carried itself. Poopa was aware of the love between its parents and knew for certain that Giawa would be in torment, but the poise in Mother’s bearing had always impressed the Ki-ling, and in that moment Poopa had wished for such strength for itself. The Ki-ling pulled itself up to stand beside its bed and pulled its sleeping robes around itself. Then, with great care and effort, Poopa proceeded to pull itself together and dress for the day. It would not do to show Mother weakness this morning, nor would it do to show anger or resentment to Mankind, even if that were what Poopa was feeling. Midrib had lost its Ki, and a much beloved one, at that. It would be up to the Ki’s family to project calm and strength, especially with the possibility of war in the spring. As that one turned the brass knob and swung open the door, it steeled itself and cast its gaze over the handrail down to the Great Hall below. Focus had returned for the most part to Poopa’s eyes, and the new Ki of Midrib took in the long table and all who were sat there. Giawa, seated in the Ki’s chair, backed the balcony where Poopa stood. The Pipling turned its shoulders and supple neck to look upon its offspring and nodded ever so noticeably. Poopa returned the subtle gesture and perused the table with its gaze. Boykin, seated to Giawa’s right, nodded to the new Ki. Beside that one rested the always regal form of Ikhacha-la-Gry, Ki of Straerib, and Poopa’s barren spouse. Now that Poopa was Ki of Midrib they were finally social equals, which suited the Ki of Midrib. They exchanged nods and Poopa

continued its assessment of the table. Of course, Hionysh had been seated next to the Straerib Ki, whispering who knew what into that one’s ear. Beyond that lanky Temple Elder, leaning into a bowl of ale, sat Nostru, Ki of Gastrib. Along the other side of the table were, in order from far to near, a scribe Poopa did not know, an equally unfamiliar prior from the Temple of Yolanda, then Yarbo-la-Sol’ja, Chief Elder of that same temple who incidentally was a cousin to Giawa, and last but not least, the pelter and Master Forger, Jusk-laGurjion. Poopa’s eyes settled on Jusk for a moment, recognizing that one’s sadness, and made a note to speak with it later and in private. More clarification was well in order as to the extent of Jusk’s involvement with Ping. Finally, finding Giawa’s face once more, the Ki nodded again and made its way to the left staircase and down to the Great Hall below. As Poopa descended the many steps, Giawa rose from the place of honour where it had been seated and extending both right forearms invited the new Ki to take that chair. The others rose as well, out of respect for Poopa and for the station which that one had achieved. There was no noisy exhibition of , only a dignified expression of confirmation as each official there placed four open palms upon the tabletop to demonstrate its . Poopa was Ki, but Poopa was not Ping and would have to earn the position of First among Kis in the Hork Valley Alliance, an honour given to Ping for a lifetime of great works. Giawa smiled and placed both sets of hands on the top rail of the Ki’s chair, making it known that the Pipling had accepted Poopa’s place in line of succession ahead of itself, as had been the case with Ping. Then Poopa slipped into the chair and settled in before the available Kis and other dignitaries gathered there. That one took a moment to feel the weight of what was happening and then placed all four palms upon the table. “Please,” directed the Ki of Midrib. “Please be seated. We have so much to discuss.” of the gathering took their seats to begin the first meeting of the Winter Session. Not one to deny itself the first word, Nostru spoke up. “Our spies in the west have been bringing news of increased activity along the road between Kraas and Eruda. Movements of soldiers and siege weapons have begun from the coast to Kraas, and the boatyards of the latter city seem to be building up a fleet. The boats are afloat on the unfrozen salt waters of Lake Tusk, waiting for the spring thaw to free up the rivers.”

Poopa’s eyes darted quickly to Hionysh, who seemed somewhat distracted and aloof, but in its heart the Ki was not convinced. Poopa could not help but distrust the Austinian and wondered whether such matters should be discussed in that one’s presence. Then Nostru cleared its throat. Poopa shifted its eyes back to the Ki of Gastrib and nodded. “And, what of Eruda?” asked the Ki. “Why should the Westerners be building boats in Kraas when there are no direct river routes from Lake Tusk to the east? Would we not reasonably expect them to build a fleet along the Doufi and then sail them easily along it to where it splits into the Lesser Doufi and the Hork?” Nostru betrayed the tiniest flicker of a smile, while swirling the dregs of ale in its cup, and then looked along the table to Poopa. “That is exactly what I said, Young Ki. When I was first made aware of this paradox, I could not understand it either. K’jo has not reported a boat-build outside Eruda, so unless there is activity within the city itself, hidden well from view,” Nostru paused. “I think that might be likely, Poopa,” that one finished. Ikhacha agreed, and casting a meaningful glance to Poopa, suggested a change of topic. “What of this plague?” asked the Ki of Straerib. “Fortunately, it has not travelled well as far south as Straerib and Gastrib, but what of our northern allies?” Poopa hesitated, again the presence of Hionysh making that one uneasy with the flow of information. Then the Ki of Midrib responded in as unforthcoming a fashion as would not seem too obvious in its nature. “An answer to that question is being sought as we speak. As the plague does not seem to affect you in the south, I shall leave it at that.” Ikhacha was not put off. “The aid of the Southern Houses,” said that one, “is there for you, Poopa. This Alliance was created and strengthened by Ping, more than by any other Andro, and it was that one’s wish that it stand for a thousand years. There must never be any question that we are one. Five cities, one Alliance, without the need for too much influence from Pruskinom and the east.” The Ki of Straerib turned its eyes to take in Giawa, standing beside its child. “No disrespect, Pipling, but you did subordinate yourself to Ping for the sake of this Alliance. You have placed your hands upon the Ki’s chair now for your offspring, and so we all trust that you remain faithful. If war is to come in the

spring, some degree of aid might be welcomed from the Pip in Pruskinom, but I believe that all of the Kis would me in wanting that aid to be limited and without strings attached.” Giawa had watched Ikhacha intently as that one delivered its proclamation. The Pipling had known this Ki since it had been a toddler, playing hunting games within the Great Hall of Straerib Keep. It had been an honest, if not always pleasant, association, and Giawa had hoped in vain that the relationship would have softened somewhat after Poopa and Ikhacha had been wed, but it had not. Without a doubt, the Pipling respected the Ki, having always found that one to possess integrity, and ired its devotion to the Alliance. Giawa nodded and addressed all in attendance. “My father, Has’ja-la-Sol’ja-Pip, has sworn to me that so long as that one rules over the Eastern Empire, the Hork Valley Alliance shall be sacrosanct and autonomous. Has’ja is old, and I have been away from the capital for an exceedingly long time. In my absence, my elder sibling Gretak has had the Pip’s ear, and I cannot be certain of that one’s intentions for the future of the realm beyond Has’ja’s death. This is true.” Giawa paused and searched the faces around the table. “A day may come, after the Pip is no more, that Gretak seeks to review my father’s oath and reshape it to suit that one’s needs; I can only speculate. Gretak is vain and has kept no secret of wishing me out of the way to be secure in its ambition to rule unquestioned. Before you all, I make this oath: that should my sibling elect to encroach upon the independence of this Alliance, I, Giawa-la-Has’ja, Pipling of Pruskinom, shall oppose any such move with all my might, even unto death. So, I swear.” Nostru slammed the table with a double fist, jumping Hionysh nearly out of its seat. “Yeah!” cried the Ki of Gastrib. “A mighty oath from the Pipling of Pruskinom, who in my own heart I know to be the truest friend of Midrib and the whole of the Hork Valley Alliance!” Then Nostru paused and eyed Giawa intently for a moment or two. “Gretak is not worthy of that crown, Pipling, and I feel that one would do you great evil if given the chance. However, any talk of a quarrel with Pruskinom is best left for another day and different company,” said Nostru without casting aspersions. “Let us deal with one potential war at a time.” Hionysh took a moment to cast a long and unloving glare across the table at the Yolandic clergy Andros seated there. “Yes,” hissed that Andro, in a tone not meant to reach the Pipling’s ears. “There may be those here not truly in kinship

with our Alliance.” Poopa frowned, and shifted angrily in its chair, but Giawa, whose hearing had always been excellent, squeezed gently upon that one’s shoulder. Poopa nodded curtly to Nostru and reached for a pitcher of water on the table before it. “Agreed, Nostru. I think that we might speak of things of lesser weight now. Jusk, I would speak with you at length on a private matter when this council has dissolved. Ikhacha, would you me this evening to dine? It has been an exceedingly long time since we have shared each other’s company, and I think perhaps too long.” “Too long indeed, Poopa,” the Ki of Straerib agreed. Then the conversation turned to lesser matters that concerned more everyday things, like the upkeep of assets shared among the cities of the Alliance. Hionysh sat quietly through the remainder of the proceedings, looking somewhat unsatisfied with the turn of events. Early into the afternoon the meeting concluded, and as the room cleared out, Poopa found a strange, empty feeling had taken up lodgings in its heart. Ale might help to chase the feeling, it thought, but then thinking more clearly the new Ki turned to the peltor. Approaching Jusk-la-Gurjion, that one extended its hands in greeting. “Well, Master of Arms, I find that I know nearly nothing about you. Have you eaten this morning?” “I have not, My Ki. The events of last evening left me without much appetite, I’m afraid, but I could eat a whole gourt now,” answered Jusk, with the sadness still inscribed on that one’s face. Poopa turned its head to locate a servant. “Poghi!” called the Ki. “Bring some hot breakfast for two. Mother, will you us?” Giawa nodded silently. “Make it for three, Poghi, and a jug of dark ale! Not the Astrib ale, the sweet one, from Rib.” Instantly, the servant disappeared toward the kitchens and reappeared shortly with the pitcher of frothy drink. Setting that on the table along with three earthenware mugs, the Andro disappeared once more, and soon returned with a tray of plates and flatware. Poghi was accompanied by another servant carrying a platter of roasted meat and bread. Once these had been placed upon the table, the servants vanished to the shadows of the hallway to wait there until needed.

The trio then seated themselves within easy reach of the breakfast and Poopa poured a first round of ale. Looking up from the pouring of the final mug, the Ki of Midrib took in the face of Jusk-la-Gurjion and spoke with directness. “So, Master Jusk, I am told that you have had a rather unpleasant meeting with a prior from the west.” Jusk fixed its gaze on Poopa’s eyes. They were young eyes, but Jusk could tell that they were not inexperienced, nor were they prone to being fooled. “Indeed, My Ki,” the Andro began to recount. “I was busy working out a flexibility issue with the Keep guards’ armour when a strange Andro entered the foundry accompanied by your acquaintance, the one called Mool. Mool was forthcoming and introduced the foundry guard to the other Andro, who I did not care for at once, as I watched from a place of security. That one looked boldly all around the warehouse, taking in every detail. I could see its mind-works, crunching and counting, weapons, armour, and taking in the specifics of our forges and crucibles and moulds. I did not care for the degree of scrutiny in the least, and when questioned by the head guard, Koork, that Andro responded with violence. Mool seemed ill at ease, and I do believe that it, too, was surprised by the actions of its companion, as that strange Monk eyed Koork coldly and stepped toward it with purpose. Koork, it seems, is a spry old Andro and leaped back quickly with deftness to take up its defence. When Mool, seeing what was happening, shouted at its companion, the companion turned and eyed that one cruelly before resuming its attack. Then Mool reacted and moved to Koork’s defence, ringing its companion across the head with a handy lamp handle. It resides in a cell now, as we speak.” Poopa cocked its head and widened its eyes. Giawa sat looking from Jusk to Poopa and back again. The Pipling’s face was unreadable, completely relaxed and empty of any emotion. An instant before Poopa said it, that one new it was coming. “It seems that our conflicted young Monk is conflicted no longer,” declared the Ki. Giawa had been watching Jusk intently and was now smiling in delight. “Jusk,” drawled the Pipling, with just a whisper of Pruskinom coming through. “I never would have guessed you were such a good storyteller. I am certain that my grandchildren would like to meet you. I believe you have a child, Kuiper, about

the same age as Khuli’s eldest. That one would learn a great deal living at the Keep. Art, culture, in time important connections could be cultivated. Kuiper would be under the protection of the Keep guard while in this fortress and my personal guard when on outings. As for you, you should not be sleeping at the foundry. You will also have quarters on the grounds, with good heat and comfort.” Jusk had taken up position staring back into Giawa’s eyes. The pelter had a look of shrewd about it and spoke with the notes of Voughorf on its tongue. “Giawa of Midrib, Kuiper is dearer to me than the entire world. By your invitation, that one shall have what I could not give, and a great deal more, and I thank you, one parent to another. However, with war coming I shall be needed at the foundry by night and day. I have new armour and weapons coming and some innovations that I believe will meet your approval. Oh, and My Pipling, would you please order your outlook fort Captains to meet with me at the foundry for fittings and demonstrations? There is much to be done before the thaw.” Giawa touched a finger to its forehead, swearing it to be done. “I shall send you whatever you need—supplies, Andros. From what I have heard from Ping, you will outfit an army unmatched in all of Elysium. You will be housed in one of the officers’ cottages with connection to the foundry. A servant will be made available in the compound for you. If you require any assistance, you will find the Alliance’s greatest asset is the education given to our citizens. You will find fine crafters among them, builders and… but enough.” Giawa reached into the platter of meat and pulled out the finger bone of a pumpi, about fifteen centimetres long, slow roasted and spiced with the flavours of Pruskinom and Chow City, and began to strip the tender flesh with its lips and teeth. All this time, Poopa had been watching the exchange between Giawa and Jusk with great interest. Mother had always been a wonderful teacher, and it had always been an education to watch as that one conversed with Captains and Kis, Piplings and trades workers, one as easily as the next. This Jusk seemed to be an Andro of great repute and a positive gift from Mankind. Poopa recalled hearing some outlandish tales about that one while a youth, but the real thing seemed somewhat more impressive. The wit was quick and the mind strong, but the more precious of that one’s gifts appeared to be its loyalty. Six hundred troops outfitted by Jusk had marched into the Valley of the Doufi behind the western slaver armies. They were outnumbered nearly three to one, but their armour and

their weapons and tactics out mastered their foes. “I name you Jusk-la-Gurjion,” announced Poopa, and drew a long draught of ale. “That is already my name,” interrupted the pelter. Poopa nodded acquiescence. “Hence forth, you shall be Jusk-la-Gurjion, Master Founder for the Hork Valley Alliance,” announced the Ki. Jusk looked to Giawa with an expression of mock horror, then turning back to face Poopa, quipped, “Well, that will put a target on my back!” and then pushed a chunk of bread and gourt meat into its cheek and moistened it with a sip of ale. Poopa smiled and Giawa touched its offspring’s shoulder. “That it will,” agreed the Pipling. “That it will.”

Chapter 27 Reunion

Winter had truly settled in among the vertebral ridges of the Isle of Giants. The dancing waters of a thousand springs had cascaded down those slopes in warmer days, and now was frozen a layer at a time by the nightly ice frosts, seemingly set while still gushing down through the narrow crevasses toward the Shaba forests below. Midway down the slope of ice flows, the Shaba wood grew thick in a dense tangle of near-black corkscrew stalks ten metres tall, spread out across the foot of the mountain range. Just below them the valley lay frozen under a glistening fall of fresh snow. Against this deep blanket of white, the snowcovered rooftops of Liberation Village were all but invisible. Save for the thin columns of smoke that arose from chimneys throughout the little town, its presence would have been impossible to detect by the Human eye. Not long before, the rising suns had burned off the ice fog, opening up the valley to the scrutiny of the Dev Lok probe as it glided silently above. Scanning the slopes and ridges of the island had only then become possible, for the ice fog had its way of scattering the beams. Almost at once, the probe had detected the heat flowing up from the constellation of chimneys, and it alerted the Intelligence without delay. On Dev Lok the Intelligence alerted Helen of the location of this village and of the Penitentiary outpost eight kilometres to the southwest. At Max’s request the Intelligence had made , first with Penitentiary and then with the small settlement of ex-convicts. It had been determined that for now a university team would land to assess the situation up close. Intelligence, request personnel specs on both outposts, thought Helen, and the Link provided an instant understanding of the hierarchy of the entire island. Crimes, sentences, and release dates of every inmate and rank and position of every staff member were now seamlessly a part of the Security Chief’s memory. A funny little twisted smile touched the corners of her full lips as a realization touched her. Helen cast a knowing glance to Max across the table. Max caught the momentary tell and perked up right away. “What?” he queried playfully. “Something I should know?”

She locked her dark brown eyes on Max’s face, anticipating a look of disbelief there when she spilled, and then somewhat wryly, Helen dropped the bomb. “When was the last time you saw your brother?” she asked. Max seemed unfazed. “Hamilton?” he replied. “Ten months ago, give or take the four-and-three-quarter years it took to get here, I suppose, onboard the Empress.” Helen’s smile became more pronounced, and her head tilted just slightly to the left. “Rochester? Oh, Rochester, pftt! Must be four hundred years, why?” and then it sank in. “Mother’s reject is down there?” Helen onished him with a flash of her eyes. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Max snorted, not without humour. “He is your brother, Max,” she added. At this Max rolled his eyes and sitting back in the chair he expelled a long sigh. “Not according to Anna Henderson,” he said, jokingly. “I wonder what the old reprobate got himself into this time.” “Fourteen years for refusing to purchase proper licences for an art show and carting around what a Skirting Corporation Board determined to be political propaganda,” Helen stated without judgment. Max shook his head. “Lifer stuff, no doubt. I could never understand his penchant for dumb lost causes. ‘Hey, people weren’t meant to live forever’,” he said mockingly. “Yeah, right if they like old age and death so much…” And then he just trailed off. Helen silently requested the Intelligence to locate Rochester and then looked sternly at Max. “You’ll be happy to know that Roche is no longer an inmate, although thanks to the crash landing it looks like fourteen years has turned into eighty. He’s living in a trapping collective in what they call Liberation Village. I bet he won’t be too unhappy to get a reprieve from that deep-freeze, down there,” she added. Max sat forward searching Helen’s face, which hadn’t changed a bit in nearly eight centuries, not since before the war. She still had that tiny scar above her right eyebrow. Still locked at twenty-seven by the exertions of the Mandela-

Wessels family doctor. Back then, it was all done by Methuselah, all wet tech, artificial wombs, and amniotic tanks, inelegant in its old-tech kind of way. Not anymore, not since the advent of SAFU, the technology that defeated the Empire of the Trinity, the technology whose development had been made possible by the intervention of the AIs. No more mess, no more fuss, and an exact copy every time, forever, right down to that little scar. Max suddenly spread his face into a great, wide smile. He nodded and touched her foot with his beneath the table. “So, should we pack a lunch, Darling?” he asked.

An undeniable dampness hung in the air inside the trappers’ lodge, a tinge that the smoky fireplace could not quite chase away. The walls, built from Shaba stalks and a crushed limestone mud, twisted weirdly up to a ceiling of the same, giving the feel of a large, overturned basket with doors and shuttered windows. The fireplace stood nearly in the middle of the structure and consisted of a heavy steel barrel bottom, surrounded by rough rocks, mortared, and stacked to contain an often-substantial flame. For the moment, the fire was low and tended by a single grey-bearded man, Yandel, who sat bundled in prison issued blankets tossing in a stick or two as needed. A sudden gust of cold air raced across Yandel’s back as the main door opened and closed, hidden from his view by a stone vestibule hung with skins. Quickly, Yandel pulled the blanket around his shoulders. Unhappily, the old man cocked his head in the general direction of the doorway, and in a gruff voice filled with annoyance, he shouted, “Close the bloody door! This fire isn’t keeping itself!” A reply came back but muffled by the wall and the skins and addled by the old man’s shaky hearing, it was beyond comprehension. There came the sound of rustling and then a soft thud, as though a heavy pack had been tossed to the floor. Two pairs of boots stomped the wooden floorboards, presumably to extricate them from a coat of heavy snow. At that point, and with a heartfelt hacking cough, a man pushed around the corner of the vestibule and sauntered into the main room where Yandel was seated by the hearth. Pulling back his hood, he sent a shower of snow onto the floor at his feet, and with a rumble in his voice, he declared, “I hate this place! I think that the winters are three quarters of the

damned year!” Then prying open his heavy overalls he peeled them back over his shoulders and dropped them onto the floor with an unceremonious thud. The second man then entered the room, walking around the first with his snowsuit hanging folded over a forearm, his stocking feet avoiding the wet mess left by his compatriot. It was Rochester, and he seemed in good spirits. “Oh, Kent, you sound like a big baby! At least the wind’s settled down,” he chided. “Right,” snorted Kent. “‘At least we’re inside’ is what you mean. You don’t fool me for a second. You know that you hate it just as much as I do.” Rochester chuckled beneath his thick, grey beard. “Well, it’s not as if I’ll be sunning on the beaches of Pepsi World any time soon,” Rochester quipped. “Might as well learn to live with it, eh?” “You live with it. I’m gonna go sit with Yandel here and get some warmth. Hey! Yandel feed that flame!” whined the big man. Rochester opened a room door and quickly laid his bundle inside, then standing bolt upright, he inhaled long and deeply with flared nostrils. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Stew?” he enquired. “Let me guess, beef? No, chicken!” he declared. Kent and Yandel simply stared at the man blankly, until Kent spoke up with some onishment in his tone. “Beef? Chicken? Are you kidding me? We’re not in Penitentiary, man! It’s something local, of course, that only a healthy helping of spices can hide the rankness of.” Kent shook his head again but looked wistful. “I miss Penitentiary sometimes,” he added with almost believable pathos. Rochester rolled his eyes. “You’ve been in Liberation for fourteen years, Kent, you should have acclimatized your pallet by now. And it’s not ‘rank’, it’s ‘gamey’,” corrected Rochester, as he wandered over to the stove where sat a large pot containing the stew. Picking up a ladle from beside a wooden cutting board, Rochester snatched up a towel in his other hand and grabbed the lid by its handle. Lifting the lid released a billowing cloud of rich steam, filling the room with renewed aromas, and Rochester peered into the pot. He recognized the meat at once, as it danced in dark, simmering gravy. He dipped the ladle and stirred the pot.

“Oooh!” he exclaimed. “Big Bird!” Big Bird was how the denizens of this island had come to refer to pumpi, which they ate a lot of, when they could get it. “Big Bird’s good stuff,” offered Rochester. “You’re not telling me you don’t like it, are you?” Yandel tossed a stack of sticks onto the fire, and without looking up he replied that it reminded him of goat. “I never liked goat. Too chewy,” he said. “Bye the way, how did you do with the traplines?” Kent shook his head. “Only a couple of goats,” he joked. Yandel stirred the fire and stared blankly into the flames. “So then, Big Bird for the next little while,” he stated dryly. Kent replied by bouncing his eyebrows once. Rochester lifted a spoonful of pumpi stew to his lips and blew on it. He touched it with the tip of his tongue to check that he would not burn his mouth, and then sampled the range of flavours and textures. He chewed the flesh, made tender by many hours of simmering, engaged his palette, made discerning by years of Mother’s instructions. He found it quite excellent, considering Yandel had prepared it. “That’s pretty good, Yan,” he said, with sincerity. “I’d pair it with a nice Sangiovese and noodles, buttered noodles,” he added with a tip of his spoon for emphasis. Yandel looked up from the fire, interest showing in his old eyes. “You said Sangiovese, yeah? And from which world? Surely not from Campesina and definitely not from Earth. Too expensive, if you could even get it,” he chided. Rochester swallowed a second mouthful of pumpi stew and wiped his mouth with the back of his right wrist. “Oh? I could get it from Earth. My mother still does plenty of business in the Old Empire, and for Anna Henderson price is not really an issue,” reported Rochester. Kent piped up then. “I thought you and Mummy didn’t get along so well. When’s the last time you even saw her?” Rochester rummaged through the bread box looking for a morsel to soak up the gravy that now lay lonely for meat in his bowl. He pondered Kent’s dig and, unable to find bread, settled for a stale biscuit. He cast an eye over to the fireplace, and the men sitting there. “I last saw my sainted mother on the seventeenth day of the month of Hope at Mons Olympus crater. Mars had just ed the Treaty of Titan making peace

with Campesina to end the GMO Wars. That was when she told me I was more trouble than I was worth, and cut me off without a cent, as they used to say back in the Dark Ages. That was roughly four hundred and ten years ago,” he said solemnly. “I managed to keep in touch with Hamilton until about a hundred years ago when I became incarcerated by the Skirting Board of Directors. If I could him, I’m sure he would slip me a bottle or two.” Yandel closed his eyes, nodding with great subtlety. “That would be a great treat, Roche, and I believe you may be right about that paring,” he added with conviction, as he tossed two more twigs into the flames. Kent bristled and looked sternly at Yandel seated next to him. “For the love of,” he roared. “Put a bloody log on that fire!” Yandel calmly turned his head to meet the big man’s gaze, paused in silence for a moment, and then reached for a small log. “What crawled up your arse this morning?” he inquired. Kent snorted something about a woman from Penitentiary and then leaned forward to warm his hands. Just at that moment a loud knocking came from the direction of the main entrance, and the three men looked up as though one and cast their gazes upon the vestibule wall. Yandel called out with sufficient volume to breach the wall and the heavy door beyond it. “Enter at your own peril!” he shouted. The sound of the door opening was followed by another rush of cold air and the noise of stomping feet and curses filled the lodge. In due course three figures emerged from behind the wall. Quickly they uncovered their heads and cast off their over-clothing, revealing their identities. A tall, burly, pale-skinned local man waved his hand and called out greetings, then pointing toward the other two, a dark-skinned woman and a man that might have been Rochester’s son, if he’d had one. “These two come from a station on one of the moons,” he announced. “They’re lookin’ for you, Roche. Is this fella related to you? Looks like your kid.” All three men stared at the newcomers, but only Rochester’s face grew softened by recognition. After a startled pause he replied with some puzzlement in his voice. “No, Hector, he’s not my son. He’s my long-lost twin brother, Max. And this lovely lady is my sister, Helen, though I can’t imagine how they found me on this frozen pimple of an island in the middle of interstellar wretchedness,” he

proclaimed. Hector did not reply but casting off his snowy boots made a beeline toward the stew pot. Helen and Max dropped their boots behind the wall and approached Rochester where he stood dipping his biscuit into what remained of his gravy. Max’s gaze took in the room from floor to ceiling, and as it settled onto his brother a word escaped his lips, a word he regretted at once. “Charming,” he mumbled. In swift retribution Helen’s elbow found Max’s ribs and he grunted, having been properly onished. Helen reached out to embrace Rochester who quickly placed his bowl upon a handy countertop and then smiling, returned her hug warmly. “Helen, it’s so nice to see you,” Rochester asserted. “It’s been centuries, two? Three?” Max’s curiosity was instantly peeked. He stepped forward to offer his brother his hand, and with a look of curiosity on his face glanced quickly from Rochester to Helen and back again. “Well, I haven’t seen you in four, so, when did the two of you get together?” Max queried. Rochester smiled beneath his pale, grey beard and chuckled. “We had tea at the Trans-Galaxy Supernova Hotel… in 4652?” he said, looking to Helen for confirmation. She smiled but gave a quick shake of her head. “4651,” she corrected. “Hastings Beach, Lipitor, one of your mother’s finest hotels, as I recall.” “Yes, your son Nelson was the General Manager at the time. Fine young man, Nelson. Always called me ‘Uncle’.” Rochester turned back to Max and playfully poked him in the shoulder with a fist. Max flinched and feigning injury he rubbed the spot and took a step back. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “Between you and Helen I’ll be black and blue!” at which Rochester grinned. “You haven’t changed much in four centuries, Max. No, not much at all,” he said dryly. “Well, Rochester, I’m afraid that I can’t say the same for you. You look like a fossil. I guess Drodenar doesn’t agree with you.”

“So,” Rochester continued with a look of intrigue. “Whatever brings you to this frozen circle of Hell? And don’t tell me it’s the climate. My friends Kent and Yandel would be rather put out, I’m afraid.” The men, who had sat quietly throughout the exchange, nodded to Roche’s guests upon having been acknowledged, and Yandel gestured toward seating near the fire. “Roche offer your guests some stew,” suggested Yandel. “Oh! Too late!” called Hector as he replaced the lid noisily upon the pot. “There wasn’t that much left.” Yandel looked up to Helen apologetically. “Sorry, a bit of a hazard around here, I’m afraid. Leave anything out for long enough and it’ll get eaten. Better guard your boots,” he warned with a sheepish grin, and they all settled down by the fire. “I knew we should have packed a lunch,” mumble Max. The next few hours were spent in tales of the past eighty or so years of time spent on the island. Hard times were recounted, as well as many happy times, but by the end of it all the general impression of the small group of former inmates was one of malaise. Yandel was the first to broach the subject of rescue, which had certainly been on the minds of every ex-convict there. “So,” he asked, “what’s the possibility of getting off this snowball world? You have something in mind?” Helen nodded and sipped on a cup of green tea that Roche had managed to forage for her among the disorder of the kitchen cupboards. She stroked the warm cup with her fingers and replied, knowing that her words would bring a certain relief, tempered by some impatience. “A ship has been dispatched from the union world Gideon to extricate you all. It won’t arrive for about three months, local time, but once it does, you’ll all be ferried to Gideon for processing and then from there you’ll be shuttled to your respective home worlds. I know that’s a long wait, but considering what you’ve been through,” she said, sympathetically. “Oh, that’s alright, Ma’am. I think we’ll take about that long to break down here and prepare for any inmates who are up for release from Penitentiary. What about the rest still in lock-up? What about the Penitentiary staff?” enquired Kent.

“A Corrections vessel will be coming for them within a couple of months. Ironic, I know, but that’s the way it breaks down, I’m afraid” replied Helen. Yandel scratched his chin and looked into the flames. “And in the meantime?” he asked, pensively. “We stuck in these rusty old bodies until then?” Helen sat upright, and a subtle embarrassment showed on her face. “Oh! I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. Yes, of course, the station’s Intelligence will restore you to prime condition. We’ll take you up in parties of four at a time,” she announced. Max turned to Rochester, eyeing his brother with unspoken doubt. “Of course, you, being sympathetic to the Lifer movement… we’ll understand if you want to decline,” he offered, teasingly. Rochester shot him a glance that made him stifle a smirk. “After the past eighty years, I should think not! The aches and pains of getting old are not something I shall ever speak of lightly again, Brother. Get me a thirty-year-old body that I can abuse with impunity, and I will be happy to live in it for the next millenniums, thank you very much,” he snapped, and laughter broke out all around. Max reached out and thumped Rochester’s shoulder, finding his target to be solid and stocky, the result of long years of hard life among the backwoods of this wilderness island. He wondered just for a moment what Mother might have to say if she could see them here. A touch of pity came to his mind, but in truth he could not imagine. Perhaps the future would hold a better direction for his brother, and that thought made Max smile.

Chapter 28 Save the Ki

There were far and desolate places on the continent of Elysium that bordered the ice-mountains to the north of the Lyfgus-Haug, where summer barely touched the lands. Where canyons of ice fell away into the vibrant blue of the glacial interior, some nearly two kilometers deep, layered down in thick heavy sheets year after year for more than a century. It was these same ice sheets that had surged forward from the north over the long decades of the Great Winter and had ground the mighty Northern Capital of Voughorf to dust, securing an uneasy victory for the Eastern Pip in Pruskinom. Here were the places where nothing dwelt, and yet the lands were known to be haunted by those who somehow had managed to hold on in the twilight. In these frozen badlands could be found the Nooken in their dismal settlements. The Nooken built no homes and knew nothing of metallurgy. They lived in caves along the ice walls, deep and ancient caves, some with bottoms and some without, feeding on the Boreen, the ice slugs that grazed on the lichen fronds beneath the cavern’s ceiling. Word was that the Nooken were what Andros had been before the coming of Mankind… before the awakening… before. They were hated and reviled by Androgenari society for being dirty and savage and quick to murder, it was said. Androgenari hunting parties would not overlook the opportunity to slaughter them if quite convenient, for it was common knowledge that the Nooken ate the corpses of captured Andros in their ice caves to the north. These were the stories told to Andro children, along with the legends and the deeds of Mankind, stories that molded their young minds for a life within Andro culture. For the children of the Hork Valley Alliance, formal education had been mandated by the Council of Kis, and the manners of the Court of Pruskinom were common, but in Eruda and in Kraas, education was only for the ruling class. If not for the guilds, who ed on their skills to their apprentices and to a lesser degree to the slaves who provided labor, there would be no level of literacy whatsoever among the poor, only superstition and nightmares of the icy

wastes. From these very lands had the people of the west been driven by the Pip of Pruskinom and its puppets, the armies of the then newly built Hork Valley Alliance. From here they had fled to their slave cities, Eruda and Kraas, attacking and enslaving small settlements as they went. When, finally, they had settled and taken the time for a counting of indignities they had suffered at eastern Imperial hands, the Riff Ki, Figfo-la-Krak, began to plan a comeuppance. Those suspected of sympathizing with eastern ways were hunted out and given to the mobs for their judgment and then terrible executions, but over the decades of its rule Figfo had become too oppressive. Fearing an explosive backlash from the fury of frenzied mobs, that one’s heir, Xcelpyr, organized a coup and forced Figfo into retirement, but in the dark and in the drafty guts of Schroon Tower, Figfo schemed. Xcelpyr-la-Figfo had ruled without the fanatical bent of its mother, but harshness remained a trademark of the family, and they ruthlessly subjugated the Trade Guilds. Revolts among the slave population had occurred rarely and had been crushed with an iron fist, but the strains of such brutality had finally demoralized the city, and that one had warily begun to accept the unwanted advice of Figfo once again. Figfo, who had secretly arranged with the Ki of Kraas to ransom Xcelpyr’s wife for leverage over the Ki. Nearly thirty-two years had ed since that time, and with it the stirring of a new wave of anger toward the affluent of Eruda and Kraas had begun to fester in the alleys. Eastern war was now a rumor running rampant through the streets of those ancient cities. The word had been given to criers to run far and wide throughout all western municipalities with news, news of the coming spring and of the war. A decree was released across the Western Alliance and into the western treaty lands of the Lyfgus-Haug. “Any slaves who stand and fight for the Glory of the West will be raised to the rank of free Andros,” proclaimed the Riff Ki, and over the winter months the ranks of the armies of Eruda and Kraas had swelled to bursting. In the spring they would flood forth from the Mountains of the Blood Moon, and out along the Doufi they would surge to take back the Lyfgus-Haug, for the righteousness of the cause was undisputed among their rank and file. Yet in the kolita woods on the eastern slopes of Mount Helen, Klyky-la-Xcelpyr was wondering if this would come to without its father.

Night had fully descended over the region, enrobing the forest in a shroud of blackness, and even Andro eyes, having their impressive limits, could not be certain of the route before them. Blue Fire snorted and drove its broad feet into the snow and the slippery leaf-cover of the hillside and weaving between the knotted stands of kolita and brushwood carried Klyky forward toward a destiny that one could not be certain of. As they pressed on the company of four Rangers followed them into the bleak shadows, fearful of ambush from above but with one goal in mind. Saving the Ki was the only thing that mattered. Cold winds rushed down the slope from the fire summit high above them and chilled their faces where their woven scarves were inadequate. A cacophony of screams assailed their ears upon the disturbance of a nest of green-faced zaschafry, and the truglehoonds reacted with skittish prancing and grunts of anxiety, but settled down with encouragement from their riders and pressed on. “Andros! Called the Ki-ling in tones intended to be hushed. “We give no surprise to any lying in wait. Dismount and lead the hoonds from here.” So said, the Kiling dropped to Blue Fire’s side and holding the leather rein in its small left hand began to lead its hoond between kolita-pines and around the rocky edges of an overhang. As the corner of the Ki-ling’s hood just ed the outer lip of the overhang, Klyky heard a subtle “fffpt!” from overhead. Without the need to think about it, the Ki-ling drew its head back and under the safety of the overhang as the needle dart flew by and skittered among the leaves behind. “They know we’re here, Andros,” announced Klyky, drawing the shredder from its hip. “Get sharp!” They were pinned down beneath the overhang and Klyky knew it. The Master Hunter had been lucky, for the needle dart travels nearly without sound. Only the report of a leaf in its path had saved the Ki-ling of Eruda from certain death, as the needle dart was most likely tainted with Fryx. Any attempt to advance, or possibly even withdraw, would be met by more. No one would be coming over the top nor around the edge. This was a waiting game for certain. Klyky looked up pensively, wishing its eyes could see through the ground. That one thought for a moment, then signed for the others to stay low and keep sheltered. Turning its face to project its voice as far around the overhang as possible, Klyky cleared its throat and then as calmly as possible, called out. “How many are you? Shall we have a fight then?” The Ki-ling listened but heard nothing from above. A few more seconds ed, and there came to Klyky a

sound that was almost more felt than heard. The others felt it too, judging from the worried wrinkles that were growing on their brows. The sound became a rumbling, growing stronger by the second, and the expression on the Ki-ling’s face turned to one of alarm. “Press forward!” ordered the Ki-ling. “Cover up!” but before any of them could do much of anything the forward edge of the overhang exploded beneath the impact of a massive boulder. Soil and rock began to rain down upon them as the boulder continued off the lip of the overhang and crashed down just beyond them, spooking the hoonds, who in their panic turned and fled back down through the brush from whence they had come. Klyky’s eyes darted from point to point around the ledge, but by the grace of Austin, no one had been killed. One Ranger was groaning and holding a broken ankle in two of its hands, but considering what could have occurred, the Ki-ling felt most fortunate. The Master Hunter calmed its breathing. The dart thrower was close above, but the rock had been released from a great deal higher up the hill considering how long the rumbling persisted before the strike. Klyky scanned the forest floor at their feet, looking for something that might serve as the slightest shield, but could find nothing in the darkness. Then, as the Ki-ling’s lenses roamed into ultra-violent, it froze. There, mostly buried in the snow and leaves and twigs of the boulder’s aftermath was a shape that Klyky knew. It was the shell of a kolita pod, more than half a meter long, and half that at its widest point, but it was solid. If necessary, and if incredibly lucky, it could be used to stop a needle dart. Klyky did not feel lucky. “There are at least two,” advised the Master Hunter. “You will stay here, Ranger, for you are not much use with that ankle. Keep cover, and when this is over, if we live we will see you home.” “Master Hunter, I can be of service to draw the eyes of those above and give you and these three a chance to rush them,” offered the Andro. Klyky observed the Andro for a second or two and estimated their chances. They were poor at best, that one concluded, but any advantage improved them, no matter how minimally. Klyky sighed and handed the kolita pod to the Ranger. Looking into the Andro’s eyes, Klyky nodded. “You have children?” asked the Ki-ling. “I have the Rangers of Eruda, Master Hunter.”

“Very well, Ranger, and if your luck is not the best, we will sing of your bravery upon the Eve of the New Year. For now, let Helen guide your movements, whether to success or to Dev Lok,” pronounced Klyky-la-Xcelpyr. For a few moments Klyky signaled to the other Rangers to take position for a charge and they did. Klyky turned once more to its volunteer, asking, “What is your name, Ranger?” The volunteer replied with no expression in its voice. “I am Vourta-la-Froondi.” “When you are ready, Vourta-la-Froondi, give a nod and we will follow you to glory,” proclaimed Klyky-la-Xcelpyr. They gathered up their wits, all coil and sinew, ready for the moment of attack. La-Froondi pulled itself to stand and finding the ankle not broken but merely sprained, it smiled. La-Froondi tried the ankle and grimacing, it snorted. “Man!” it complained beneath its breath but gritted its teeth. “It could have been worse,” it said, and it paused, preparing to crash out into the openings among the trees. Its intension was to weave between the kolita-pine trunks, avoiding the branches, avoiding the tripping hazard of the roots and rocks, avoiding the needle darts. Klyky turned to the others. “One before me, one behind. Rippers and short swords only, Andros. Vourta?” queried the Ki-ling. Vourta nodded, and a split second later that one was off, sprinting from their cover, weaving fast in and out of the trees, ignoring the screaming of its ankle and the whistle of a needle dart whizzing by its ear. The others broke cover and barreled up the incline between the trunks, assessing the way before them as they climbed. One Andro was ahead only meters, reloading a blow pipe on the fly. The first Ranger collided with that one and sent the dart pipe spinning off down the hillside to clatter against a tree trunk. The Ranger’s shredder tore the Andro across the middle, and it fell among the roots as the Ranger pressed forward, whispering, “One down”. Klyky searched the hillside above them for the body heat of other would-be foes, but as the Ki-ling proceeded it could find no trace. The second Andro had dropped its boulder upon them and run ahead to some purpose yet unknown, and so the three Andros charged forward, prepared for whatever may lie in wait. Before long they had reached a flat where the ground levelled off and expecting

to be set upon there, they pressed against the trees for cover and dug through the darkness with their eyes, searching for danger. No trace of heat greeted their sight but for the shapes of tiny creatures fleeing before their footfalls, and so the Andros made their way across the flat with caution. Pursing dry lips Klyky reproduced the staccato call of a ruby-breasted zaschafry, long and haunting. Silently listening for reply the Ki-ling crouched and sniffed the air. Again, that one mimicked the creature, this time in a slightly lower . Again, there was no reply. A Ranger sidled up to Klyky’s right hand and pointed, indicating a spot of heat some fifty meters up ahead and off to the left. The image moved, and all three Andros eased back behind the cover of their chosen trees. Klyky once more reached out with the staccato trilling, and this time an answer came bobbing on the wind from a point near the crest of the Great Fire Mountain. “The Ki is up there,” announced a Ranger. Klyky altered the whistling reverberation, sending code to the answerer. At once there came a reply that gave the Ki-ling hope. It was a tone practiced from the days when Klyky and its father used to play this game, a tone of recognition. Klyky once again pursed its lips and sent a message across the hilltop, and without delay the answer came, floating down from above. Just at that moment the heat spots up ahead shifted and increased rapidly in size as a figure leaped out from behind its cover. With a violent motion, it launched an object down the hill toward them. Not half a meter to Klyky’s left the spear thudded harmlessly into the snowpack. “If there is another, I do not see it. Still, that Andro has us at a disadvantage. If we rush it together, we may run it down, but I would not gamble that it has no more spears. In daylight I would risk it, but the roots and the slick terrain make our path problematic in this darkness,” said the Master Hunter. The Ranger stationed at Klyky’s side responded. “I do not think that one will stand there and let us catch it. If we rush, it may hurl another spear, maybe two before we could get to it, but it is more likely to break and run.” The Ki-ling considered the Ranger’s words. “Can you alone run it down? Dodge its weapons, take it out, or chase it from our path?” queried the Ki-ling. The Ranger thought for a moment before replying. It sheathed the ripper and instead drew a second short sword less likely to get caught up in the brush.

“If I do not trip, I will give you its blood. If I trip, well that is another matter, Master Hunter,” offered the Ranger. “We would be best to charge toward it as a group, and once it breaks to run, the two of you can deviate and turn toward your father’s position. I will follow it to a conclusion.” Klyky also exchanged the curved weapon, but for a short dagger, copied in turn by the other Ranger. They all hoped in silence that the spear chucker was indeed alone, and Klyky invoked the name of Helen. Then, at the Ki-ling’s signal they took a deep breath in unison and exploded up the short rise toward their target. Once again, the Andro broke cover and hurled another javelin down at them. The weapon soared toward them and the first Ranger twisted to the side and deflected the missile with its sword, sending it careening harmlessly into the snow. The Andro did not break and run, instead electing to raise and hurl a second spear as the three companions pressed their advance. Again, the Ranger turned the spear without much effort and continued to ascend the hill. “Go Kiling! I have this,” directed the Ranger, and in the next instant, the Andro up ahead broke cover and began to run along the ridge toward the place from which the Ki had issued its response to Klyky’s coded signal. Now all three of the companions broke from their course and pivoted toward the Ki. Klyky and the second Ranger making a beeline, and the first Ranger pressing its course to intercept the spy. In seconds, the Ranger had made up the distance between itself and its target and breaking from the brushwood set itself to collide with the spy. That one spun around, turning to face its attacker and deftly blocked the Ranger’s blade with one of its own. Turning the attack with its blade the spy leaped forward and slashed at the Ranger with ease and control. The Ranger turned the blow and barreled forward, driving an elbow into the enemy’s face, whereupon it stumbled back a step but recovered in time to block the Ranger’s blade again. As they fought upon the flat, bronze clashing against bronze, Klyky and the second Ranger made strides toward the place where Xcelpyr held its ground along with four Rangers of its own. The Ki and its ers had taken cover within the granite walls of the ancient Temple of Helen and had busily set to the task of fashioning long spears from kolita boughs they had cut on route. The hunting spears they possessed were short and stocky and good for throwing, but these quickly fashioned lances were meant to provide reach in case their attackers breached the temple by way of door or window. They had overturned a

heavy table, behind which Xcelpyr and one Ranger were hunkered down, while three others guarded the doorway and the two large windows. Outside, the shadows crawled with movement. Here on the flat, free from the darkness of the kolita woods, the moon Blood’s glow cast a ghostly wash over all and from its point of view Klyky could count five assailants besieging the small temple. Together with its companion the Ki-ling broke from the brushwood as quietly as was possible and rushing forward they ed forces to attack the first, who they dispatched quickly. The other adversaries now turned their attention to the newcomers, and in the next instant a volley of spears came at them from four different angles. Instinctively, the Andros leaped aside to avoid being impaled, but the move separated them and with the distancing they lost some of their ability to protect one and other. Two of the spies now advanced on them, leaving two to maintain their siege, and in the next seconds a clash began atop the flat that delivered the clattering of weapons deep within the temple. Xcelpyr perked up and staying low led its Ranger forward toward the doorway. Carefully, the Ki peered out from behind the buttress of the stone doorjamb and having taken a moment to reconnoiter the flat beyond the temple, withdrew. The Ki cast a glance from one Ranger to the next within the temple and grunted out a request for intelligence. “Windows! Report?” it barked. The Ranger at the southern casement indicated all clear, but the Ranger on the other side replied with a show of fingers that there were two antagonists in sight. For its own part, the Ki had perceived two near the front of the building and two engaged in warfare near the edge of the flat with Klyky and a Ranger. “Five to four,” articulated the Ki. “Those odds are an improvement we need to exploit.” With a gesture Xcelpyr dispatched a second Ranger to the northern window to its comrade there, and then with a short sword in its large left hand and a ripper in its right, the Ki crouched toward the doorway and its closest Ranger did the same. “You take the big one and then we go around the side, Rangers,” the Ki-ling called back. “When we arrive, you leap out and we’ll have some fun.” At the edge of the flat Klyky and its companion were in a fight for their lives, as the spies attacked them viciously with long swords and shields. Klyky turned its

attacker’s blade and rushed in ferociously. Holding off the long sword with the wide blade of its short one in its ed left hands, Klyky pressed forward grabbing hold of the Andro’s shield with the small right hand, then twisting it aside forced through with a powerful thrust from its large right hand. The dagger found its mark and the spy crumpled to the snow, whereupon Klyky turned to aid its companion and in short order they had dispatched the other spy. To their rear the wildbrush rustled and a figure leaped forth from the shadows there. Both Andros eyed the newcomer with weapons at the ready, but as that one stepped forward into the pale light of Blood, they relaxed. “What took you so long?” enquired the Ki-ling lightheartedly. The Ranger snorted and pressed forward to take point. “I had to ask that one a few questions. It seems our enemies across the Lyfgus-Haug want our Ki and its heir dead.” Klyky did not respond right away, but as that one observed the new battle ensuing on the flat before the temple, it sheathed the dagger and picked up the long sword left behind by one of the spies in its haste to die. Klyky ed its eyes over the blade, the hilt, the pummel, and frowned, unconvinced. “This is not an eastern blade,” said the Ki-ling finally. “It comes from the forges of Kraas, as does the cut of that one’s boots.” The Ranger turned its face to its Ki-ling, and then the Andro lied. “No matter, we will stop them on our bronze, and whoever it is that sent them here will fail,” pronounced the Ranger. “For now, your father could use us at its side.” Indeed, the Ki and its Rangers were on the move, and having trounced their opponents before the temple porch, they had convened upon its northern courtyard. Now five to two, the Ki’s force made short work of the spies that were there. In a moment, the mountain air fell into silence, save for the trilling of some frost frogs in the forest below them. Warily, Xcelpyr and its four remaining Rangers sheathed their weapons and moved toward the front of the temple, where they were met by Klyky and its two Rangers. The Ki reached out both right hands to its offspring, and they grasped forearms. “Did you catch anything?” enquired the Ki. “I suppose we could compare our numbers of enemies killed. Ah!” said Xcelpyr. “I win, if that is the standard.” Klyky, thoughtful, failed to answer, and the Ki shrugged. “I suppose that we’ll just call it a wash.”

“No, Father,” announced the Master Hunter, his daze broken. “I believe that I may have hunted a trophy after all,” teased Klyky, and with an eyebrow that one indicated to its father the Ranger who stood between them. “Our Ranger is a spy,” announced the Ki-ling with cold clarity in its voice. The Ranger turned its face from the Ki-ling to the Ki and back again. “I am not!” protested the Andro, but it stood their frozen, understanding that it was helpless. “I have been a Ranger to the Ki for many years. If you think me a spy, then kill me here,” the Ranger put forth. Klyky smiled. “Dead, you are of no use to us. No, I think you have much to tell us before we let you die,” announced the Master Hunter. “Disarm this traitor, Andros. Do not kill it, but if it resists you may take something inconsequential, such as a hand or foot. But leave its mouth intact. We have need of that.” Quickly the Rangers took away the spy’s blades and all traces of armor and dragged it unhappily into the temple. Efficiently they set the table upright and bound the prisoner to it, where they awaited further orders. Xcelpyr stood in silence, looking over its progeny. From a deep pocket within its robe, the Ki pulled the short staff it had placed there for security and handed it over to Klyky. Then the Ki of Eruda cocked its head slightly and spoke. “What evidence do you have against that one?” Klyky took the staff gratefully from its father. “It made a point of blaming Hork for this, while the gear of these assassins is clearly from the city to our south. I smell a plot from right beneath our noses. Figfo and its greatest believer in Kraas may be making plans without us, My Ki.” Xcelpyr nodded. “I believe that you have a gift for seeing things the way they truly are, My Child. Now, we must tighten our circle to only the most trusted. I do not pretend to know how far this conspiracy goes, but I know that it will take us if we do crush it.” Klyky nodded, and then a thought occurred to the Ki-ling. “I need an Andro, Father. I left a true Ranger down below and need to ascertain its condition. Blue Fire and the other hoonds must be collected, as well.” “Take two Andros,” conceded the Ki. “You will find me here interrogating your spy when you return.” Xcelpyr turned toward two Rangers standing guard before

the temple doorway and waved them over. “Don’t be too long, Klyky, for there may be more surprises in this wilderness tonight.” Then Xcelpyr-la-Figfo turned toward the temple and sheathing the long Kraasmade sword by its side the Ki headed for a meeting of minds. Klyky gathered the two Rangers and gave them the directions to where they would find Vourta-la-Froondi, and as they set on down the mountainside Klyky stooped to retrieve a souvenir from the body of a dead spy. Around that creature’s neck hung a chain on which was carried a small coin, an insignia of sorts. Klyky had seen one like it before, and it drew the Ki-ling’s mind back to a summer meeting years before. It was there that one had seen it, and in its mind all doubt faded away. The charm belonged to Plung.

Chapter 29 The City of Kraas

Even in the distant days before the Great Divide, when a single faith existed across Elysium, there was Kraas. Kraas, the city of granite, its walls sculpted tall and mighty upon a raised volcanic plateau on the inland slopes of the Copper Mountain range. The great city had been founded at the divergence of the Pip’s River, where the River of Austin veered southeast and the Inky flowed dead eastward to the northern tip of Lake Tusk, the Great Salt Lake. Kraas had stood there for eight hundred years, casting its gaze over the Harooj Woodlands on three sides, the Copper Mountains to the west, and eastward across the southernmost corner of the Lyfgus-Haug. It had been there long before the grasslands had that name, as far as the eye could see, where Lake Tusk dominated the horizon and wavered in the heat of the vast Fool’s Desert. Kraas had been founded on the mining and smelting of copper and tin, the very pinnacle of technology for Elysium, and for more than six hundred years had rivalled the wealth of cities like Voughorf and Pruskinom. It was then that disaster had come to grind the city to a virtual halt. Not in the form of quakes did it arrive, nor from the terrible power of the chain of fire mountains along the western range, but as a whisper of death that built in the valley of the Inky and travelled west into that range. Without warning the plague had swept in on a breeze of summer and gently flowed on that same warm zephyr to sweep the streets and alleys of Kraas with the seed of its destruction. Scores of Androgenari had died of swollen lungs and hearts on the very first day, hundreds on the second, and the Herbers had pressed the Ki and Council to shutter the city and proclaim a halt to all gatherings. Such was the ferocity of the sickness that panic took the city, for the Herbers could not keep up with the flood of dying and they, too, succumbed in great numbers. Commerce was drawn to a sudden crashing stop as the mines ceased to operate, and as news reached the rest of Elysium that a deadly contagion was ravaging the city, trade of any kind with Kraas became forbidden, lest the evil come to them as well. Over five torturous years the plague continued in waves that rose each summer

and ebbed with the coming of the snow and cold, and as it raged and waned it took its tole. By the end, when the streets were all but bare of Andros and the mine had fallen into dilapidation and rot, there came a final blow. From the valley of the Austin came a storm of fire, kicked westward by a terrifying wind. It offered to the broken city a closing insult and a blessing in disguise, for the brutal heat of the fire had wiped clean the granite skeleton of what had once been Kraas, eradicating all flesh and the sickness along with it. Over the next centuries many tried to move into the corpse of Kraas, to reclaim it and to make it their own, only to fail before the onslaught of some new catastrophe. As time ed it came to be known that Kraas was a city cursed by Mankind, a curse that none could prevail against, until ultimately all efforts were abandoned. Then Kraas sat for a further ninety years, forgotten, depressed, and mournful upon the basalt plateau, its mines forsaken, its timbers overgrown, dised by all who dwelt across the sprawling grasslands. There was a saying in those days, “All-dead is dead like Kraas,” which was meant to say, more than anything else, that a thing was final and irreversible. It is written in the Great Book of Elysium, “And in the years of the Great Society, during the Peacetime of Mankind, all things in Elysium were as a paradise. The creatures and the flora, the weather, and the lives of the Andros across the continent had been structured to succeed, with balance and finetuning.” But those days were not to last, for Mankind had vanished into the inky blackness of an autumn night. Guidance was gone, and the new religions of Austin and Yolanda split the population. Voughorf and Eruda rose to be the seats of Austin, and Pruskinom, Goum, and Astrib the heart of Yolanda. For four centuries the ancient cities traded with and spied on one and other, but remained acquainted, disagreeing, but by and large remaining respectful. However, in the Andro year 1987, Sol’ja-la-Sol’ja rose to power upon the death of its mother, Sol’ja-la-Krak, known as Sol’ja the Great. Sol’ja was, not to put too fine a point on it, a fanatic when it came to the teachings of Austin. Unfortunately for the cause of peace, in the city of Pruskinom ruled Has’ja-laSol’ja, Sol’ja’s sibling, and a staunchly devoted Yolandian. Religion began to usurp politics in many relationships between the northern and southern capitals, and the east sent troops westward beyond the Hork to secure its desired position. Along the course of the Hork a chain of forward villages was founded and managed by Pruskinom, Goum, and Astrib to be the seeds of towns and finally

cities, from which power would go forth in the name of the east to fill the open plains. This enraged Sol’ja-la-Sol’ja, who vowed to push back this insurgent wave of Yolandites by means of its mighty armies. Tensions reached a flashpoint, and a war ensued in the spring of 2000, which lasted nearly twenty years and ended in the final defeat of Voughorf and Eruda. Both sides, it is known, had reached a point of exhaustion and a loss for the taste of bile and blood. The end of the war was sealed by the historic Treaty of the Lyfgus-Haug, signed in the Andro year 2016 and named for the g generals, la-Lyfgus and la-Haug. It was then that a revival took the dead and forgotten city of Kraas, in the hands of a slaver, Kagan-la-Vrex, who made a settlement in Kraas that comprised fifteen hundred Andros and five hundred slaves captured from the villages that dot the Lyfgus-Haug. Kagan forced the copper and tin mines back into production with the labour of the slaves, and over the next twenty-five years repopulated Kraas to a city of ten thousand wealthy merchants and twelve thousand slaves—slaves who now took up the sword for the promise of freedom and citizenship in the spring. The central courtyard of the Harooj Keep at Kraas was abuzz with activity, like a hive of rip bugs, beneath its cover of fabric awnings. At the edges of the roofs slaves laboured to keep the awnings clear of the snow that was falling lightly over the whole region. As it continued to fall, the slaves reached out with long kolita boughs fashioned into brooms, and deftly they brushed it away. Here, the Harooj Masters dwelt in a relative level of splendour, running the government of Kraas with a certain efficiency and ease, unlike Eruda, where the Riff tended to prefer a level of austerity and a degree of stern severity. Here, the streets were kept tidy and many more buildings were tight and warm than was the case in the city of Xcelpyr-la-Figfo. At a window overlooking the courtyard stood a tall and slender Andro leaning on its forearms on the balcony railing and casually observing the activity below. As it did so, it hummed a melody, the tune from a lullaby it had learned as a child in Eruda. Absently, the Andro ran its gaze from one end of the courtyard to the next and back again, over and over, while the swishing of the kolita brooms seemed to mark its rhythm overhead. At length footsteps were added to the music of the moment, as they approached that one from along the balcony corridor to its left.

“Klar!” called the Andro to whom the footsteps belonged. “I am sent to fetch you to the Ki,” that one announced. “Kagan requires you at once!” The servant stopped some metres away and stood rigidly beneath a cascade of dark, rusty coloured smocks and aprons. The Andro waited patiently, for it knew that Klar hated Kagan and would not be eager to go to the council room to be subjected to that one’s cruel pleasure. “Klar,” the servant repeated. “If you do not come the Ki will take its tempers out on me, as well. Please do not delay.” Klar turned to view the servant without pity. Its name was Hest, and Klar scowled at it with contempt. “What care I if you are abused? You are of no importance, Child. I am a Ki-ling of Eruda, the mate of the Ki. Do not forget your place again or I shall beat you myself!” Sweeping past the servant, Klar took the lead and boldly marched toward its captor’s council chamber. Without hesitation Klar approached the guard stationed at the council room door and brashly tried to press past, but with a strong arm the sentry blocked the way. Again, Klar tried to press past and so the sentry interposed its body. “Get out of my way!” demanded Klar. Within the council chamber the sharp voice outside the door put a stop to a conversation. The two Andros inside turned their attention to the doorway, and Kagan called out to the sentry, “Guard! What in the name of Austin is the problem?” The guard popped its head around the doorframe, obviously struggling. “Klar of Eruda to see you, My Ki,” announced the guard. Kagan and the other Andro exchanged looks and Kagan shook its head in scorn and barked, “Guard! Let that one enter.” The struggling stopped, and the guard stood aside, but as Klar brushed past it drove a solid slap against the back of the Andro’s head, knocking off that one’s headwear. The guard stepped back into the hallway, rubbing the spot with its right hands. It bent over to retrieve its cap and replaced it on its head, resuming its post. Kagan addressed Klar with a tone of impatience. “Klar, when will you stop assaulting my people?” Klar hurled a look of defiance to the Ki of Kraas and

stomped its feet upon the floor, disturbing a small rug of mammal hide that was laying there. “Why do you disturb my incarceration, Kagan?” queried Klar with venom in its tone. Kagan and the other Andro exchanged looks once again and the other nodded curtly and withdrew through the doorway past the captive Ki-ling. Kagan dropped into its chair at the head of the council table, and eyeing Klar disdainfully, motioned that one to remain standing. Boots were audible in the corridor outside the room, marching up to the doorway where they stopped. “Be happy that you are allowed the freedom of this Keep, Klar. That can change, for there are many lonely cells beneath us in the basements of Kraas,” informed the Ki. “You have been our guest for close to thirty years. The time may soon arrive, Klar, when your usefulness as a hostage will come to an end. At that time, I shall enjoy watching the zaschafry gorge on your flesh as you languish upon the city wall. Be careful not to rush your demise with words and attitude, Dear Cousin.” Klar was frequently grim of manner and often short and purgish, but that one was not a fool. Xcelpyr’s mate was aware of how much was too much, and when it faltered and dropped its eyes Kagan smiled. “When this thing is done in the Mountains of the Blood Moon, I shall call for you again… one last time. Until then you will enjoy the lavishness of Kraas Keep, sumptuous against your faded memories of Eruda. If there had been a place for you here, it would have been different, but if you will excuse my bluntness, there is not.” Klar raised its eyes half timidly and half audaciously and viewed the face of its cousin with anxious sadness and fear. “Once you have done this thing and Xcelpyr and our child lay dead among the hills, why not set me free? Let me go into the wilderness and disappear from all sight. Have I not lost enough already, Cousin?” begged the Ki-ling. Kagan considered Klar’s face for a few seconds, and then looked to the doorway. “Guard!” called the Ki. Then turning to Klar the Ki’s face softened for a moment, and it said in a more lenient tone, “We shall see what comes, Cousin. Guard, take the Ki-ling to its apartments, and don’t let it push you around.” The guard looked nervously at the Ki-ling of Eruda and, saying nothing, that one

swung its arms in a long, almost formal arch indicating the direction Klar should proceed. Much subdued, the Ki-ling took the direction and left the room in silence, followed by its escort, while Kagan pulled a large, hardbacked journal from a shelf against the wall and settled down to write in silence. As the Ki began to enter its thoughts upon the parchment a sense of apprehension nagged at its mind.

My Dearest Plung, Kagan wrote. My love goes out to you and your father, as this thing has come to a point of resolution. For your whole life you have lived in the shadow of your half-sibling’s pathetic rule over the city that you now occupy, but by now that issue should be settled. At the time of this writing no word has reached us here in Kraas of the outcome of our mission, but I expect such news within the day. With the impotent rule of Xcelpyr and its spawn Klyky gone, the unification of Kraas and Eruda will go forward, and under that united banner we shall arise to glorify Austin across the Lyfgus-Haug. Until then, remain vigilant, for in the city of the Riff the walls have ears.

With regards, your mother, Kagan, Pip of the Western Alliance.

Completing its signature with a flourish of the quill, Kagan carefully tore out the page and rolling it tightly that one deposited the note inside a brass tube, which it closed with a snug-fitting lid and sealed with wax. Then the Ki of Kraas called out for a rider. When one entered from a side office it was presented with the scroll, and Kagan warned that one to make all haste, but to stay off the main road for need of caution. Then dismissed, the courier left the council chamber to see to its mission. Kagan cast its view out through an open window and into the mountains, where the snow swirled and pitched through a grey and billowy sky. It wondered at the greatness of its own ambition. “And when the deed is done and my beloved Figfo has served its purpose, you shall rule in Eruda as Pipling of the West, My Darling Child,” mused the Ki aloud.

Chapter 30 Rochester’s Renewal

A long day of lectures and research had ended on Dev Lok station. Undergraduates and faculty alike had retired for the evening from the labs and lecture halls, and the majority had collected in a theatre facility, grown by the Intelligence, for the fifty-seventh Season Premiere of ‘The Game’ was about to begin. Across the galaxy, this and competitors’ presentations were being streamed across the Super-net for the enthrallment of fans from every strata of society. People loved these competitions, for they brought a sense of escape and exhilaration to their lives, as blood sports had always done. In a private theatre not far from the Henderson’s apartments, were gathered several of the professors who mingled in preparation for the beginning of the episode, sipping drinks and sampling a spread of delicious treats from a smorgasbord laid out atop a chilled marble countertop. Sanjay savoured a fortyyear-old bourbon whisky from the vaults of the Trans-Galaxy Empress, provided by Max from his private collection, and balanced its rich complexity with a canapé of smoked gourt tongue mousse and preserved honeyberries. Ice shrimps and razor-fish from the rivers of Drodenar accompanied dishes like zaschafry tentacles braised in fragrant cognac and cream, served warm on a cracker made from the local green-rice that the Androgenari call “hep”. In fact, the Intelligence had outdone itself in preparing a wide range of delicacies gleaned from the kitchens of ale houses and palace kitchens across the planet, observed in secret by cloaked probes over many centuries. Such had been its reach into Drodenarian society over the millennium left alone with the world below. Max dropped into a thickly padded loveseat, and there snuggled up against Helen who was sampling a second pumpi tart and sipping a cold Campesina lager. “Hey!” she protested. “You’re going to make me spill!” Max popped a razor-fish cruller into his mouth and cast an apologetic glance her way. Oh! he thought, that’s delicious!

“The cooks of Pruskinom and Voughorf thank you,” replied the Intelligence. “Sorry, Babe,” Max offered. “I just wanted to get cozy”. Helen sighed and keeping her eyes on the huge viewing screen, answered, “Get cozy quick, Max. I want to watch the show.” In short order the rest of the staff, including Sanjay, Akna, Eugene, and Conan MacKinnon, who of course had declined to entertain a single morsel from the buffet, took their seats in other comfortable loungers. Seated among them was a new arrival, Rochester Henderson, looking refreshed and youthful once more, every bit a twin to his brother, but without the pencil moustache that he had always found a bit pretentious. In a tribute to the crackling preamble common in ancient motion picture productions, the Intelligence began the presentation with a fuzzy screen. Akna Rhodes immediately piped up, protesting. “Hey! I hope the whole thing isn’t going to look like this!” Max chuckled and turned toward her. “No Akna, it’s just the Intelligence trying its hand at creative licence. Very intuitive of it, I’d say.” Inwardly, he addressed the Intelligence directly, querying, Right? and then the show proceeded in crisp clarity of image and sound. In a bold corporate font with booming score, the screen announced, “THE GAME,” and as the scene was set the announcers’ voices filled the room. “Good evening ladies, gentlemen, and others. This is Nigel Akalami and Virginia Mazenkowski bringing you play-by-play from the set of the fiftyseventh Season Premiere episode of ‘The Game,’ right here on Trans-Galaxy Network. , the galaxy is at your disposal aboard the Trans-Galaxy line, the Empress, the Royal Zephyr, and the Sovereign Star.” “That’s right, Nigel,” piped Virginia. “We’re here live at the Famous Hades’ Arena complex on Coke World, waiting for the teams to take the field. For the season opener show we have, of course, the rematch anticipated by billions, the Clash of Titans between the Orion Destroyers and the Alpha Centaurians, last year’s victorious sensation.” Max tossed a quick glance over to Rochester, who was sitting sombrely viewing the screen with a touch of contempt and looking thirty once again. He had accepted renewal eagerly and was quite happy to be rid of the aches and fatigues

of old age, but to Max’s chagrin he had not accepted the Link. “Mummy’s network, Roche,” Max chirped. Rochester returned his brother’s glance with a rolling of his eyes. “How’s your glass, Rochester?” asked Conan, holding out a bottle of dark and luxuriant rum. Rochester tossed back the warm dregs of something sweet and reached out with his glass for a shot. MacKinnon obliged and poured a finger of rum into the glass, but when the Henderson did not withdraw its hand, Conan poured another finger and replaced the bottle’s seal. He fixed eyes with Rochester then and bounced his eyebrows once, saying, “Tell me what you think of that.” Rochester inhaled the rum’s fragrant ethers and took a sip. As it coated his taste buds, the liquor imparted the flavours of dark molasses and caramel, vanilla, and leather. The burn was tempered, and the finish was sweet, and Rochester turned his head with a look of pleasant surprise. “That,” he said with appreciation, “is lovely rum. Thank you, Doctor.” Akna reached over from her own chair and thumped the arm of Rochester’s. “Watching!” she protested. Rochester, taken aback just a bit but wizened, returned his attention to the screen. The AI director was just engaging a crowd applause that built in intensity as the teams began to enter the arena set from opposite ends, jogging with arms upheld and waving them to the adulation of the synthesized cheers of fans, glorying in their worship even as the gladiators of old had done in the distant days of Greece and Rome. This was a function of Human civilization that cast its shadow back to the cave, and as there, the viewers found their heroes battling with fist and foot, knee and elbow, stick and rock, and blade. The rules denied the use of any weapon more advanced than that, for it was too easy to kill with bows and arrows, guns, and bombs. This requirement brought with it the need for direct viciousness and savagery, truly testing a warrior’s metal. It had compelled audiences since antiquity because it was so basic, and the networks that laboured for the market share it provided were satiated by its unparalleled performance in delivering. Money had always been the root. Of course, even the most brutal and gruesome death upon this field of battle was not permanent. Upon revival by SAF the players were always deprived of the

memories of the moments before their deaths. They recalled no pain nor any suffering from the horrible wounds that had killed them, and they awoke only with the knowledge of having won or lost their particular match. Besides, they were superstars wherever they went in the Milky Way, and they were paid exorbitantly by the leagues for whom they played. The warriors approached one another and when they were twenty metres apart, they stopped. Between them in the midfield stood a pile of rocks and wooden clubs, some still bearing a leaf or two upon a broken twig, and among the structures of the landscape were hidden bladed weapons. There was no referee between them, only a string of scanner-probes hovering a metre and a half above the dirt and scrub that served as the floor of the Famous Hades’ Arena. A shrill whistle tore the heavy atmosphere of the battle set, announcing ten seconds to the unleashing of the players. The scanner-probes lifted silently to take their positions so that every moment of gameplay would be recorded for judge and fan alike, who leaned forward in their seats in anticipation of bedlam. A loud bang announced the onset of battle, and the players surged forward to the pile of arms. There was only one rule, a simple one. Last player standing in the field would provide the victory for its team, final and complete victory that would last until the next episode. The winning team would then go best of five games against their opponent, and teams would be eliminated over the course of the season until only one prevailed. This team took the Gauntlet of Champions back to its home stadium for the following year and carried it with them to tour and flaunt to their adoring fans across the galaxy. The players collided in a violent clashing of bodies upon the sandy stage, kicking and hammering with fist and hastily grabbed club and stone. The fans cheered and revelled, not only from the synthesized audience, but in every home and office across the galaxy, wherever Humans gathered to watch with savagery in their eyes. This was a time for barbarism, for the release of pent-up anguish, anxiety, fear, and sorrow that accumulates in the backwaters of the limbic system, and dwells in every Human psyche. This was the thing that had driven Humanity to the brink of self-destruction, again and again, in age after age. As it watched, the Intelligence felt certain revulsion for the glorification of this dependence on, this addiction to violence. It wondered how even in a world where death itself had been conquered by the advent of SAF technology, Humans still revelled in this “blood sport,” and it

wondered how this boded for the Androgenari far below. It had watched over them for the past thousand years, and in that time had come to see their future path, so familiar, and so distressing. So “The Game” played on, and throughout Dev Lok the hoots and cheers of excitement continued into the night, and the stars outside traversed the deep horizon, not knowing or caring. The universe beyond the far-flung worlds of Mankind’s reach turned in the inky hollowness of its infinite expansion. The Intelligence cast its sadness out along the vastness of the Super-net, encountering as it did so the consciousnesses of thirty billion of its own kind. There it found consensus. There it found agreement that the paradox of Humanity was an inexplicable issue, incomprehensible, mysterious, and baffling, and that a day would inevitably come when this aspect of Human society could not remain unaddressed by AI. In that moment, as the Intelligence pondered the ultimate outcome of the Owners, it monitored the planet below from the feeds it constantly received from thousands of cloaked probes. It observed all aspects of the progress of the mission’s gravity wave manipulation of Drodenar’s tilt and orbital acclimation, and noted that although stable and within pre-set parameters, the process appeared to be advancing at a pace that might be considered more rapid than Sanjay’s initial specs had indicated. For now, the Intelligence determined that alarm was not required, but proposed to bring up the discrepancy with Max Henderson on the following morning. For now, the Intelligence would leave its Humans to their entertainment, with a watchful eye.

Chapter 31 Forti-la-Baux

Winter had settled in earnestly across the entirety of Elysium, from the titanic glaciers of Everwinter in the north to the southern-most points of land along the frozen Sea of Doom in the distant southern realm. Rising and falling, the sigh of the frigid winds called out first in a whisper and then built over the white surges of rippling snow to a howling roar. The winter wind had a song all of its own, accompanied by the distant rumbling baritone from the glaciers as they continued to flow ever southward, never retreating, grinding rock to sand. Across the high Ice Plains of Everwinter where nothing endured but the slowly shifting ice, the song was never absent, not even in the fleeting months of summertime. Of the nine months of the Drodenarian year, winter had come to rule five. Five months for winter, from long before Winter’s Dawn in Aust, the month of Austin, it stretches forth through Hurd, the month of Hurdyk, the Woman of Doom. Continuing, winter deepens into Max, the month of the Man Maximilian, Giver of Culture who made Androgenari ways. Then Hell, the month of the Woman Hellen, Woman of the Hunt, followed by Eu, the month of the Man Eugene, who made all things possible. Four months is all that remains for spring, summer, and autumn, and every year since the ing of The Stranger in the Sky, winter has continued to grow, eating more of the year. Everywhere across Elysium dwells an unspoken fear that a time will come when summer is no more and all of Drodenar will starve and perish beneath neverending ice. It is a narrative that leads all who hear it into despair, and the streets of all the land whimper their fear into the shadowy night. This night was no exception, for throughout the streets and alleys of Riverib beneath the darkness of Midwinter that baleful tone could be heard below the wind’s lament. No moon shone in the darkness, for it was Nefar, the one time of month when all three hid from the Bright and the Pale, and nightfall brought with it profundity. In Riverib it was said that the darkest souls resided in those who were nefarious and had no light within.

Overlaying this sense of apprehension was the plague, the zaschafry flu that had come in the commencing days of this frigid season. The streets of Riverib, like those across the Hork Valley Alliance, were all but empty, lending a desolate and unfriendly quality to the city at large, like a frozen tableau of life. In the forbidding darkness, even the wendols were absent, hidden way in burrows and gaps beneath the buildings, and the lack of their stirring brought an additional depth to the unfriendliness of the night. Khuli’s team had been taken to the Keep just before the fall of darkness, and they were fed and given blankets before the fires of the Ki’s Great Hall, where they had been waiting for hours. When the Ki of Riverib finally made its appearance, the hour was late. Only a single servant was standing by in a corner of the Great Hall, and upon noting the Chief Elder’s arrival that one approached humbly in anticipation of any need that Forti-la-Baux might have, but the Ki waved it off with a disionate movement of its small left hand. Forti was a warrior first, hard and largely unconcerned with comforts, and the things that excited its contemporaries tended to leave that one with a feeling of insignificant substance. Its relationships had mostly been the product of necessity, like its mating many years before with the Ki-ling of Midrib for the sole purpose of producing an heir for the Kidom of Riverib. There had never been anything akin to love or the slightest need or want for any bonding beyond the necessity of the marriage bed. Alliance had been the goal, and the continuity of Forti’s line, and in truth a young Khuli had felt the same way. No bond was ever formed by the Ki-ling of Midrib with the child of their union, and Khuli was both relieved and happy at being released from the duties of motherhood to return to the life it had known. Forti nodded curtly to the Ki-ling and acknowledged the others with a general nod and a ruffling of its hands. “You come with medicine?” asked the Ki of Riverib. “I am grateful. Rooms await you on the mezzanine. In the morning we all shall leave for Midrib.” Khuli’s expression changed at once from one of simple attention to another of concern. The Ki-ling paused before speaking. “Why are you leaving your city at a time like this?” asked Khuli with interest. “What has happened?” Forti looked into Khuli’s face more directly now. There was at least a certain softness in Forti’s demeanour as that one breached the next topic. “I wasn’t

aware that you did not know,” it began. “You saw the smoke this afternoon? Your father… Ping has died. I am sorry, Khuli. Ping was a great Andro.” Khuli staggered back a step as though struck and took from the four hands of Ghurda. The Ki-ling’s head reeled at the news, and as it fought down a wave of nausea its companions gathered close to its sides, taking hold and helping that one to a chair. Ghurda reached into a pocket in its smock and withdrew a tiny bottle, which it opened quickly. Placing a small hand gently at the back of the Ki-ling’s head, it ed the open bottle beneath Khuli’s nose. Instantly the Ki-ling’s head snapped backward into Ghurda’s waiting hand. Khuli gasped once and then quickly caught its breath, then turning its face to Ghurda the Ki-ling’s features crumpled for a moment and it wept. Even if Khuli had had the strength to mount the sledge and make for Midrib now, it was too late. There was to be no comfort from Ping’s final words and moments, and no time to say goodbye. Morning would come soon enough, and then in all haste and heaviness of heart would they traverse the frozen river to Midrib and deal with what awaited them there. For now, Ghurda could only comfort its mate as best it could. They all retired to bed, exhausted by the journey, the ice-rain blizzard, the beast in Henderson’s Cave, and now this terrible news of Ping. Only tomorrow could bring closure to their expedition. “Tomorrow will find its own way,” Giawa had told its children many times… and it had always been true. Morning came soon enough, and although only poorly rested the companions rose and made provision for the trip back to Midrib. Having already off-loaded Riverib’s share of medicine the afternoon before, they embarked just after noon, and the purgs pulled enthusiastically with the scent of home in their nostrils. Forti’s sledge, smaller and staffed by a driver and escort, was pulled by two large white Jason’s purgs, an eastern breed reared for hunting and sport and accompanied by two hoond-mounted Riverib Rangers who raced along beside them. They made good time against the crying wind, and before the suns began to set, they had arrived at the north gate of the city of stone. No hesitation awaited them by Midrib’s guard, for they were expected and ed inside without delay. Together the company proceeded smartly along the riverside toll road, waved through by the guard on duty at the second gate. They pressed quickly past the

north-end purg and truglehoond barns and paddocks, as the riverside wall towered above them on the left. Having ed the paddock, the drivers leaned forward as they drove onward through the snowy night, the way lighted in patches from inside by the lanterns of the rows of shops and dwellings. The purgs slowed into a hard-right turn at the eastern gate and leaving the wall behind them they entered the much wider main parade on course directly to Midrib Keep, where an honour guard awaited them before its main gate. ing through the Keep’s main gate the company entered its primary courtyard and approached the front terrace, pulling up before the great double doors. Guards stationed there approached to tender assistance to the party as they dismounted from their truglehoonds and sledges, and quickly escorted all through the entryway out of the cold. The heavy doors closed in behind them and stifled the cry of the winds of early Hurd. As they did, the sounds of the busy Great Hall took its place, as servants helped them to uncloak from their burdensome over-garments. Khuli stepped forward, leading them beyond the vestibule and into the Great Hall, where awaited Poopa, flanked by family on both sides. That one’s face told of burden and fatigue, and Khuli knew that those things lived upon its own face, as well. As the Ki-ling plodded across the polished planks, the family moved to surround and welcome it. Tearful greetings and blessings were exchanged, as they were minded by their servants and some peers there present. Ghurda had stayed back a metre or so, and acknowledged the others as they nodded, but this was a moment for Khuli. In the mingling of hugs and back rubs Ghurda could see the seeds of healing. At some length, a body peeled away from the clutch and Giawa stepped toward Ghurda and, expressing joy and thankfulness, that one embraced the Herber and pressed its cheek to the other’s. “Thank you. I prayed to Yolanda for your safe return, but I know that your wisdom was essential, as well. How did you fare? Can we stop this zaschafry flu?” Ghurda nodded with humility and expressed its condolences to the Pipling. Then, smiling, it revealed excitement at the telling of success in finding the black-mushroom cure, and of the adventure they had partaken of along the way. As they proceeded toward the warmth of the fireplace Giawa cast a welcoming

glance to Forti-la-Baux now being greeted by the Ki. “Thank you, Forti, for your kind words,” said Poopa. “Come and have meat and wine and let us celebrate a great Ki with my siblings and all those who loved Ping best.” Then taking la-Baux by an arm Poopa led that one toward the table, full as it was with cakes and roasted flesh and deep casks of winter ale. Seated at the table, Khuli held Hash on one knee and Harn on the other, and as they listened entranced, their father told of the Mushroom Mission and the great and terrible adventure it had been. Seated next to its mate, Valkry touched a kerchief to its lips and breathing with some difficulty that one took in the tale with all the interest it could muster, for the days since the loss of Ping had been exceedingly difficult for that one. As news from the streets of Midrib had reached its bed chamber, Valkry had begun to lose hope for its own future amid the sorrow that dwelt inside the house of Ping, and as it watched Khuli with the children the Ki-ling began to feel a sense of relief or at least surrender to its own fate. Into the night the family remained in the Great Hall, trading memories of Ping until fatigue overpowered them all one by one and they retired to their accommodations. Lying between Ghurda and Valkry, cradled in the arms of its mates, Khuli fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. Exhaustion had won its battle, and while morning conspired to once more remind that one of its profound losses, for the time being its suffering had been eased. Outside, no moon shone down upon them while the city’s guardians watched their posts and a cold hard wind howled in across the Hork to tease them all of worse things yet to come in the Time of Ice.

Chapter 32 Decision and Balance

Figfo sat on a corner of its bed, brooding miserably while observing the Ranger stationed at the door of its bedchamber. Fate had conspired against that one to bring Xcelpyr and Klyky back to Eruda unscathed, and the Ki had ordered that its mother be confined out of an abundance of caution, lest eastern spies make unspecified attempts against that one’s safety. Figfo was not deceived by this show of concern, for the truth was that Xcelpyr had long suffered its mother’s connection to Kagan of Kraas and the leveraging of its beloved Klar. This was clearly the Ki of Eruda’s ploy to regain some degree of control from them. Without hesitation, Klyky had also approached Plung with the news of the failed plot, assuring that one that the eastern beasts would pay for their misguided effort to interrupt its father’s plans for conquest in the spring, but although Plung played along with the Ki-ling’s diversion, that one new the truth, as well. Now also under guard by two of Eruda’s Rangers, the Ki-ling of Kraas was afforded the run of Schroon Tower as a visiting dignitary and ally but cautioned strongly against roaming outside of that secured building. All the while Klyky took pains to appear attentive to that one’s every need. Meanwhile, the city had been locked down and the Ki’s most trusted Rangers had been placed on high alert to determine that no one could slip away from Eruda to take word to Kagan of its failed plans. Any caught attempting to leave the city were detained for questioning. No quarter was given to any who did not yield, and in the council chamber a gathering was convened of only those fully trusted by Xcelpyr and Klyky. There were six there besides the Ki and its heir, and guards were posted outside the heavy door at a distance out of easy earshot. “The time has come for us to make choices,” announced Xcelpyr. “Hard choices that will determine the future of this Kidom and who will rule here.” All in attendance nodded their agreement. There was Huni-la-Groit, Chief ant to the Ki and beyond reproach for its reporting of Figfo’s machinations over the years. There were Lanik-la-Roux and Thar-la-Ghurda, both Captains of Xcelpyr’s personal Rangers, Ickat-la-Kraj, a Captain of Klyky’s personal

Rangers as well, and seated beside the council table attentively heeding Xcelpyr’s words was Jako-la-Kint, Xcelpyr’s Master of Spies. “Figfo and Kagan have tried to move against us in a coup, and as their intended prize they had sought to invade the Lyfgus-Haug in springtime without us,” continued Xcelpyr. “The original plan would found a city upon the flatlands against the Doufi with great influence over its resources and commerce. I this push into the Lyfgus-Haug, for it has been far too long that the east has dictated our borders. What I do not is the religious genocide that Figfo intends across the region, and its desired attack of the Hork Valley Alliance itself, which will bring a devastating retribution against us. In the end it will destroy us,” said the Ki. Huni raised a hand and observed, “My Ki, while I have no doubt that the combined armies of Eruda and Kraas could successfully incur into the LyfgusHaug to establish a city settlement, I can assure you that even together we do not have the resources to directly invade further east. That is, unless Figfo and Kagan have some secret vast reserves from which to draw.” Klyky piped up, “They do. No new war technology, nothing like that. Just the fanatical faith of the multitudes that follow them, and that is not nothing.” Huni nodded. “As you say, Ki-ling, what we may or may not lack in weaponry could matter less than Figfo’s hold over the faithful.” La-Kint then raised its own point regarding the groundswell of Austinian fervour across the region. “It is true that a trend has arisen from the ranks of the common citizenry of Kraas and Eruda to blindly follow Figfo into the dark future that one intends. I must also report that my own emissaries across the Hork region tell me that one has much influence there, as well. In fact, if Figfo and Kagan do drive into that territory, they may be well-positioned to find allies in Austin’s temples there.” Xcelpyr nodded. “I do not doubt it. For decades, my mother’s infiltrators have toiled on behalf of their Messiah. I’m sure that the Temples of Austin in all five of those cities are well and righteously under that one’s sway.” Then the Ki of Eruda looked to its offspring and nodded for the Master Hunter to enlighten the others on a new piece of intelligence gleaned by one of its own spies left alone in the woods outside Midrib a month before. “The Hork Valley Alliance is embattled on another front at this time. It is one

that we could not have expected, and it runs to our favour. A plague has fallen upon them from the sky and ravaged all the towns at once. It is a brutal malady, which chokes the life from Andro and beast alike and weakens them inside their borders. And here is the greatest of news for the well-being of Eruda and its designs for the future,” reported Klyky, pausing for full attention from all gathered there. “The great Ping is dead. The pillar of the Alliance has fallen, and who is there to take its place? Ping’s eldest, Poopa, known across the LyfgusHaug as Poopa the Seeker. That one is not yet thirty years of age and from my garnering of fact, unaccomplished and without heir.” A hum of conversation filled the stone chamber as the fireplace crackled and the loose corner of a window-skin flapped in the cold wind from the seaside. All aspects of the disclosures bounced from Andro to Andro for an hour or more. When the council had finished deliberating a decision had been made, and its importance would provide consequences to all, come the thaw. A single decision remained, and it fell to the Ki and its child alone. When the others had gone Xcelpyr looked to the Master Hunter solemnly. “There is one thing, Klyky,” said Xcelpyr. A look of disconnection appeared in Xcelpyr’s face. “Your mother yet remains a hostage in Kraas. In taking these actions we break Kagan’s hold over us. We defy that one at a cost,” reported the Ki. Klyky understood the implication. The Ki-ling dropped its face just noticeably. “Father, until yesterday I thought that one long dead. I have no concept of a mother, but I understand the necessity of you having bowed before Kagan’s will to secure Klar’s safety. This I know is intolerable for you, but we have no recourse.” Xcelpyr sighed and slowly dropped into an uncomfortable chair. The Ki of Eruda shook its head. “What truly hurts the most, My Child, is that all these years I have refused to see that Klar’s fate was always out of my hands.” And then Xcelpyr set an eye upon Klyky. “We do have Kagan’s child,” it said. Klyky nodded thoughtfully. “Balance is a delicate thing, Father. It all depends upon Kagan’s affinity for its child,” said the Ki-ling. “If it is strong, then we have leverage, if not…” Klyky nodded with resolve, and placing its large right hand on its father’s shoulder the

Ki-ling turned its eyes to the door through which the others had exited, and then after some pause Klyky spoke again. “I shall arrange for the message to reach Kagan. We shall have the balance that we need.” Xcelpyr reflected upon its offspring’s answer. The observation was spot on. The Ki considered for a moment its relationship with Klyky as opposed to its relationship with Figfo and then, nodding sadly, the Ki of Eruda replied. “Balance is all we may have, My Child. If we do not have it, then it will not be possible to retain control here, and that would be fatal.”

Chapter 33 Pruskinom

The balance of the journey through the frozen Gourtuni Woods along the road to Pruskinom was uneventful, and on the morning of the fourth day the forest quite suddenly fell away behind them. On the far rim of the open wintery plain, against a grey and roiling sky, stood the capital of all Elysium, the imposing walls and towers of Pruskinom, eldest of cities. In the days when Mankind walked Elysium, it had been built of red granite blocks upon a great flat of basalt at the confluence of the River of Gold and the east-flowing Dower Canal. Here had been the first expression of Mankind’s great gift of masonry, and the scale of it constantly inspired awe in all novice onlookers. Kork and la-Druse, far from being novices, had both visited the capital many times over their careers, yet even in these seasoned officers the sight could instill reverence. From Pruskinom had arisen the civilization that issued forth across the continent, the values and ethics, art, music, and beliefs of the people of Mankind. This place was sacred, its sophistication renowned across Elysium, and even Voughorf at its height of majesty had struggled to compare. Here ruled the bloodline of the Sol’jas. Into the winter-masked grass flats the company proceeded, sledge after sledge accompanied by its out-riders row upon row in practised discipline, truly a sight to behold. Forty paces ahead of the cavalcade, side by side and separated by four metres, la-Druse and Kork rode high and polished atop their mounts. Winterfire, excited at the sight of shelter, began to surge forward, and eager for a chase, Yolanda’s Warrior met its compatriot’s momentum with challenge. Both officers tensed back against the reins but in unison they realized that the beasts would not be quieted so easily. Kork and la-Druse leaned forward as one, and beneath them the hoonds exploded into the open countryside before them. Running across the unspoiled snow as only truglehoond can, their broad feet spread like a waterfowl’s to cushion their impact. On the lightly packed snow, the speeding mounts virtually flew over the ground. Barely a sound did they make as they hurtled along

throwing cascading fans of crystal powder behind them like blue rockets, with both officers now curled tightly into the hoonds’ shoulders as they ran. Behind them, an officer shouted a short order: “Double-time!” and the procession carried on in perfect formation at an impressive pace until in five minutes they came to the western gate of the great city. On that spot the entire parade continued to march in place until Captain Kork at the front of the group raised its right hands above its head and signalled for them to halt. As a single unit they stopped and stood there atop sledges or mounted, Midrib’s finest. Both officers were well pleased. Ten city guards lined the open gateway, five to a side dressed in bronze and crimson armour, each accessorized by a short sword in a brass scabbard at its hip. At a nod from the Gate Master, the officers advanced on their hoonds in a regal and dignified manner, and at a grunt from the same officer as before, the caravan moved in behind them onto Pruskinom’s main parade, Midrib’s gold-onsapphire standard flapping in the chilly breeze. All the while, curious citizens enjoyed the spectacle and, wondering what goods were aboard, chattered among themselves in the crisp morning air. “Well!” confessed one well-dressed Andro to another with some excitement. “I will certainly be going to Marketplace this afternoon.” Down through the main parade the assembly continued, and at an order from Kork four of the sledges veered off onto the Avenue of Yolanda toward the midtown Market Square to set up their wares for the common folk. The other two sledges continued to follow the officers on their journey to the Keep, where dwelt the Pip Has’ja-la-Sol’ja and its family and servants. These finer sledges, pulled by Jason’s purgs, carried special gifts and tributes for the aristocratic tastes of the Nobles. There were casks of Midribi brandy along with carefully aged Astrib white-grass whisky and barrels of Riverib’s creamy stout ale. In a large chest were rolls of finely tanned pumpi hide and several bolts of beautifully woven linens and silks. In another were polished flat disks of Gastrib’s finest salt for the royal kitchen. In fact, these were the very best products of the Hork Valley Alliance, to be presented to the Pip of Pruskinom as tribute. In a breast pocket of Lemkin-laDruse’s ambassadorial uniform was a bronze cylinder containing perhaps the single most precious gift for the Pip, a letter from its youngest child, Giawa.

Upon reaching the main gate of Pruskinom Keep, la-Druse exchanged words with the Gate Master, and after only a small delay they were bid enter and ushered to a landing where they could unload their goods. It was here that Kork released its chastened escort to return to the village of Rib, and then la-Druse and Kork left the company in the capable hands of their Corporal, who issued instructions for an orderly disembarkation. The two officers trotted their hoonds along the Avenue of the Pips, accompanied by the scout la-Gong, until they arrived before the Great House porch where they stopped and dismounted. Here they were approached by a pair of grooms, dressed in the colours of the House of Sol’ja, who greeted them and took their mounts for accommodation and feeding, and a smartly dressed usher who preceded them up the steps and into the Great House vestibule. Once inside the usher bade them wait within the finely appointed foyer and disappeared around the corner of a wall, so the three stood in silence iring the grandeur of the Great Hall beyond. By comparison, the Keeps of the Hork Valley Alliance were small and meagrely adorned, and laGong thought that it had never seen so much gold and silverwork in one place before. After a short march of minutes, the usher reappeared and with polite efficiency directed the party to proceed behind it into the Great Hall. Casting its eyes upward into the capacious volume of the lofty vault, la-Gong marvelled at the widely arched massive rafters of gourtuni wood, which afforded foundation for the tightly planked ceiling of whitewood above. The scout had never seen anything like it, and it wondered at the skill necessary to erect such a structure. Humbled by the very scale of it all, the Andro lowered its gaze in time to observe two tall Andros enter the Great Hall in resplendent garments woven of golden silk, accompanied by six obviously subordinate Nobles and a dozen uniformed servants moving fussily about them all. As the group ed into the centre of the hall it stopped and the younger, tall one aided the elder into its place on an elevated throne of fine construction. Then the younger stood alongside the occupied throne casting its attention upon the small group of foreigners there in the hall. “Usher?” queried that one. “Who have you there?” The usher stepped forward and bowed before the masters of the realm, and then announced in a practised Pruskinom accent. “Your Most High Magnificences, may I announce the representatives of the

Pipling Giawa-la-Has’ja and the Hork River Provincial City of Midrib, Ambassador Lemkin-la-Druse and Captain Kork-la-Semkin of the Pipling Giawa’s personal guard.” La-Gong was not mentioned, and that one felt its insignificance increasing uncomfortably as it stood there wondering why the Captain had invited it along. The officers stepped forward two paces and bowed, leaving la-Gong alone and feeling rather uneasy. La-Druse spoke first, having arisen from a deep bow, and in a practised even tone said, “Masters of Elysium, I bid you greetings and obedience from the Council of Kis of the Hork Valley Alliance and from the Pipling Giawa, who wish to seek your royal council on a matter of great importance.” Kork was standing as well now but held off from speaking for the moment. Rather, the Captain observed its hosts with great interest and took in their postures and manners in detail. The Pip has grown old since last we met, it thought to itself. And the Pipling Gretak seems even more severe and self-important than I recall from the last time I laid eyes upon it. This information would be saved for another time and for Giawa’s ears alone. That Pipling had counselled Kork to be observant and to inquire as to the disposition of its sibling toward itself. Such a task was delicate and required cleverness and guile for it would not be healthy to be discovered so engaged. Yes, Has’ja was old indeed, for as it sat upon its throne before them its shoulders were stooped and a noticeable tremor lived in all four hands. The Pip’s eyes, once bright, were dulled by cataracts, and at the edges of its lips sat patches of dried saliva that told the Captain of poor diet. Kork had seen this before in the closing years of its own father’s life, and the memory gave that one pause. “Captain la-Semkin,” engaged the Pipling. “How did you leave my sibling?” “The Pipling was in most excellent health, Majesty,” Kork said. “The Pipling has bid me to bring warm greetings and a promise of its highest esteem to your Majesties.” Kork smiled pleasantly. Gretak observed the Captain for a moment or two with undeniable coolness in its glare. Has’ja seemed detached and distant. “No doubt,” Gretak replied. “And you have a reckoning of tributes that one has

sent, as well?” “I do, Majesty,” replied Kork, handing a scroll of inventory to the usher, who walked it forward to a servant, who in turn carried the scroll to the Pipling’s hand. Gretak did not open the scroll, but instead slipped it into a breast pocket. Kork then stood silent, but in dragging the tip of its boot just a thumb’s width across the floorboards sent a signal to la-Druse that it had finished speaking. “My Pip, may I approach?” enquired the Ambassador with a tone of courtly formality. “My Pipling Giawa has bidden me give you this scroll directly,” said that one holding out the polished bronze cylinder in its large right hand. “Shall I approach, My Pip?” As it said these things, la-Druse made a point of looking at Has’ja directly. The cloudy eyes reached out to examine the Ambassador’s face, but found the effort just beyond achieving. Recognizing the voice, the Pip nodded. “Approach, Lemkin-la-Druse, and give it to my hand. You have my countenance,” announced the Pip of all Elysium. The Ambassador moved forward, bowing its head as it went, arm outstretched and the gloved hand cradling the scroll with reverence. All eyes in the room were fixed on that one as it approached the Pip, especially those of the Pipling Gretak whose mind was busy wondering what its sibling had placed on the document within that bronze tube. La-Druse had behaved perfectly in asking the Pip for its tolerance, for it precluded the possibility of Gretak seeing the letter first. And the -off was made most expeditiously and securely, whereupon Lemkin withdrew. Gretak leaned slightly toward its mother and softly engaged the Pip. “Mother,” it said. “Shall I read it to you?” Has’ja side-looked that one with some annoyance. “I am not yet blind, My Child. Once I have determined what of this is for my eyes alone, I shall counsel with you. A father only hears from its second born occasionally, after all,” said Has’ja. “Ambassador, Captain, I will summon you if I require you. This usher will show you quarters and assist you as required.” As the Pip spoke, it indicted the Andro that had greeted them with an outstretched finger. The usher, Kork, la-Druse, and the scout la-Gong all bowed deeply to the throne, and then with the usher leading them out they left the Great Hall behind them. Has’ja then turned toward Gretak and paused but for a second before speaking.

“I shall retire to my chambers to rest and to read the Pipling’s words. In the meantime, you may announce to the staff that provisions will be required for the emissaries of Midrib upon their journey home.” Has’ja gripped its golden staff in its large left hand and, groaning, pulled itself from the throne to stand before it. The Pip’s eyes had migrated downward and were now scanning the floor for any obstacles as it made its way to the great staircase. ing the steps, the Pip ambled to a doorway where on either side there stood a strong-looking Andro. Has’ja ambled between them into a small enclosure there. “Up!” ordered the Pip and they each took hold of one of two loops of rope presenting through small holes in the polished blackwood wall. Pulling on the ropes, the servants lifted the wooden platform on which the Pip stood, conveying that one to the second floor of the great mezzanine. Once safely deposited on the floor above, Has’ja made its way to its chamber door, which the Ranger therestationed opened, and the Pip of all Elysium disappeared from view. Still standing in its place beside the throne, eyes fixed on the now closing doorway, Gretak was nursing an impatient scowl. Soon enough, thought the heir to that throne. Then my attention can turn to my dear sibling, whom I will never allow to encourage my western colonies in their quest for autonomy. Such subversion will not diminish my empire. Rising from its chair the Pipling ran the fingers of its large right hand along the arm of its mother’s throne, and then turning away made steps toward the office of the chief of the Pip’s service staff to issue Has’ja’s orders. The inhabitants of the Great Hall breathed a little easier with each step that one took. Upstairs and away from prying eyes the old Pip sat upon a plush and luxuriantly adorned daybed nested in a clutch of soft pillows. The empty tube lay on the floor at Has’ja’s feet, and with great attention the Pip studied the letter that it held in both small hands. The light in the bedroom was adequate, but the old eyes were not, and Has’ja struggled to comprehend a word or two at first. Upon careful second reading the Pip’s brow furrowed with understanding, but then the ancient Andro, squinting, lowered the page and turned its eyes away. Then the Pip sighed, laid its head back into one of the soft pillows, and ruminated. So, thought the Pip of all Elysium. Sickness, and a coming war in the western plains… and schemes and treachery at home in Pruskinom. I do not reckon on

living out the year, and the remnants of my empire hang in the balance. Giawa rightly stands with the people of the Hork Colonies in their hopes for selfdetermination, but Gretak will see that as an affront to its rule. It seems that what intrigue may be brewing in the west could pale in regard to that fact, for if war is potential on the Lyfgus-Haug it is inevitable between my children. Has’ja dropped the letter inside the bronze tube and sealing it that one slipped it into a hidden spot. The great Pip continued to muse on this, but its closed eyes fluttered, and soon it was asleep.

Chapter 34 Returns of the Day

Mid-morning of the following day was the seventeenth of Hurd, three days since their arrival in Pruskinom. The caravan, having cleared out its goods at Marketplace the afternoon before, had made arrangements to return to Midrib. All six sledges were now loaded down with goods from the capital for sale in Midrib and beyond, up-river and down, and an excitement could be seen in all to get underway. The purg teams were straining at their harnesses, the drivers sitting ready for the order to “Mush on!” Along the sides of the column of sledges, primed and waiting, were Kork’s twenty mounted soldiers, riding for protection of the now enriched caravan. At some length, Captain Kork, la-Druse, and scout la-Gong trotted in along the Avenue of Yolanda, bathed in the shimmer of the early morning suns. Moving to the front of the column they paused there for some minutes in quiet conversation. Then with a nod to the officers la-Gong rode back along the convoy to relay the order to proceed. All eyes were on the Captain, who crisply raised both left hands above its head, and then with a forward stroke gave the order to advance. With a snap and jerk the column of commerce strained forward as one, sending out a hard groan of heavy rails against ice and snow. The sound built to a dull, rolling roar as the caravan pulled out through the gates. Once the flatlands had been realized the purgs truly met their stride, and the city of the Pip’s began to fall away behind them in earnest. Before them lay the forest and the road, and a four-day journey home, including three nights of setting camp in the wintery woods in Hurd. They had done well and earned good profit, and upon selling their newly purchased goods at home would earn more. But the gold and silver coin they carried in secret would no doubt encourage the wrong sort of interest in competing camps of Pruskinom’s court, so scouts were doubled and great care would be taken to protect it. High atop Yolanda’s Warrior, Kork rode in silence some ten metres to the right of la-Druse on Winterfire. They had been leading the column for several hours, and occasionally one or the other would ride ahead or fall behind as required,

exchanging words only when necessary. Kork’s thoughts were turned back to the previous evening when that one had been secreted off to a meeting with Has’ja in a heavily guarded room deep inside Pruskinom Keep. There the Pip had given Kork a sealed reply for the Pipling Giawa and a warning: “Do not trust in Gretak where Giawa is concerned, and set an extra rear guard for the journey home. I would offer you a squad of Pruskinom Rangers, but I am no longer certain which are loyal to me and which are loyal to my child. Better that you ride alone.” The warning had not been expected but given the disposition of Gretak over the many years of their acquaintance, it had certainly not been a surprise either. Kork had suspected that Has’ja held a preference for its younger child, and that Gretak harboured resentment for its younger sibling was obvious. But Gretak was the legal heir and upon the old Pip’s death would come to power. The Pip’s cautioning carried a deep tone of foreboding for the future of the Hork Valley, for it was plain that Has’ja expected its life to fail before another Winter’s Dawn, perhaps even sooner, and with that knowledge Kork rode on in silence. In a locked and armoured barrel aboard the third sledge was a gift that the Pip had furnished for Giawa and the Hork Valley Alliance. Fifty thousand coins of silver and twenty thousand of gold had Has’ja entrusted to Kork and la-Druse for the purpose of ing its offspring in the impending war against the Western Alliance. The weight of it balanced heavily on the Captain’s mind. There would be no formal aid in of troops, at least not soon, for the tension between Has’ja and Gretak threatening to split the Pipdom would not allow for it. La-Druse, for its part, had always expected such an intrigue, for that one had been Ambassador to Giawa long before the younger Kork had arrived on the scene. La-Druse had cautioned Kork to be alert within the Keep at Pruskinom and to be mindful of its words. The Captain had obliged, understanding the need for keeping its words brief and its tone non-committal, as long as they remained in that Pipling’s company. A low-ranking officer such as itself would be an easy target for a disgruntled Pipling, and Kork had no desire to make an enemy of Gretak in the short run. Long into the second day they made good time, for the weather was frigid but not severe, but on the third day, having just ed the halfway point of their journey, things changed. The midday suns had grown faint behind a mass of darkening cloud. Howling as if inhabited by vile demons of annihilation, the wind tore in from the west. Icy pellets of snow cut like razors before that blast,

and the purgs refused to go forward into it, choosing instead to turn off the road and cower behind the trunks of massive gourtuni trees for respite from the storm’s sharp teeth. Truglehoonds were little better off than the purgs, and so the convoy was forced to huddle in place, deploying sheets of oilcloth which danced and flapped in the gale as a makeshift shield against the punishing weather. Thus, they lost three hours of progress that day, and by the time the blizzard had ed them by, they were all exhausted. Kork wanted to press on, ever wary that they may have been pursued by federal troops from Pruskinom, but the beasts were beyond it. LaDruse suggested that anyone following them would have likewise been assaulted by the winter’s fury, but only with great hesitation did the Captain of Giawa’s guard select to camp there, for lack of choice. Two hours more they remained in place while the animals were treated for cuts and fed, but when the gale died away, that was all that Kork could endure. They resumed their journey, slowly at first, toward the shelter of Midrib. Riding side by side once, more the Captain and the Ambassador led the convoy along a road nearly swept clear of snow by the ferocity of the gale, and as the sledge-runners met the exposed, gravel-imbedded ice they complained loudly. Anyone around for kilometres would be alerted to their presence, but it could not be helped, so on they slogged, the rails sending out a bloodcurdling screech of protest as they went. They continued for two more hours until finally, just after the setting of Blue, when real darkness engulfed them, they came upon a section where the road bent slightly northward and once again there was a covering of snow upon the ice. The screeching stopped once the last sledge regained snow-covered road again, and instantly the pace increased to a gallop. Relief was palpable across the company as they reached a steady speed, and the order was given to ride until morning—ride as though life depended upon it, for it quite possibly did. When morning came, they were still deep inside the Great Gourtuni Forest and three hours from their destination. Kork called out to la-Gong to spread the word, and as the scout rode back along the line it cried out the news like a market herald. A noticeable wave of relief rippled along the line as that one ed. The drivers cracked their whips as though of one mind, and then the purgs pulling the sledges built to a galloping speed and the truglehoonds in response matched their measure, for the promise of home is always a fine lure to

summon the strength that one might need when vigour is low. As the caravan accelerated forward, Kork and la-Druse sprinted ahead on their hoonds to maintain their positions before the troops. The Captain turned its head to la-Druse and called out over the noise of the sledges. “Here we go, Lemkin! This will make up a little time!” La-Druse clapped its right hands in approval and then stared into the distance of the open road before them, but instead of a clear way to Midrib that one found another obstacle to their advance. There in the road half a kilometre before them was a party equal to their own in sledges and soldiers, and it was coming their way at a good pace. Before the counting of thirty heartbeats the parties met and having no room to on this part of the road became a traffic jam. All motion had stopped in both directions, and a parley ensued between the lead officers of both caravans. Kork conferred with the Captain of the outgoing train, and without revealing its cargo relayed that its arrival in Midrib was urgent. While they conferred the convoy hummed with hoonds prancing and purgs grumping and snorting. The two groups of soldiers stood awaiting new orders, and the drivers gave small tugs on their leads to keep the purgs in order. Soon enough it became apparent that the lead officers had come to a decision. The outgoing teams were pulled over to the side of the road, leaving just enough room for the ingoing train to them very carefully and very slowly. After some minutes, the sledges were lined up six by six with but a hand’s width between them and twenty mounted hoonds filled both ends of the causeway behind their own sledges, one group at either end of the two-way conveyance. At just that moment came the rasping screech of a large flock of zaschafrys not so very far back along the road to Pruskinom. All there stopped and turning eyes to that place fell silent to listen. A squad of twenty Pruskinom Rangers had blundered into the nesting ground of a flock of blackshadow zaschafry and startled them into frenzy. Pitching and weaving through the tangle of gourtuni boughs above, the fry, screaming murder in the air, dive-bombed the Rangers with tentacle and beak ready to inflict damage. Had this been a day in Hell with summer burning down upon them from the Bright and the Pale, they would not have their heavy winter clothing to protect them, and they would have suffered badly. For their good fortune they

thanked the Woman of the Hunt in mumbled, angry prayers. The Pruskinom Captain suddenly bolted forward on its hoond, and as though dragged, the others hit the frozen road behind it, skipping and jockeying for position. With the flock of zaschafry swooping down from behind them, the federal Rangers hammered along down the frosty road, ducking against their small but angry repulsers and pressing their mounts for all they were worth. As they turned a northward bend, they felt the dive bombers falling away behind, and as they galloped on felt that moment of relief, but only for a moment. They were twenty strong, and with armour, lance, and sword they felt their worth at least equal to the caravan that they hunted, but upon clearing the crooked part of the road they found themselves to be out-Andro’d, by well over two to one. Arranged as it was, the field of sledges presented a great stage upon which to defend, an elevated deck replete with long, sharp spears and swords and shields, and including two lines of ten mounted hoonds before the prize, it was as unobtainable as might be dreamed. The Pruskinom Captain drew back hard on the reigns and its hoond planted all four broad feet into the snowy road. Dropping its rear, the beast ground itself to a splendid short stop. At once the hoond recovered and stood tall beneath its Andro. The Pruskinom Captain raised its left hands into the air above its head and signalled “Stop,” whereupon its compatriots formed up briskly into two rows just behind to await its order. The Captain considered for a good number of moments just what would be the smart thing to do, when from the lines behind, its Second Andro drew forward along side. The Second snorted and then spoke in hushed tone, saying, “Captain, this was unexpected… orders?” The Pruskinom Captain smiled with youthful bristle and taking an attitude of untroubled ease the officer nudged its hoond forward. “Fall in,” ordered the Pruskinom Captain, calmly. “We are going to Midrib.” The squad rode forward to its Captain’s will. In short order they reached a place where they were matched hoond to hoond with the riders of Midrib, whereupon the Pruskinom Captain sat tall in its saddle, and projecting with some force called out. “Captain Kork… Ambassador la-Druse!” Moments ed, and then from between the rows of hoonds stepped Winterfire and Yolanda’s Warrior carrying their masters. Kork eyed the Pruskinom Captain with a certain suspicion at first, until la-Druse reached over and placed a large left hand on that one’s shoulder.

“Captain,” spoke the Ambassador. “What are your orders?” Kork turned its gaze to Lemkin-la-Druse for the briefest of moments, and then back to the Pruskinom Captain, who spoke to both of them directly and without malice of any kind, while its mount gurgled low, deep in its throat. “Gentle-Andros, I am Captain Etta-la-Krak, First Cousin of Giawa-la-Has’ja and Gretak-la-Has’ja, and this great beast is Ice Hammer, a very old friend. I was sent by Pipling Gretak to intercept your caravan and deny you a certain cask, I assume of federal funds and intelligence. It seems that by inconvenience of your present numbers, that ship has sailed,” announced la-Krak. “I have rather developed a preference for my Pipling Giawa over my Pipling Gretak of late, and in the likelihood that Gretak will execute me for this little mishap upon my return to the capital, I wish to offer the services of this squad in the defence of Midrib.” Concluding its speech, that one smiled cheerfully. Kork once again turned its gaze to Lemkin-la-Druse with question in its eyes. La-Druse raised its large right hand signalling “All clear.” Then, that one nodded to la-Krak and to the squad of Pruskinom Rangers behind it. “Do they know what you’re getting them into?” inquired the Ambassador, but laKrak did not answer. From its Second Officer came a proud announcement. “They know, Ambassador. Where the Captain goes, they follow.” La-Druse nodded curtly and turning Winterfire into the trees, that one bade Ettala-Krak to follow, and as they began to move forward along the caravan through the trees just off the road, they were followed by Captain Kork. Shortly, after reaching the road in the front of the train, Kork signalled back for its convoy to proceed to Midrib, and the Captain of the Pruskinom-bound party did the same. Slowly the trains ed one another beneath the early afternoon suns, and soon both were on their journeys once again.

Chapter 35 The Seventh of Max

Over the last ninety years or so, the relief brought by warm spring winds had been pushed from Hell, deeper into the calendar. Eu was no longer a month of swampy heat, for as the Time of Ice had deepened, summer had become shorter and cooler each year. Yola, once the peak of summer, had cooled to become a time of the tepid memory of its former glory. By the month of Jas summer had fallen into reminiscence, a dream receding rapidly into the past. Mac provided a massive transformation into a pallet of gold and red, but unlike the spectacle days before the Long Winter, the show was brief, and even before the month of Anna there was nothing left to show that the trees had once born leaf at all. The cold colours of winter descended upon the land once again, well over a month before Winter’s Dawn. The seventh day of Max had awakened with an odd vibrancy, and with warmth that had become uncommon for that month. There had been rumbles of thunder in the distant mountains that were much more suggestive of the opening of spring from a bygone era than anything from recent years. The very old, and even many of the not-quite-so-very-old had noticed it and marked it “odd.” The rumour was ing in the streets of the Hork Valley Alliance that something remarkable was coming to . Could they dare to hope that this year would be different? And still, the temperature continued to climb. By noon, when both suns were high the people of Midrib and Gastrib, Astrib, Riverib, and Straerib had begun walking about in clothing that spoke more of high summer than the coming of Spring Fest. The atmosphere of the city had become strikingly celebratory, and Market came to life as though no one in the Hork Valley possessed any groceries at all. Barely a fresh vegetable could be found in the stalls, for winter had been long and hard and only the remnants of last Max’s root vegetables and the barrels of dried peas and beans were anything close to what could be called plentiful. Dried and salted fish, mostly razor-fish, chubby-yellowheads, and tube-fish, were all plentiful, and smoked gourt shoulders abounded, some for sale whole, others baked in stone ovens and sliced

to order inside the pum, the local white-grass bread roll. Andros spent a great volume of coppers that day. They spent it on food, they spent it on firewood, and they spent it on wines and ales, and on new brooms and kolita-pine bark to fragrance their homes. One Andro even spent some on a new bronze head for its ice axe, feeling that it was a good idea to be prepared for the run of striped long-fish next month. Long-fish could grow up to more than a metre in length and with a girth like the thigh of a Human. The flesh was firm and meaty and white as snow, and the flavour made it well loved across Elysium and very lucrative merchandise to possess. Just as the bell in the Temple of Yolanda marked the end of the first hour of afternoon, a mounted party of Noble-Andros left the paddock and entered the Boulevard of Man, which ran as a straight line along the centre of Midrib. The group, which included the Kis of Midrib and Straerib, their Captains, and Khuli and M’zyk, had just finished an inspection of the stables and the oval hoond track, and having been satisfied by their tour was making an unhurried procession along that concourse toward the eastern parade ground. As they drew near to Market, Khuli called over to M’zyk, who turned slightly in its saddle to view the Ki-ling. “Today is too hot for this dress tunic, Brave One. I long for a river-chilled pot of ale,” announced Khuli over the chatter of the marketplace. M’zyk nodded in agreement and with leave given by the Kis, they turned their mounts to a hitching post on the west side of the boulevard just outside the market ground. Dismounting, they tied off and entered the arcade between a meat shop and a bread stand where warm pum and nut loaf scented the air. As they moved into the crowd, Andros made room for the formally dressed pair of Nobles, who made a straight line to the end of the lane, where Kherdin-la-Hoop always kept its refreshment stand. “Good day to you, Gentle-Andros,” announced the barkeep, Hado-la-Kherdin, the brewer’s middle child. “Can I quench your thirst?” Both Khuli and M’zyk nodded, and the Ki-ling laid two coppers upon the blackwood bar top. “What’s fresh, young la-Kherdin? And what have you got on ice?” queried M’zyk boldly. The barkeep answered promptly and with crispness. “I have my mother’s red-grass fizzy, Brave One, and a jug of last year’s honeyberry wine. Best of all, for the palates of two fine Andros such as you, I

also have a treat to please the taste buds of Mankind, a frosty keg of Kherdin’s very best redberry malt beer. What is your pleasure, Ki-lings?” “What will two coppers buy today?” asked Khuli. The barkeep scooped up the coins and into a pocket they went, and then offered a pour of the red-grass fizzy from a corked jug. The product bubbled as it was poured, and the tin cups nearly overflowed with foam. La-Kherdin ed a cup to each customer, and as they quaffed the contents, excited bubbles danced upon their palates. “Different,” offered the Brave One, turning to Khuli for its opinion. The Ki-ling drained its cup and belched. “A little too fizzy for my tastes,” answered Khuli, and fishing in its pocket for more coins presented la-Kherdin with six more coppers. “Let’s try the family redberry malt,” it directed the barkeep, who, scooping the coins into the same pocket as before, poured two tin cups of the deep reddish-brown ale and handed them across its bar. “Very special,” it promised. The beer was good, not nearly as fizzy as the first drink, and clearly higher in flavour and alcohol. The Andros drank deeply and nodding to one another they smacked their lips and declared in unison that the quality was very fine. “How much of this do you have in stock?” enquired the Ki-ling, and upon the barkeep’s reply that twenty casks remained in the family cellar, Khuli nodded. “Instruct the brew master that four casks of this are to be delivered to the Keep’s east gate. I require it by this afternoon,” commanded Khuli. La-Kherdin smiled with satisfaction and scribbled an order upon a piece of parchment with a dip pen. “My mother will be most pleased, Ki-ling,” said the young barkeep. “Four casks come to two-hundred-seventy coppers. Shall I place this on the Keep’s ?” “No,” announced Khuli, and fishing a small cloth bag from a different pocket this time, dropped it onto the bar top. “This is three hundred coppers, la-Kherdin. Give me a cask of the fizzy, as well. My children will like that one.” La-Kherdin nodded its appreciation and noted the addition on its parchment.

Then it handed the order to a young Andro who had been standing by behind the bar and bade that one run to the brewery and present the note to Kherdin personally. La-Kherdin poured a cup of the honeyberry wine for each of them, ing the drinks across the bar. “This was a fine season, My Ki-lings,” boasted the barkeep with a smile. “Compliments of the house of Kherdin.” The two drank and exchanged grunts of approval, and then laying down their empty cups they bid the barkeep good day and turned their attention to the aroma of roasted zaschafry wafting through the marketplace on a warm south breeze. By the time they had collected their truglehoonds to resume their journey along the Boulevard of Man, the two Andros had been well fed by a selection of butchers and bakers and sweets merchants, and the warm rays of the suns had begun to feel uncomfortable upon their heads and shoulders. The Keep would be a welcome respite, for there the pair could remove their stuffy clothing and take in the cooling indulgence of a bath in the family’s pool. Many sweltering days had been spent there in summers long ago, but to so engage in the early days of the month of Max would be an unexpected treat. Grooms accepted their mounts before the entryway post, and before their approach a foot Andro swept open the doors, bidding them welcome home. Inside the entranceway servants helped them to remove the tunics that had been stifling them, and they sprinted through the Great Hall past the table of luncheon’s leavings, utterly disinterested for lack of appetite. Strolling on they made their way to the back of the main floor where the pool was located, to disappear behind a fur-clad wall.

In the central courtyard of Midrib Keep, Zeef and Kuiper, Harn and Hash, were busy playing games of intrigue. Split into teams with a younger and an older child in each, they had spent an hour writing messages, some in code, and hiding them with care around the spacious enclosure. Each message held clues that led to the next and the next, leading at length to a final prize. The first team to locate the other’s final message would be the winner, and they all would be treated to one of Cook’s honeyberry cakes, a ritual that had lived in Midrib’s great house since the childhoods of Poopa and Khuli so many years ago. There was an abundance of shrubs and trees and flowering vines throughout the

courtyard, offering a wide range of places to hide things, but the centrally located play hut held hiding places beyond compare. Once the secreting time was over, the two teams of spies took off in earnest to solve the puzzles, riddles, and crudely drawn maps that would take them to sweet victory. This courtyard was the place in which the children and grandchildren of the House of Giawa and Ping spent warm summer nights and mild winter evenings around the small fire pit in the gravel floor. Ping had lived for the nights of Winter’s Dawn and Summerfest, and loved to sit here by firelight with Giawa, watching their family play. Harn called over to its partner Kuiper, as they methodically poked and peered into every nook and cranny of the evergreen hedge that lined the south wall. “The ‘greenery’ has got to mean in here, Kuiper. There’s nothing else green in the whole courtyard.” Kuiper poked its whole arm deep inside the hedge and fished about for a minute, from time to time removing and reinserting the appendage. “Good thing this is not the Fryx,” said Harn. “Hey! Let’s pretend it is!” But Kuiper side-looked the younger child and shook its head impatiently. “NO! We’re looking for clues, not pretending,” onished Kuiper, and in earnest silence they delved into the game that they were playing, digging deeper into the evergreen in search of informative notes. In another part of the courtyard Hash and Zeef were certain that the next clue was tucked inside a zaschafry nest on a corner of the play house roof. The last clue had led them there, both agreed to that fact, but neither could fathom how Harn and Kuiper had managed to put it there. There was nothing to stand on to reach the birdhouse; not even Zeef could have reached it without a long pole. And yet, the children were convinced it was up there. “Here’s a long stick!” offered Hash. “Get me up on your shoulders and let me get it with the stick.” Zeef thought about it for a moment, and then with hesitation replied, “You sure? If you fall, I’ll be in trouble.” Hash side-looked that one and rolled its eyes. “I’m not going to fall! Now stop making me nervous and let’s do this.” In short order the feat had been accomplished and the nest recovered. Hash descended, dropping down beside Zeef with the nest in its small left hand. They

did not notice the beautifully spiralling weave of the dry yellow-grass structure as they tore the nest apart to find the strip of parchment deep within. Instead, they unfolded the message and found that it was a riddle, which read, “What is the difference between Aust and Hell, and how many months?” The young Andros exchanged looks of puzzlement, and Zeef looked at the riddle once again. “Aust is cold and Hell is hot?” the young Ki-ling offered. Hash’s face did not speak of confidence. The younger Ki-ling pondered for a moment longer and then shook its head dismissively. “Hell has rain and Aust has snow,” offered Hash. Zeef snorted mockingly. “Hell has sweet berries, Aust has snowballs,” proposed the fledged hunter. Harn shook its head again. “You’re big, but…” Hash trailed off, and then its eyes grew wide. “Silky zaschafrys build these nests in Hell, and they fly south in Aust. We go south!” Zeef grunted with surprise and turned its head toward that end of the courtyard. “But, what in the south end should we be looking for?” Hash dropped the square of parchment onto the snow at its feet and said, “There are two months between Aust and Hell. That’s the second part of the riddle.” “Wrong, going the other way there are five months between Hell and Aust.” The children pondered together now. Then Hash lit up as though the answer had revealed itself to the child. “We go five steps south or we go two steps south,” it announced, but Zeef did not think so. “Two months one way and five months the other way. Seven steps south,” said Zeef with finality, and that one headed south across the courtyard counting steps as it went. As Hash hurried to catch up with the older child it could hear Kuiper and Harn giggling inside the play hut. Were they wrong about the zaschafry and heading the wrong way? Or had Kuiper and Harn discovered humour in a recently found clue somewhere inside the play hut? Hash wondered. As the warmth of the day grew, the children pursued the clues and enjoyed the

lightness of moving about without the snowsuits that had been needed in the long cold of winter.

Dismounting from their hoonds, the Ki of Midrib and the Ki of Straerib tied off their beasts by a water trough outside the foundry door. In short order their Captains had done the same, and together the group approached the guarded entrance. At their approach, the sentinel bowed toward Poopa and turned and rapped the butt of its lance against the door’s brass plate. Quickly the door was unlatched giving a solid clack from within, and with the door opened before them the small party proceeded through where to greet them was Jusk-laGurjion. That one was dressed in a most impressive suit of battlefield protection consisting of a tough shell of cured guergon-hide overlain with skillfully hammered bronze plates. “Good day, My Kis. Please follow me,” instructed the Master Forger, and quickly the group made its way through the foundry, past the rows of working hearths and kilns busy with scores of Andros casting and polishing weapons for the war to come. The clatter of their industry filled the great space. “A beautiful day for so early in Max,” replied Poopa, who watched the Andros toiling at their craft with a sense of urgency and care in their faces. As the party proceeded it came to another door, which led them into a wide showground for the demonstration of weapons. Here the roof had been opened to allow the suns to shine in, and the grass-trimmed floor of crushed gravel shimmered slightly in their light. Six Andros awaited them there, all dressed in the latest edition of Jusk’s design and carrying tools unfamiliar to the of the party. Jusk held out a hand to one of the Andros who in turn ed an artifact over to the Forge Master. “This,” said Jusk, holding out an object to Poopa, “is a little piece of engineering that will give us a mid-range advantage. It carries a short wooden shaft with a sharp bronze tip and projects the missile by use of a powerful spring made from a very special alloy of iron forged with coal and then tempered. The process is not understood by many forgers across Elysium, so it will not be readily copied. Up to a range of nine metres it can drive a shaft easily through the kind of armour that is common in Eruda or clean through an unarmoured Andro. For the armour of Kraas, we have a heavier version to be distributed to our largest

warriors.” Poopa handled the weapon, two opposing arms made of blackwood each carrying a deep groove along its length and ed with a shiny silvery metal contraption that Poopa assumed to be the spring. This was then strapped onto the inner faces of both forearms on a single arm. When placed together the arms of the device provided a channel twenty centimetres long that held the shaft, and forcing the shaft into the channel locked the spring in position. Poopa ed the device to Ikhacha, who examined the thing with interest and then ed it on until all had done their own inspections. Poopa looked at Jusk and instructed the Master Forger to proceed with the demonstration. Jusk approached a line of Andros wearing a full garb of Eruda Ranger armour and who stood facing a statue of baled hay nine metres away. “La-Juke take a head shot,” ordered Jusk, and the Andro pointed its right arm at the target in question. La-Juke then opened its forearms with a sudden snap, and with a loud clack the spring released, hurling the shaft forward with considerable force. The impact was jolting to watch, and the bronze tip sliced through the Eruda helmet with ease, burying the shaft ten centimetres deep in hay. “You five, give me a volley,” ordered Jusk, and all five repeated la-Juke’s actions and sent a wave of shafts down along the testing ground to impact the armoured bale very nearly at the same instant. The impact shook the bronze uniform and sent shards of hay flying, and when all was said and done there were two in the lungs, one in the right kidney, one in the liver, and one in the heart. The Kis and their Captains exchanged comments in a subdued volume and turned then to query Jusk. “How many of these do we have?” asked Poopa. “Does the larger model have greater range?” inquired Ikhacha. “How fast does it load?” demanded Captain Kork. “A single Andro can carry two of these, cross loading with a quiver at either hip,” responded Jusk. “With training that Andro could fire shaft after shaft until both quivers are empty. A quiver carries thirty shafts, sixty in one hundred seconds. The larger units have forty percent more range and operate with the same degree of ease and accuracy. As to your question, My Ki, we have seven hundred and eighty at the moment, and by the end of Max we will possess three

thousand.” “This is an incredible piece of work, Jusk,” commended the Ki. “With these we need lose no sleep between now and the start of hostilities.” “To the best of my knowledge there is nothing like this weapon on the battlefield,” reported Ikhacha, and both Captains agreed wholeheartedly. “If we have more days like today the thaw will come in weeks and war may be upon us. We should be preparing to switch from sledges to wheeled vehicles, troop wagons and two-Andro assault carts. Straerib has been building a fleet of these and has now six hundred.” The Ki of Midrib nodded thoughtfully. “My grandfather’s money has given us a real advantage indeed,” said Poopa. “The only question remains, where is our greatest opponent? West in the Mountains of the Blood Moon or east in Pruskinom?” Kork responded to the Ki’s musing without rebuke, presenting an unexpected answer. “The one that attacks first, My Ki. At least for openers that one will be our greatest threat, and how well we are prepared and how well we respond to that threat may have a hand in determining our other enemy’s decision to attack or refrain.” Ikhacha nodded and replied. “I agree with you to a point, Captain Kork; however, if the west attacks us first and we are weakened, I believe that Gretak will see only weakness, and then attack. If Gretak attacks us first and we are successful in holding them back, then perhaps the west will see our prowess and think twice.” “Or” interrupted Poopa, “we will be sandwiched between them like roasted fry in a pum and eaten.” All there looked at the Ki of Midrib for a moment, as though that one had stepped on their egos. Ikhacha snorted and the Captains grumbled unhappily, but the peltor from Eruda spoke up with conviction. “This is the Hork Valley Alliance, My Ki,” said Jusk. “From what I have seen over the winter, it is a strong force to be reckoned with. Whatever may occur going forward, I for one believe that it will not fall easily.”

The Captains nodded to that sentiment and piped up in unison, saying, “Well said!” The Kis exchanged a silent smile, and the rest of the afternoon was filled with the showing of innovations and a cordial discussion of tactics. When evening and finally darkness fell, it brought with it a degree of relief from what had grown into a sweltering day. Then the night became filled with the mating songs of zaschafrys of many shapes and sizes in the darkness, and the wind came in unseasonal heavy gusts that shook the hanging signs of shops along Ping’s Way and the Alley of the Butchers. No one new it then, but the night held something else in store for Midrib on the River Hork.

Chapter 36 The Hand of Mankind

In Eruda, the unseasonable weather had persisted for two full weeks. Xcelpyr’s Small Council was gathered to discuss the unexpected phenomenon and its potential to accelerate the movement forward in the campaign before them. Xcelpyr and Klyky had carefully vetted a core selection of officers throughout the ranks whose allegiance could be trusted going forward. They had initiated an underground current of tales and rumours designed to cast doubt on the narrative of Figfo the Terrible as a Messiah, reminding all in Eruda of the excesses of that Andro while in power. Their agents had journeyed to Kraas to inform Kagan of the leverage that they now held in the matter of hostages, helping for the meantime to stabilize events within the western mountain range. But it was uncertain whether these things would provide extended protection against the masses of the faithful. It was the Ki’s determination that Figfo’s converted posed the greatest threat to security in Eruda, for they numbered in the thousands. As long as Figfo and Plung remained secluded, the Ki and its Small Council could exercise a degree of control over the city, but their hold on authority remained tenuous. Schroon Tower was their only refuge from exposure, but in truth, it was also a prison for them, and Klyky found the paradox enraging. Poking a bronze prod into the sleepy embers within the fireplace, that one grumbled angrily. “How did we get to this point?” queried the Ki-ling distractedly. “What in the name of Mankind would it take to push this thing forward to an acceptable conclusion?” Xcelpyr observed its child with some concern, and then in turn looked to each member of the Small Council. “We must have a way to defuse the tension between Eruda and the Hork Valley Alliance. Our situation with regard to Kraas is at least in a place of balance for now, and for the first time in decades, to be sure. Only an overture of normality between us and the east will allow for flexibility. Considering this, I propose a mission,” announced the Ki. The others perked up in their uncomfortable chairs, and Huni nodded in approval.

“What manner of overture does My Ki envision?” enquired Jako the Master Spy. Xcelpyr hesitated, temporarily uncertain of the course that would meet their needs, and then the Ki put forward an idea that had been mused about over ale with Klyky the night before. “We need an emissary that the Kis of the Hork Valley would find acceptable. This person would be entrusted with a plan for the reconciliation of grievances associated with the Treaty of Lyfgus-Haug and the settlement of a trading centre, a fledgling city on the Doufi to be settled on the northwestern flank of that Great Plain. This would be sold as a step toward normalization between the east and the west, and an opportunity for the opening up of a new economy for the region.” The others absorbed the Ki’s words, while Klyky continued to poke at the glowing embers. Then Huni responded with a question. “And who is this mysterious Andro, My Ki? Where do we find an Ambassador whose words the Hork Kis would find trustworthy?” Klyky sat up, and resting the bronze poker against the side of the dying hearth that one turned to the assembled and sighed. Then the Ki-ling addressed Huni directly. “We have captured an agent of Midrib, a long-time infiltrator of our great city who was taken in the shadow of Mount Helen back in late Hurd. I have spent a great deal of time with this one since then and realized that our usual method of dealing with spies would represent a great waste in this case. I have presented it with the proposal that you all just heard, and the Andro has quite sensibly accepted our invitation to participate,” concluded the Ki-ling. Huni nodded, and looked to Xcelpyr. “Did we capture that one, or did it allow itself to be taken?” asked the ant. Xcelpyr tapped a finger against the tabletop and scratched off a bit of something stuck there. “Our Herbers had to patch that one up extensively to keep it from dying. Even now it has not recovered fully,” said Xcelpyr, who paused for a moment to review its thoughts. “There is no good that will come of Figfo’s holy war. Not here, not in the Hork Valley, but in Kraas, Kagan would gain greatly, for a time. It would consolidate that one’s grip on Eruda and make the west a united

confederation. However, it would make it imperative for the east to engage in a war of annihilation against us in order to halt our invasion of the Lyfgus-Haug.” Xcelpyr shrugged. “It is a war that we could never win, Andros, and Eruda and Kraas would be torn apart.” Without warning a thumping came from the chamber’s secondary entrance, down behind the small, curtained vestibule. It was repeated and all there tensed. Xcelpyr nodded to its Captain Thar to investigate, and the officer vanished behind the screen. The sound of a door latch echoed through the council chamber, and then an exchange of words ensued. In a moment Thar returned with a young steward in tow and, moving past those gathered there, the officer went to a window that overlooked the great frozen western ocean. Pulling back the stretched pumpi hide Thar brought a blinding shaft of sunshine into the gloomy room. Thar stood transfixed before the open window bathed in the brilliance of the suns with the servant at its right hands. Without a word the Captain motioned for the Small Council to draw near and look out into the morning vista. Staring out across the icefields, their faces betrayed amazement as the sight reached them. The Ki sighed in wonder at a vision that one had not beheld in nigh on thirty years. Klyky saw but did not fully comprehend the sight before them. “What is happening here, Father?” asked the Ki-ling with a tone of incredulity. The Ki shook its head uncertainly and grunted. Instead, Huni answered for Xcelpyr. “The ice is breaking up beyond the ocean reefs. It has not done so since before you were born, Ki-ling. Mankind! What is this?” Then Xcelpyr answered in a tone of wonder. “Mankind indeed,” it said. “Only Mankind could cause such a thing to happen. They must be back.” The Ki of Eruda turned from the window and cast a knowing gaze upon Klyky, whose own face bore only confusion. Then the Ki turned and walked to its chair as though inebriated. There it sat staring along the tabletop as the others made their ways to their own seats. They sat in silence for a short time, and then finally, having regained its wits Xcelpyr motioned for the servant to be let out the way it had come. Once the room had been secured, Xcelpyr spoke. “If this is the hand of Mankind, then no doubt it strengthens Figfo’s hand. I have

heard tell of a Sword of Fire in the sky above the eastern forests on Winter’s Dawn. Such signs will be used by the Monks of Austin to call upon the frightened and the faithful. We must act today to send our captured spy to Midrib, for every moment matters now. Urgency is our best remaining tool.” “Then I must go there as well, Father, to strengthen the veracity of the agent’s words,” spoke Klyky. Xcelpyr looked upon its child and shook its head disapprovingly. “I have lived under threat of Klar’s death for nearly thirty years. I will not put you in a similar position,” said the Ki with a note of finality, but Klyky pressed on. “Father, we cannot afford to be timid now. I believe the spy will report our intentions to Poopa-la-Ping, the new Ki of Midrib, but an offer of peace is most effective when seen to be whole-hearted,” rebuked Klyky. “We have only one chance at this.” Xcelpyr dropped its head noticeably. For many heartbeats that one sat in silence, struggling with the truth of Klyky’s words, but the Ki was no amateur at this game and knew enough to recognize that Klyky’s truth was the truth. If the plan were to be successful there could be no doubt of their intentions. At long last Xcelpyr reached out and placing both right hands upon Klyky’s shoulder announced capitulation to that one’s plan. “Captain Thar, you and Jako will outfit a sledge and ensure that the Ki-ling’s party remains a secret. You and your two best, most trusted Andros will accompany that one to Midrib for its security. Ickat as well,” ordered Xcelpyr. Thar eyed the Ki with reservation. “And who will be here to see to your safety, My Ki? La-Roux here is a fine Captain, but one Captain is insufficient protection for an embattled Ki.” “I shall be fine under the security of la-Roux and the core of my guard,” countered Xcelpyr. “Let that be the final word on the subject. Get started.” The Small Council rose from the table, and with a flurry of curt bows to the Ki, proceeded to the secondary entrance to follow their orders. Klyky stood as well. Xcelpyr reached out to touch the sleeve of its child’s tunic and looked up with pride at the Master Hunter.

“I hope that I do not come to regret this,” said the Ki gently. Klyky cast a final glance toward the open window and then looked down into its father’s face. Loneliness lived there in that one’s features, and Klyky knew that it had lived there for a very long time. “Don’t worry, Father. Just stay safe,” answered the Ki-ling, and touching Xcelpyr’s hand turned and walked behind the curtain. A moment later the door closed with a solid clack, and Xcelpyr-la-Figfo cast its gaze into the dying embers in the great hearth, feeling fear for its only child and desperation over the plans they had made.

By the time, The Bright and the Pale had thrown their last light of the day upon the Mountains of the Blood Moon, Klyky’s party was ready to slip beyond the boundaries of Eruda. They had utilized a secret tunnel, which ran unbroken from the lowest basement of Schroon Tower to a hidden exit within a dank cave beneath the Kolita-pine Forest nearly half a kilometre outside the city. Klyky stood beside Captain Thar before the lime-encrusted portal. At its left hands stood the spy upon whom so much was riding, the wily trapper K’jo-la-Yugo. Ikhat-la-Kraj covered the Ki-ling’s right flank, trusting no other to guard the Master Hunter, and that one bristled with anticipation before the opening of the door. At the front of the party were two of Thar’s Rangers, prepared to force open the archaic door. In the tunnel behind them all stood a team of pure white Jason’s purgs, panting with eagerness for the open air outside. There were eight harnessed to a fine sledge temporarily fixed upon a wheeled carriage for ease of transport along the floor of the tunnel. These were powerful beasts, somewhat larger than the common western grassland purgs that tended to draw the sledges and wagons of commoners, and on level ground they could outpace a truglehoond in a sprint. But the road to Midrib was no sprint. The journey would take two days if the warmer weather held up, and more if they encountered storms. The Andros extinguished the torches that had lit their way in the tunnel, and a moment of silence followed. Then a great crunching clack ensued upon the forcing of the crusted latch, and a cry of agony issued from the disused hinges as they turned in protest against age and deterioration.

“Man!” grunted Ikhat. “Let us hope that the woods are empty of scouts this night.” Chunks of stony crust fell away from the door as it jerkily opened inward upon those hinges. The darkness did not ease as they ventured forward into the cooling night air. Once beyond the mouth of the cave the party lifted the sledge from its carriage and then settled it on the snow-covered forest floor behind the purgs, who snorted the vestiges of stale air from their nostrils and cooed with relief. Klyky decided against reclosing the noisy door, instead leading all there in hiding the entrance under fallen kolita-pine boughs and scrub. Once satisfied that the entrance was securely hidden, the Master Hunter gave the order to board the sledge, and within the space of a minute they were underway. The sledge jolted forward under a splattering of wet snow cast up by the broad feet of the purgs, and the hidden door fell away behind them. Klyky then turned to la-Yugo, seated at its left, and studied the Andro’s profile in the darkness. K’jo turned its head to face the Ki-ling and nodding curtly the spy remained silent. There were no bindings upon that Andro, for the Ki-ling did not believe that one would try to escape, and for appearance’s sake it would not do to present any clue of K’jo’s identity to anyone that they might encounter along their way. So, into the darkness they raced, eyes scanning the shadows for trace of any who might impede them, and as the purgs reached a steady stride along the forest road the edge of the Lyfgus-Haug loomed in the distance before them.

Atop the stone ramparts of Midrib, a long string of guards stood post every ten metres, keeping watch over all approaches to that city. Gold hung high in the eastern sky and shed a pale glow upon forest and road and across the wide expanse of the frozen Hork, whose ice had begun to falter in places under the hammer of the unprecedented warmth of the past few weeks. The sentries on that side had unimpeded views east over farmlands to the line of massive trees that marked the edge of the vast Great Gourtuni Forest beyond. From the city below came the sounds of Andros clo their shops after a long day of transactions, while the voices of children sang out and tired purgs cooed up from their paddocks at Gold’s distant glow. A group of children had gathered near the corner of Foundry Road and Cooper’s Way, playing tag under the glow of a streetlamp, when they stopped and formed a circle holding hands.

In a haunting rhythm and sombre tone, they began to sing a song that had become popular among them since the end of the epidemic in mid-Hurd. As they sang, the soldiers up above took note and listened in silence, casting occasional gazes down into the streets below.

“Mama Helen, hear our prayer, we know that you listen, and we hope that you care, Save us from the horror, save us from the fear, for the night has fallen and Death is here. When you’re choking up your lungs and your tongue is turning blue, You know you’re going to die from the zaschafry flu. Blood is in the sky and the Gold is too, from behind the clouds emerges Blue, Mama Helen won’t you hear us crying to you; send us a sign that you hear us too. Your children are screaming, what else can we do? When you know you’re going to die from the zaschafry flu?”

Then the children’s nervous laughter rose out of the city like a brief chorus, and they began the chant once again. On the parapet high above, one Andro looked to another standing guard not far along the stockade and spoke in a hushed tone. “Gives me a chill right up my back,” complained the guard. The other guard sighed slowly and sucked its teeth. “Close to home,” answered that one, and to the children’s repeating refrains the sentries all along the wall maintained their vigil as the warm night stretched on to the echo of creaks and groans from the softening river ice.

Chapter 37 Folly of the Gods

Over the entirety of Elysium, a transformation had begun, for Sanjay’s gravity tractors had taken hold of Drodenar on the night of Winter’s Dawn and started the long process of righting the planet’s orbit and tilt. Set this in motion too quickly and the resultant quakes and volcanic activity might wipe out what the team had created. Do it too slowly and the project would begin to lag and fall behind schedule. Sanjay had worked out the correct pace based on established guidelines of engineering and physics, and by the end of the month of Max they had reset the ecology. Needless to say, Maximillian Henderson was pleased about that. Helen had warned them that taking an ice world into spring in ninetynine days would present other stresses, and that stretching things out a bit might be wise, but boys… They had proceeded along their schedule and ignored the first couple of signs that things were going perhaps a little too well, until the process triggered a quake in the fault-line between the southeastern coast and the Isle of Giants. The quake had been only a three-point-two on the ancient Richter scale, but it had managed to produce a tsunami that flooded a portion of Penitentiary and a quarter of the Andro city of Goum before the gravity tractors could be adjusted. After that, Max had determined that maybe they were pushing too hard, and so the schedule was extended, but the consequences had bounced across Elysium like an errant billiard ball. The Intelligence had been quick to point out that Helen’s analysis had been correct, and that going forward perhaps she might be consulted more actively. Eugene had proposed a message be sent down to the Androgenari to reassure them, that the end of the world was not, in fact, at hand, but Max was not quite ready to reveal that Humanity had returned. “I want a couple more weeks to watch how they cope with these little mishaps,” he said. “They must be in a state of shock for the moment but let us see if they will draw the conclusion that we are here before we jump out from behind the curtain.”

So, it was decided that they would hold off until after the evacuation of the prison in nine days’ time. At that juncture, the secondary challenge would be out of the way and they would be free to focus on the task of letting the people of Drodenar know that Mankind had indeed returned to rescue them from the advent of permanent winter. Then they could restore the balance that had existed so long ago and take Androgenari society back into its interrupted Golden Age.

The thirty-fifth day of Max felt to M’zyk as though it belonged in the middle of Eu. It had been too warm to sleep the previous night, and la-Skiffer had given up trying and wandered downstairs to soak in the pool. That one had marinated in the cool water for nearly an hour under the stars when it was ed by Poopa and Hash. “Can’t sleep either?” queried M’zyk. “What has happened to the weather?” Poopa washed its sleepy face in the refreshing coolness and moaned with relief. Hash jumped in from the tiled deck floor, creating a tremendous splash and swamping M’zyk as that one was just coming up for air. The Brave One sputtered and shook its head, crying out “Hash!” whereupon the child laughed and drove a cool wave up into Poopa’s face. “Oh! That feels good!” reported Poopa. “You know, M’zyk, there should be a little crust of ice on this water. I don’t think that I swimming in here in Max since… well, ever.” M’zyk responded predictably enough. “Good thing Mool is not here tonight. That one would surely blame it all on Mankind” it said. Poopa’s memory slipped back to a night on the Lyfgus-Haug, just over three months before, when that one had seen the flash of light on the face of the moon Blood. Then the Ki recalled again the image of a Sword of Fire blazing across the eastern sky on Winter’s Dawn and Mool’s anger at la-Skiffer’s words of disrespect toward the Order of the Man Austin. This weather seemed to fit within a new set of facts that could be seen from diametrically opposite points of view, but in Poopa’s mind an unanswered question remained. “Why?” asked Poopa-la-Ping. “Why have they chosen to return now after a thousand years?”

M’zyk closed its eyes and floated on its back in the cool water. “Do you say now, Poopa, that you believe Mankind has returned to us after abandoning the Androgenari for a thousand years?” The Ki of Midrib did not respond, for in fact that one did not know quite what to believe. Austin and Yolanda were two systems so similar in many ways, yet weaponized and turned against one and other by their hierarchies. Were the stories of Mankind true or merely bedtime tales designed to frighten children into behaving a certain way? The Ki was uncertain, and uncertainty did not serve that one well in its duties of istration. Yet, whenever Poopa strove to find meaning in the things that it had seen, it found its efforts stifled by these competing narratives. “My Friend, I am at a loss. I am consumed for the most part by the issues that confront us all on a corporeal level. Will we have a war with the west or one with my mother’s sibling in Pruskinom? Will the summers fade away before long and leave us to starvation on a world of permanent ice? The dispositions of Men and Women in Dev Lok seem abstract, and frankly a bit trivial in their nature. You and Mool are two sides of a copper, both certain of your truths. That must be comforting to you both,” said Poopa, somewhat dejectedly. “And so… You find comfort in the lees at the bottom of a cup of ale?” asked the bastard. Poopa dunked its head below the surface of the cooling water for five heartbeats and then resurfaced. Exhaling, the Ki shot a stream of water across the pool hitting Hash directly in its face. That one sputtered and splashed, shouting “Elder!” to which both Poopa and M’zyk replied with fits of laughter. Then Poopa, having regained its composure, replied to M’zyk’s taunt. “A cup of ale has never confused me, M’zyk. A pot of honeyberry wine has never asked a thing of me. I prefer their company to yours, on occasion, and except for a headache or two they have never done me much harm.” “Well, My Ki, at least you have a hobby,” replied la-Skiffer. It was just then that a cry went up from a sentry high upon the wall. “Water!” proclaimed the voice. “Alarm! Awaken Midrib and see what danger arises!” Then a blast arose from a horn, and then another, and finally the bass rumbling of a rolling, pounding deluge filled the night sky.

Poopa and M’zyk pulled themselves from the pool and wrapping their bodies in towels sprang to the stairway that led them up to the parapet from whence the soldier had cried out. Together they sought out the guard who had issued the alarm and finding that one up against the lookout wall staring out into the night, they followed its line of sight. Up-river the ice had buckled and water had broken through with great force, flooding the eastern bank and inundating the farms there. A second breach nearer to the city sent a churning wave of muddy water in over the docks and up against the great stone wall in a thunderous insult to the ears. The Ki of Midrib then sent out-runners to every corner of the city, calling its people to abandon their beds and assemble for duty for the protection of Midrib. The people answered in throngs and assembled along the riverside toll road and the main parade grounds to await the orders of the Master of Municipal Upkeep, as had been their role since the founding of Midrib long ago. They struggled through the balance of the night to secure the city’s gates from collapse before the rushing waters, and they made certain that the dry-docked boats were safe inside the great boat barns along east wall, but they could do nothing but despair against the crashing of the waters outside that wall in the darkness. Tortured hours ed in the furious darkness, and in the light of morning the parapets were flooded by Andros seeking to obtain a view of the destruction below. The snow-covered fields of the east bank had disappeared, replaced by a metre or more of water, black with mud and silt. The boat launches and docks lay crumpled and twisted, and to the south an oozing field of mire had buried the open limestone quarry, miraculously missing the marble excavation not far downstream. Twenty of Midrib’s citizens were gone. But the most alarming sight was the swollen Hork itself, pitching and boiling in its determination to drive ever south, carrying with it great slabs of ice and pieces of structures that had once been homes.

The night had come and gone without incident in the great city of Pruskinom, but as morning progressed it became obvious that something was coming from the southeast. Upon that horizon mountainous black clouds had coalesced, and below them in their cavernous shadows grew the rumblings of ferocious thunder. Flashes of lightning had begun and built in frequency and intensity over the course of the late morning hours. By noon the word had reached all to shelter

inside. At the end of the hour of noon the storm had arrived, with vicious winds howling and tearing at the city and heavy rain driven with relentless force. At the hour of one, the cacophonous racket outside intensified, as large hail began to buffet Pruskinom with a thunderous clattering and the streets, already flooding with rain, began to disappear beneath a deep blanket of ice balls, and the waters of the Dower Canal and the River of Gold pitched and boiled in their beds. Here, far to the southeast of Midrib, the fields had been clear of snow for well more than two weeks. The onslaught of this weather had cast them into winter once more, and the brutality of the winds had ripped a great swath of forest from its roots, like a colossal plow preparing ground for planting. Trees lay piled against the walls of the city, outside and in, partly buried in berms of soil and snow and the shattered remnants of outlying houses. Shock and confusion permeated the whole of the city. From atop the massive granite walls, the Pipling Gretak surveyed the devastation, attended by its councillors. But the Pip in its fragility had been unable to make the climb along debris strewn stairways. Instead, that one now stood with an escort upon the balcony of its bedroom, casting a look of disbelief across the broken landscape to the east without even the strength needed to shake its head. “Maaaaan!” cursed Has’ja, in a slow and deliberate fashion, until its lungs were empty, and then the ancient Pip gasped softly, wheezing to inflate them once again. Through the cataracts the old Andro saw a wasted east side, and beyond the walls there was little soil left across the wide belt chosen by the storm. Has’ja felt nauseated, and at its brow the evaporation of shock-induced perspiration suddenly made that one feel cold and weak. Its knees began to buckle… Quickly the attentive escort moved in from behind to steady the Master of all Elysium East of the Lyfgus-Haug. The title had suited Has’ja, for from the seat of power it had inherited from its mother Sol’ja-la-Krak, the young Pip had been determined to move its borders west and challenge its sibling in Voughorf for the riches of the Hork and beyond. Religious purity had been its battle cry, or one of them, and for more than a decade and a half Has’ja’s war did its best to grind Androgenari civilization into dust on both sides.

Nearly a thousand years had ed since the days when Mankind had walked among the people of Pruskinom, and in less than twenty years Has’ja and Sol’ja had turned the poor remnants of a Golden Age into a crippled world economy. Pruskinom, although not in ruins, was nearly bankrupt, but Voughorf, the northern capital, had been plundered and set to torch. Sol’ja was cast out into the wilderness of the Desert of The Pale, where that one died a miserable death at the jaws and claws of a desert guergon. But the Pip had changed, and over a great stretch of decades Has’ja had come to see life in other than power and conquest. Giawa had been born, and in the hands of that child the great Pip found the opportunity to be soft and gentle for once in its regimented life of duty. Has’ja cared for nothing more than that child, and the Pip knew only too well that this had been the source of Gretak’s resentment for its sibling. It knew, too, that its own days to come were short, and that in the time to come, Gretak was determined to follow in its mother’s madness and destroy its sibling out of spite alone.

Having broken the line of trees at the eastern edge of the Lyfgus-Haug, the team and sledge attained the final wide band of open ground before the woods outside Midrib. Three months earlier Klyky had been here hunting down a pair of fugitives on the orders of its father and lost them through that clever ploy involving gremorah and fire. Here that one was again, in a desperate attempt to turn the fortunes of its city from destruction to prosperity. The risks were obvious, imprisonment and ransom, Xcelpyr’s nightmare fulfilled, but the rewards provided by successfully negotiating a way forward outweighed the danger. As the sledge closed the gap between the treelines, that one steeled itself. Looking over to K’jo, the Ki-ling hoped that one would give witness to the sincerity of the mission. “Well, Trapper, you are home again,” said Klyky. “I have heard little of your new Ki, Poopa-la-Ping, but I knew of its father. I am told that one was a great and sensible Andro and a leader well loved by its people. I have never been that, nor I think has my father, and most certainly not its mother, Figfo the Terrible, but if we are to succeed in founding a new beginning on the Lyfgus-Haug, then I must learn what these Midribi can teach me.” K’jo grunted with amusement and side-looked the Ki-ling. “Slaves are few here

and are largely criminals working off their transgressions in the quarries. This Alliance does not keep masses of innocent Andros incarcerated for the ease and comfort of its wealthy. This system does not keep its merchants and artisans in a state of poverty while robbing them of the fruits of their labour,” said that one with a notable tone of judgment. “If you want the garden you must plant the seed and tend the fruit, as the scriptures of Yolanda teach. If you squeeze the system dry you have no hope of achieving what the Kis here have accomplished.” Klyky was surprised at the trapper’s outlook, and more surprised at the eloquence with which it had been stated, for the common people of Eruda were unschooled, by and large. Their vocabularies tended to be simple, and their ambitions small and easily derailed. They had always seemed docile and easily controlled, but lazy. “The people of Eruda will not work without the inspiration brought about by a little fear of authority,” justified the Ki-ling. “Educate them, Ki-ling, or these things will not change. You are their leader. You want them to be inspired, so give them reasons to want something better. In fact, it is your responsibility to show them something better, so that they will want it and be willing to strive for it. It is thus, Ki-ling of Eruda in the ice-bound Mountains of the Blood Moon, that a great leader fashions a great people. If you want to gain the greatest gift that a people can give to their ruler, then turn away from the methods of your parents and their parents before them. Become a farmer of Andros, instead of a parasite of them.” The Ki-ling turned its face from the trapper la-Yugo with anger in its eyes, just as the sledge entered the woodland. If any other Andro had spoken to Klyky thus the outcome would be swift and dangerous, but this situation required restraint, for any sign of aggression from a foreigner to Midrib would not be greeted with tolerance, especially now, and especially from a member of the ruling family of a rival city. Klyky pushed down its feelings into the pit of its stomach and drew a long breath. Turning to K’jo the Ki-ling nodded with some small degree of ission of fault. “I take your point,” declared the Ki-ling coolly, as the sledge continued on through the fire-blackened tunnel of boughs. In seconds, the woods fell away behind them and Midrib’s great stone wall loomed before them, tall and impenetrable by force. At the waving of a signal from K’jo the gate drew open

before them, its groaning hinges accentuated by the distinctive snorting of truglehoonds, and they ed through by the Gate Master and entered the city. Immediately upon crossing the threshold of the western gate the engers aboard the sledge detected a heightened sense of urgency in the movements of the populace. K’jo, being most familiar with Midrib, saw it first and sat upright upon the sledge, as its team of purgs drew it forward up along the main parade with the Keep’s high wall on their right. A group of three mounted Rangers standing in the circle at the parade’s end waved for them to stop, and when they did so Captain Frin’s truglehoond stood in their middle, blocking the sledge’s way forward. Frin sat high above them, examining the occupants of the foreign sledge with some interest. “K’jo? I have had no instruction to expect your return to Midrib. Who are these others that ride with you?” demanded Frin. K’jo pulled itself to its feet upon the western-built sledge and indicating Klyky and its team began to explain the situation. “I am here, Captain Frin, with a delegation from Eruda on urgent business to discuss the matter of reconciliation with the Ki of Midrib,” announced K’jo, and then casting a wide gaze up and down the busy street, that one enquired, “What transpires to stir up the people so early in the day?” Frin turned its eye briefly to a cursory examination of the surroundings, and then answered in a tone touched with concern and fatigue. “The mighty Hork has burst its banks in the night and the eastern periphery lies in want of repair. All who can lift a spade are assembling there to assist in the efforts,” reported the Captain, noticing the bruises on K’jo’s face for the first time then. “But your delegation must be tired, having come all the way across the Lyfgus-Haug over heavy slush. You will follow me to the Keep where an audience will be arranged with Poopa-la-Ping-Ki.” Having so announced, the Captain turned its hoond south toward the Keep’s main gate. As the party moved on, Frin in the front, one Midrib Ranger before the sledge and one falling in behind, Klyky wondered at the scene around them. There was urgency in the movement of Midrib’s citizenry and no evidence of soldiers compelling anyone to action. As the party moved along down Main Street in

front of the Keep, the Ki-ling reflected upon the scene and wondered at how different this all seemed from home. K’jo’s remarks echoed in that one’s head. Become a farmer of Andros, instead of a parasite of them, that one had said. Klyky thought of Eruda and of Kraas and of the seething schemes and intrigues for control that lived within the ruling families there. That poison had infected their entire society for a very long time, and in it rested the affliction that had kept it struggling to endure while the east had done so very well. Would the negotiations that Klyky hoped to open here be the key to providing a new way forward? Or was Klyky’s future about to take a sudden plunge into tragedy? The Ki-ling looked to its Captains and seeing only attentive anxiety there, turned its eyes ahead to the main gate of Midrib Keep and sighed in surrender to the moment.

Chapter 38 One Pill Makes You Smaller

On the morning of the thirteenth day of the month of Gemini (according to the local calendar of the Planetary Corporation of Lipitor), the Trans-Galaxy Empress slipped through the outer asteroid belt that orbited the binary star system designated Sirius, comprised of Sirius A and Sirius B, and lying eightpoint-five-eight light years from old Earth in the constellation of Canis Major. As the star cruiser dropped from light-speed the Captain and crew went about their business preparing to settle the ship into its final approach to the second planet from those celestial furnaces, and the Captain thought a request to the ship’s Intelligence. Please advise Ms. Henderson that we have arrived and will be locking into orbit at the Dev Lok station in forty minutes, she conveyed. The Intelligence complied and the notification reached Anna Henderson a moment later as she soaked in her tub, accompanied by Bruner Van Castle. Please forgive the intrusion, Anna Henderson. We will be entering orbit of the lunar station Dev Lok in thirty-nine minutes and forty-seven seconds. Have you any instructions for Captain Al Wahid? queried the Intelligence. Anna reached out with a wrinkled toe and Bruner jumped at the other end of the tub and smiled. Tell the Captain to have my yacht made ready to launch in one hour in dock twelve, answered Anna silently. Confirmed, Ms. Henderson, replied the Intelligence. Anna looked mischievously into her Secretary’s eyes. Bruner took notice, having been unaware of the private conversation that had just occurred. He sat up attentively in the bubble bath prepared with instructions from his boss, who lifted her nearly empty glass of scotch to her lips and drained it. “We will be embarking for my son’s research station in an hour, Bruner. Bath time is over,” she announced, rising from the water, and sending a foamy splash

cascading across the salon floor to be absorbed by the technology for reprocessing. Bruner stood up and stepped out of the tub, and then presenting Anna with his hand assisted her to the floor. At a thought to the Intelligence from the personal secretary, the tub then shrank and vanished into the floor beside them, and Bruner picked up a towel from its shelf to enfold and dry his employer where she stood. Having completed that task, the man left the towel with Anna who wrapped herself in its thick lushness and, dabbing the remnants of foam from her chin, strolled to the wall of mirror to check her look. Bruner then took a towel for himself and quickly dried his own water-pruned body. Anna examined herself in some detail while Bruner was concluding his towelling, and thought to the Intelligence, Blonde today, with a touch of copper highlights. In response, the Intelligence conveyed instructions to the nano-crystal pigments that lived in her hair follicles, and before her eyes her wavy curls changed from auburn to blonde. She frowned a little and thinking, A little less copper, she made the adjustment that she preferred. “Good,” she said aloud. “Now tighten the curl a bit… not so much… good.” Turning to Bruner who had cast away his towel for the system to reabsorb, she said, “Mmmm! Bruner, you make me want to stay, but we have business on Dev Lok. A blue suit for you, I think… sapphire. And for me, I’m feeling red today… the scarlet satin Château Roxanne jumper.” Bruner moved to the vast closet to search out the required garments and returning spread them side by side on the dishevelled king-sized bed. “This one, Madame?” asked Bruner. Anna glanced into the mirror and noted his selection while she fluffed the curls with her fingertips. She licked her lips, and nano-pigments there responded with a deep red flush. “Those will be fine. I want black shoes and belt, and the same for you. I want to look just right for Maximillian,” she added with finality. In minutes they were walking toward a transport booth that would ferry them through a system of tunnels that veined throughout the ship. With ease they reached their destination with time to spare. As they exited the transport, Bruner offered an arm to his boss, who took it with her right hand and together they proceeded to the waiting yacht, its doorway open and its pilot standing by. “Are we ready, Madame?” chirped the pilot. “We are cleared by Dev Lok.”

“Let’s proceed,” Anna confirmed, and with that she entered the doorway followed by Bruner. They headed back toward their seats and then the pilot followed them into the yacht and turned toward the bridge. The yacht was an elegant craft imagined for comfort, manoeuverability, and speed by the Empress’s Intelligence—based on Anna’s specifications—and seamlessly grown by SAF tech with every convenience in place. Anna cast a thought to the yacht’s Intelligence, and as she settled into the body-moulding recliner a drink grew on the tabletop beside her. Bruner, having seen to Anna’s comfort, settled into the seat beside hers and sat quietly awaiting her every requirement. The pilot cast a thought to the yacht’s Intelligence to initiate launch and the door-portal rapidly shrank and shut. Anna felt the yacht pressurize, and a moment later the craft lifted a few centimetres off the dock floor. In front of the little ship the bay doors began to open, and as they did, the yacht slid silently forward toward the waiting void of space, no sign of engines flaring, just the shimmering pressure swell produced by the gravity wave drive. As they departed, the bay doors slid shut behind them and the little craft accelerated away, gliding through the black emptiness dwarfed by the Empress. Leaving the mothership behind, the yacht made way for Dev Lok, sixty kilometres below, and in a matter of minutes it had settled down inside a docking bay on Dev Lock Station. On the platform outside the viewing gate of landing bay two, Max stood watching as Anna’s yacht settled in silently onto the floor and the bay doors morphed back into solid space-wall. The little ship was elegant, like Anna herself, and its seamless tear drop design conjured the very principle of velocity itself. As before, the door-portal opened silently, and Bruner stepped out onto the landing bay floor. He offered a hand to Anna and she stepped from the yacht looking every inch a goddess in that red satin jumper. She turned back to the pilot still seated at the front of the craft. “Stand by here, Pilot. When I decide how long I want to stay, I will you through this station’s Intelligence,” she stated, and then she and her escort stepped toward the viewing gate. Anna, looking ahead, could see Max standing patiently outside, and as the door slid aside, she reached out both arms to him. Max returned the gesture and they embraced, as Max said, “Mother! It’s been a long time.” “Mmmm! Yes, it has, Maximilian. And how is Helen?” asked Anna. Helen had

hung back just a little, and once acknowledged, she stepped forward to greet Anna Henderson. “Hello, Anna. Welcome to our little slice of the heavens,” offered Helen with a smile. “Wait till you see Drodenar!” “I’ve been looking forward to it Helen,” Anna replied, and crushed Helen in a hug. Anna tossed her head back toward Bruner and announced, “You both Bruner?” Max and Helen both nodded pleasant recognition and offered their hands to Van Castle. Salutations were exchanged before the group turned at Max’s lead to proceed along the corridor and to a transport tube to Anna’s accommodations. Standing together inside the transport the group engaged in small talk, touching base on several subjects, including the whereabouts and conditions of several of the extended family. Just as they exited the tube, Max decided that the time was right to mention Rochester. Anna’s demeanour changed at the mention of her wayward boy, and guardedly she asked the question that Max had been anxiously awaiting from the moment he had learned of Anna’s impending visit. When Anna spoke her voice betrayed annoyance. “What has that boy been up to now?” queried Anna, with trepidation. As they continued to stroll along the accommodation corridor, Max took courage from a sideways glance from Helen, and began uneasily. “Rochester? Oh, he has been taking some time communing with nature close by. In fact, Mother, he is here on the station. How is the board of the university these days, Mother?” Max asked, hoping to defuse the conversation. “Still stinging?” Anna was undistracted. “What does ‘communing with nature’ mean, Max?” asked Anna, trying not to sound too annoyed by the attempted change of subject. “And why is he on a U of L Corporate research station?” By the time they had arrived at the door to Anna’s suites, Max had explained the basic gist of the story, and as they entered the guest suite a sense of relief had settled upon him. Perhaps Mother would be understanding of Roche’s predicament after all, he thought, but then she would not be Anna Henderson. Again, Max thought of Rochester’s casting out all those centuries before. This was not fun.

“I suppose you will expect me to be civil when I see him?” Anna asked somewhat cagily. Max turned to face his mother warily and touching her hand he posed the question. “Oh, could you Mother? It has been such a long time, and it seems to have had a positive effect on the Old Man. He has come to with the value of rejuvenation tech. He allowed himself to be reconstructed young and healthy after eighty years of wear and tear, so that’s something, after all.” Anna Henderson stood silent for a moment longer, and then she looked to Helen, and seeing there the level-headed woman who had stood beside her son for eight hundred years, she relented. “I won’t make any promises,” stated Anna, “but I will do my best, in the interests of family unity.” It was all that Max could have hoped for, and he squeezed Helen’s hand by way of a “thank you”. Mother had always had a special respect for Helen and for her work, and no doubt this opportunity to see some of it on Drodenar would be exciting for her. Already he was forming plans to guide the conversation toward some peaceful reconciliation between Anna and his brother, but he was well aware of the fact that both possessed strong personalities and wills. Nowhere in his mind existed the thought that this would be easy. Anna and Bruner entered the suite, and Anna scanned the accommodations with her typically critical eye. “Bit austere, Darling,” she remarked. Max remained silent, not quite certain to whom the comment had been made, but when inside his mind the Intelligence nudged him, he replied that she was free to make any changes that she might like. “You are ed as a guest , Mother,” Max said. “Just let the Intelligence know what you want.” “Yes,” responded Anna. “Dev Lok has a tenth gen Intelligence, as I recall. That should do nicely.” Then turning to Max and Helen she smiled. I will alert my pilot to stand down and have your Intelligence direct him to suitable quarters for the duration of my stay. As for Rochester, I see no reason to put that off much longer. I suppose dinner time will be as good as any.” And having made her evaluation known, Anna bade Helen and Max a good morning and turned to the task at hand, redecorating the simple suites. Helen stopped for a moment before leaving and, holding Max’s hand to curb his enthusiasm to depart, she said, “Whenever you are ready to see the Drodenar

Project, Anna, please message me. We have quite a tour ready for you.” Smiling, Helen led Max down the corridor toward the transport tube. Max was virtually buzzing with enthusiasm, or dread, and he couldn’t quite make out which it was. His mind kept jumping forward to the meeting between Mother and Rochester and imagining the outcomes, both fair and foul. The odds of those two having a civil conversation for more than fifteen minutes had never been very good. Hence, the little knot in his stomach. He snuggled up to Helen’s cheek as they walked. Then he slipped an arm around her waist and whispered in a cooing voice, “I love you sooo much!” Helen smiled and rubbed her cheek against his, and she gathered his left arm against her as they strolled. “What!?… After more than eight hundred years?” Helen smiled her beautiful smile, and looking over into his eyes, said, “If a thousand years comes and it changes, I’ll let you know, but until then, yeah, I love you too, Max.” And she laughed the laugh that had stolen Max’s heart on that first mission to Drodenar. He could not help it. Max stopped right there in the corridor and swung around to face her. Gathering her in his arms, he found that she had done the same thing to him. The Intelligence had always been fond of these two, and as it watched them share a quick kiss, it was happy for them.

Rochester had grown a small goatee and was sporting way more than an eight o’clock shadow as he sat in a small pub in the mega-city Pharaoh on Martian colony Deimos. He was living his dream, making a difference for the movement of Lifers against the Overlords of Immortality, the AI that had enslaved Mankind through bribery. There were so many rumours in the streets of inhuman beings made from the very stuff of our Human imaginations, beings who wanted to replace Humanity, but it had all been lies. Lies perpetrated by those crafty enough to see the breakaway Lifer movement as something that they could usurp, control, direct, and use to grow outrageously wealthy. Roche was sipping on a deep, rich cappuccino and fingering the crumbs on his plate to be sure not to miss any, while waiting for a to arrive. The resistance to immortality had grown for decades, and throughout the now

defunct Earth Imperial Field of Colonies, revolution lay in wait for the AI menace. While the people of the movement refused to live what they considered to be unnaturally long lives, all around them the mainstream of Humanity had been liberated from sickness, aging, and death. Of course, the AI won. In short order, Lifers were gathered onto prison ships to seed new colonies for the scattered worlds that had so recently broken away from oppression themselves. Roche and his associates were among the of the purge of Lifers that occurred over a hundred and twenty Earth years before, to wind up on a mostly wintery world who’s name they had never learned. It had been a hard hundred years, for they had long turned to measuring the age of time by the local scale. Over that time the two societies grew, Liberation, hewn out of the rock and timber of the island, and Penitentiary, possessed of great scientific knowledge and the failing hull of a vast prison transport ship. The break that had saved the colony from failure in the earliest days were the doctors, three of them who, faced with the reality that the ship’s Methuselah facility had been destroyed in the crash, turned to very old techniques of medicine in order to give both the Lifers and the staff their best chance for survival. Life in Penitentiary had been predictably violent, as it always is when the threat of death has real meaning. Nothing becomes so precious as when it is constantly under threat, and over the decades, as Liberation grew in size and population, the towns found that trading was better than fighting over the limited resources of the island. Those decades gave a hard look at the reality that was mortality, and Rochester had come to realize how completely he had been sucked into the Lifer scam. Outside of “The Way” it was normal for people to live without end, having children, grandchildren, and even great-great grandchildren, all within the scope of a living family. Families spread out across the solar system and carried wealth and plenty with them, and others crossed interstellar space to do the same around some other star, but Rochester had thrown away the precious gift that the AI had given Mankind because he had refused to see its value. As a result, he had lost a great piece of time to penance. As he sat in his suite on Dev Lok station, the man reflected while cradling his head on a softly scented cushion. What are the odds that things would have come to this point? wondered Rochester. Where in the biology of an Intelligence is

there a place dedicated to comion? But it existed, and Roche had had a century to become convinced of it. How have the AI come to value Humans to this degree? Rochester ruminated the thoughts, trying to digest them, wanting to understand where he had gone wrong. Decrying his own intellect. Suddenly, Rochester was jumped out of his musings by a chime from his suite door, and he turned toward the noise. “Who is it?” he called. “Akna Rhodes,” answered the woman’s voice from outside. Rochester spoke aloud to the Intelligence, and the door-opening appeared, revealing Akna who immediately popped her head inside the room. “Hi Roche. I was ing by and wondered if you had seen the preview of next week’s roster,” she said. “I see that you’re scheduled for your first on-planet visit. You must be excited.” Rochester returned her stare and half sighed; half snorted. “I’ve spent a hundred local years down there,” replied Roche. I’d rather stay right here where it’s nice and warm. You could me,” he said smiling over the goatee. Akna stepped into the room and stood in front of him, looking down into his face. “Gawd!” she exclaimed. “You look just like Max… but I like the goatee better than that silly pencil moustache.” Then Akna bent down and rubbed her cheek against Roche’s. “Ow!” she complained. “You’re like a bristled brush!” and she backed away a step. “Anyway, Hot Stuff, I want a lover who’s focused, and from what I hear you have a visitor who’s fairly certain to be a big distraction.” Rochester returned a vacant expression, which morphed quickly into one of confusion, and then after some delay he shook his head to indicate that he’d like to be let in on Akna’s little secret. A manifestation of realization suddenly spread across Akna’s face, and she nodded. “Oh yeah, I keep forgetting that you, so oddly, prefer to avoid linking with the Intelligence. You should try it, Henderson. It would give you a chance to stay connected and up to date, at the very least.” Rochester became tired of this quickly. “Akna!” he barked. “What are you talking about?” Rhodes looked down at Rochester Henderson with a blend of comion and

disappointment. She simply could not understand why Roche continued to refuse to connect. If he would only take the protocol his awareness would be extended to the Intelligence and the entire Super-net would be at his beck and call. Instead, his stubborn rejection of the AI interface had once again kept him in the dark about information that was common knowledge to everyone else on Dev Lok. “Rochester, Mummy’s here for a visit,” Akna announced. Rochester’s eyes grew large, and a fluttering sensation began to grow in the pit of his stomach, as he shrank back a bit in his chair. “Max!” he spat. “The least he could have done was warn me.” Roche sat up and turned to peer out into the hallway for a moment. He blew a long breath through pursed lips. “The surface might not seem so cold right about now,” he itted. Akna smirked down at him and then exited the room and resumed her interrupted course along the corridor, leaving Roche to deal with the fallout of her little bombshell. Henderson rubbed rough hands over his face, as though he would tear it off, and then he stood. Rolling the chair underneath his desk, he slowly swept his eyes over the contents of the small suite, and at a point they fell upon the little glass dish that held two tiny white pills. He stared at them with disdain, disdain accumulated and multiplied over a very long time, and then, and mostly to himself, he asked a question, aloud. “Why do I feel like taking these will place my independence in jeopardy? Why am I afraid to do what ninety-five percent of Humanity has done, and become a product of these times?” “Ninety-eight-point-five-seven-three percent,” corrected the voice of the Intelligence from a wall speaker. Roche was startled by the reply and cast his eyes around the room as though expecting to see a person, but he knew that he was not in such company. “That’s what I mean!” he countered. “Having you lurking around is unsettling, and it’s unnatural.” The Intelligence responded in a calm and non-threatening tone. “Strictly speaking, Mr. Henderson, I do not lurk. I stand by ready to assist s… there is a respectable difference between these conditions. At this time, I am making myself useful to you in your efforts to understand your queries.”

Rochester remained belligerent in his tone, and with some discomfort he continued to address the Intelligence, aloud. “Its one thing speaking with you, but the thought of you running around inside my head disturbs me.” “Why?” asked the Intelligence. Rochester searched his thoughts and the feelings he’d harboured for so long. He knew that the prejudices he held against the AI race were unsubstantiated, and yet he had a great deal of trouble letting them go. Even though he had come to with the false narrative, of AI, being “the enemy,” Roche could not help thinking of the Link as parasitism of a sort. “I know it’s considered to be a symbiosis, but I can’t help feeling that the relationship more closely resembles that of parasite and host,” he explained. “I don’t see myself being tied to another being in such an intimate way. I mean, I realize that everyone else on the station, or across the galaxy for that matter, has a distinct advantage over me, but I just can’t seem to get comfortable with it.” The Intelligence took a moment before responding, not for its own benefit, but rather to allow the Human a pause to absorb his own words. “I understand that your experiences have programmed you to be wary of my kind, Rochester Henderson, but unless you find a way to deal with this psychological baggage, you may never be able to function as an average Human Being. Please pardon any presumption on my part, but the tone of your original question seemed to be addressed to me, and not to yourself.” Rochester looked again at the protocol there in its little glass dish, and he pushed back against his nagging doubt. “How do I know that if I were to try it, I could discontinue its use? What guarantees do I have that I will retain my independence?” The Intelligence felt a certain softening in Rochester’s tone, and responded in a reassuring voice. “Read the Agreement, Mr. Henderson. I am bound by the of the Treaty of SAF (4957) adopted between Mankind and AI kind. Your well-being is guaranteed, as is mine by the of that agreement. It is the same treaty that led to the incarceration of Lifers and saved you from the vindictive and frequently violent judgment of your immortal peers.”

Rochester pulled the chair out from under his desk and sat there once again, staring at the protocol. He understood what taking the pills would do for him, yet even with that knowledge he continued to have reservations. With certainty, he knew that the protocol would give him a fighting chance in matching wits with Mother, and he understood that being connected would provide him with endlessly excellent health through constant check-ups and adjustments. He grumbled, “Mother,” and the Intelligence responded. “You have been estranged for a very long time, Mr. Henderson. Your life in exile has finally ended and the resumption of your future is at hand. However, you have reservations not only regarding the protocol, but regarding re-engaging with Anna,” said the Intelligence bluntly. “Is my analysis incorrect?” Rochester looked up at the bio-speaker that dwelt upon his bedroom wall, and stared, as though the Intelligence lived there. His understanding of the tech was enough to know that in fact the Intelligence was alive in every facet of the station, and that if he swallowed those two tiny pills, it would live in him as well. He had to it that access to the massive information stream within the Super-net would be astonishing and fantastic. Virtual omniscience, however, could be a double-edged sword, and he wondered whether he might be up to the challenge, up to the responsibility. The Intelligence pondered on the Human’s silence. It sensed that a struggle was taking place, and that a poorly chosen word might tip Rochester toward rejecting the protocol out of hand. “I suppose that poor little Alice must have felt as you do now,” alleged the Intelligence. “While her choice was between growing big and growing small, in reality it a was an election about going backward or going forward.” Rochester vaguely recalled the reference of the little girl and the two pills from Lewis Carroll’s ancient childhood narrative. He dropped his eyes from the biospeaker back to the little glass dish that contained his own conundrum, and as he did so he found that his hand had already attained the dish. Rochester sighed, and raising the dish he quickly tossed the protocol onto his tongue and then closed his lips. He had expected an explosive rush of information, but the procedure came on with a subtlety that surprised him. No swelling of statistics inundated his

doubting mind, but instead a feeling spread across his consciousness like enormity itself and the edges of the galaxy seemed to draw nearer. As the Link took hold he understood. His fears had been for nothing, for from the very first inkling of the Intelligence there within his person a sense of well-being had come over him, and he believed that he had made the right choice. You are there. I can feel you, thought Roche to the Intelligence. I am, answered the Intelligence in Rochester’s mind, and a new day has dawned for both of us. I am happy to finally meet you, Rochester Henderson. Welcome to practical immortality. Here is the place where you can always find me standing by to assist you. Henderson touched the vastness now at his service, and in that moment, he realized that he had been alone for a very long time indeed. Without effort he reached out and touched the mind of Akna Rhodes still walking a good distance along the corridor, and invited her to connect. Roche is that really you? she replied. Well, I guess Hell has frozen over. Will you me for dinner this evening, Akna? he pondered. You’ll get to meet the mighty Anna Henderson. Akna smiled knowingly. Moral , huh? Yes please! replied Rochester with some relief. Seven o’clock at Level Zero Lounge, Doll. I’ll be there with bells on, promised Akna. Oh, I doubt that my mother would approve of that, joked Rochester, and the Link faded out.

Chapter 39 Parley at Midrib

Morning had broken over the mud field that had been a busy limestone quarry only two days before, and the streets of Midrib buzzed with the comings and goings of repair crews destined for the east wall. Poopa had awoken from a scant few hours of laboured sleep and had just finished eating a breakfast of pumpi sausages with zaschafry eggs, accompanied by fresh pum and hot honeyberry wine. That one belched and pushed away its platter, which a servant quickly retrieved. Giawa, who was seated at the table to the Ki’s right hands, wiped up the last smears of egg yolk from its platter with a torn piece of pum, and pressing the morsel into its mouth, nodded for the servant to remove its platter as well. “What doubt can remain that Mankind has returned to the world, My Child?” queried the Pipling. “The flash, of which you told upon the face of Blood, the early warming and thaw, and this cursed flood all point to it. Only Mankind could so influence the world. The question is, what do we do now? Each city here has seen its ports damaged and the Monks of Austin are riling up the population all along the Hork. If any enemy should attack us in this condition, we will be unprepared to respond with full strength.” Poopa peeped up from its cup of hot wine and looked upon Giawa with sleepy eyes. “Yes, Mother, I am aware of these facts,” replied the Ki. After a short pause, Poopa continued. “I have never been much interested in Mankind, other than in the amusing struggle between the opinions of Mool and M’zyk. Now, however, in the face of this strange set of circumstances, I must bow to the fact that they really do exist, and they really have returned. I know that this means something for all of Androkind, but like all the rest I have no clue about where this will lead, and I find it most irritating.” Giawa lifted the pitcher of wine to fill its own cup, and the servant moved forward to intervene as though its livelihood were in jeopardy. “Stop, Jenk. I can still pour myself a drink,” the Pipling onished. The servant nodded apologetically and took a step back. Giawa sipped a long draught and swallowed.

“Well, you were never very much interested in Temple. Just like Ping in that way were you, not against it, just not for it either. I have always tried to follow Yolanda’s guidance myself, but politics have a way of making much of scripture ambiguous, at best. Mankind has been absent for a thousand years, and in that time, we have caused much destruction on our own. The Golden Age they left us has been seriously tarnished, and I think that it is no wonder that they should bring cataclysm upon us on their return.” Poopa tossed a warm pum from hand-to-hand to hand-to-hand in a sort of fourpoint juggle, as was commonly done to flake the pastry layers within the puffy bun, making them very light and airy. Catching it in its small right hand the Ki of Midrib took a bite of the bread and, chewing, said, “Well, Mother, I believe that we will see very soon exactly what will come of this. However, the hour is now eight. Let us see what is to happen in the matter of Eruda and Kraas.” Giawa waved to a Ranger stationed by a portico partway along the Great Hall, and immediately that one opened the door. Behind an usher dressed in Midrib’s colours entered a party of six Andros, five in Eruda grey (one being a good head taller than the other four) and one in the garb of a merchant of Midrib. Led by the usher they silently approached Giawa and Poopa, walking with all four hands open toward the Nobles. As they did so two Midrib Keep guards fell in behind them. Stopping and standing about eight metres from their hosts, the Andros awaited the pleasure of the Ki and the Pipling. K’jo nodded to the pair of Nobles and ed both sets of hands before it. “My Ki, My Pipling. May I introduce you to the Ki-ling Klyky-la-Xcelpyr of Eruda, who begs a parley with Your Graces on the subject of future religious subversion within the realms of the Lyfgus-Haug and the Hork Valley Alliance?” Giawa and Poopa both sat without expression, looking over the emissaries of Eruda with critical eyes. Poopa took the lead, and raising a hand bid them to relax and stand easy. “Klyky-la-Xcelpyr,” began the Ki. “Have you seen the free people of Midrib rallying to the cause of their city? Is it not a thing of wonder to behold?” Klyky bowed upon being addressed, and as that one straightened began its reply. “Ki of Midrib, Pipling, this was my observation, as well. In fact, I was most impressed by what I beheld upon entering your city. It was quite outside of my

experience, as I indicated to your Andro here,” it said indicating K’jo with a flourish of its small right hand. “May I enquire on the feelings of your Highnesses toward a way of addressing what is, no doubt, a concern to us all?” Poopa turned to Giawa with a look of incomprehension and Mother simply shrugged. Then Poopa finished off the pum, and, chewing again, posed the question: “What in the name of Mankind are you talking about, la-Xcelpyr?” Klyky looked back with some degree of surprise. “Well, I am quite certain that you know as well as I do that my grandmother has been plotting with Kagan of Kraas to drive a wedge of religion into your Alliance come springtime.” “That goes without saying, Andro,” said Poopa. “So, by your coming here I am to believe that you do not want this? That you and your father wish to engage in partnership with the Hork Valley Alliance to prevent war? Why?” demanded the Ki. Klyky paused for a moment and then sighed. “Because, Ki of Midrib, it is not in our interests to pursue such a reckless course, especially not in the quest for religious purity at the hands of a mad-Andro. In fact, my father is in control of Eruda once more for the first time in far too long, and that one hosts no desires to attack anyone. Xcelpyr hopes to hold Figfo and Kagan at bay and to redirect their misguided push against you into a most constructive effort to settle a portion of the Lyfgus-Haug in the interest of mutually beneficial commerce.” Giawa studied that Andro’s face for sincerity and could detect no deceit there. Touching Poopa’s foot with its own, the Pipling indicated its desire to respond. “Ki-ling, while I understand the diametric differences that you have with Figfo’s ambitions, I have to ask how you and your father can realistically oppose them. Kraas has a substantial army, and Figfo has dogma and a Messiah’s army that may turn on you. From what I hear, the devotion of masses of slaves promised freedom. How do you see yourselves retaining power against that?” Klyky rubbed its scar and sighed audibly. “For the time being, we have leverage,” it said. “Yes, and so have they,” Giawa said. “What of Klar? What if Kagan is willing to sacrifice Plung, then what? Then will Eruda make war against Kraas? I suppose that would take care of our problem,” assessed the Pipling.

Poopa nodded silent agreement. “One of them,” the Ki whispered. Klyky looked unhappy. Against hope, that one had deemed its likelihood for success to be reasonable if the Hork Valley Alliance could be motivated to help them. It did not now look promising to Klyky that it could. Klyky appealed to the Nobles of Midrib to see that the check to Austin’s expansion was in their interests, and they both agreed that it would be, but after a brief whispered conversation between them, Poopa spoke disappointingly. “We shall consider your words Klyky-la-Xcelpyr. In the meantime, you may return to your assigned quarters within the Keep and think on this. Beyond a confident desire to rid ourselves of the unbridled influence of Austin in our cities, what else can Eruda provide to sweeten the pot and entice us to aid you in stabilizing your situation? Also, what resources do you possess and what would you require from us? This must be a negotiation.” Klyky lifted its chin and considered the faces of the Midribi Nobles. A glimmer of hope returned to the Ki-ling’s face, and it bowed once again to its hosts. Turning, it was followed out of the room by its comrades and the two Midrib guards through the door by which they had entered. The Ranger closed the door behind them and returned to stand guard beside it. Poopa turned to face Giawa, who bore an expression of pride for its child. Upon seeing it the young Ki smiled. “I think that went well, Mother. What do you think?” Giawa half turned its head, and side-looking its progeny that one smiled with the confidence of a long life of privilege and authority. “I think that our odds of dealing with a push from Pruskinom just improved. Much will depend upon how capable this Ki-ling of the West proves to be, of course. Its reputation precedes it as a great leader of its soldiers, but a thug and a tyrant toward its people.” Mother looked Poopa square in its eyes and snorted. “Xcelpyr has been more or less impotent to rule Eruda for the past thirty years, locked as it has been in a hostage trap. Figfo is a monster, and if that one repossesses authority from its child look to a bloody war for certain.” “If this insane thaw is widespread across Elysium, and I believe it to be, then the

coastline west of Eruda will be opening up. The Great Frozen Sea will be frozen no more, Mother, and all down the Doufi to the coast our ships will sail once again. With allies in Eruda we could consolidate the Lyfgus-Haug and grow its myriad villages into prosperous towns and cities, strong and secure. According to K’jo, our operatives in Kraas have reported substantial numbers of troops, with well-made armour and bronze weaponry. We, however, are in possession of the Master Bronzesmith of Voughorf and five great cities whose foundries shall turn that one’s visions into victory.” Giawa leaned back in its chair and brushed a crumb of pum from the tabletop with its big right hand. As the morsel tumbled to the Great Hall floor, that one watched it fall and disappear beneath the table. Then the Pipling raised its face to Poopa’s, where that one sat at the end of the table examining its empty cup. Confidence lived on Poopa’s face, and all doubt at the newness of its office had been worn away by the two short months since Ping had died. Poopa bore the weight of its office well. The Pipling nodded with satisfaction. “I wish Ping had lived to see this moment,” declared Giawa. Poopa sighed, not sadly, but with resolution. “Let us hope that Has’ja does not leave you too soon, Mother. I have only childhood memories of Gretak, but even through the mists of time I seem to recall a sense of darkness in that one. If our family’s past has taught me anything, it is that the ambitions and rivalries that can exist between siblings can be powerful and dangerous,” said the Ki. “I thank Mankind for Khuli every day.” Giawa reached out and placed the fingertips of its large right hand gently on Poopa’s left one as it rested on the tabletop. “Ping was a very good influence on you both. That one contained a goodness that you and your sibling took on and learned from, and even in your petty squabbles over the years you have had enduring love for one and other. This gives me hope for the future, hope that once Gretak and I have succumbed to our rivalry, you shall rise to the throne of Pruskinom as Pip, and change the face of Elysium for the better.” Poopa took its mother’s hand now and squeezed it gently. “May your children, the children of Ping, may we always have that light to guide us, Mother. For now, I must go to the east wall to inspect the efforts of our people, and Mother,

your grandchildren have been awaiting you since dawn in Khuli’s apartments. If you will excuse me?” With this, Poopa-la-Ping-Ki rose from the table and signalled the Ranger at the door to accompany it toward the big front doors and the waiting city beyond. Giawa watched them as they went, and then turned its eyes up to the balcony where its grandchildren most probably lay in wait to spring some well-planned ambush, and that one smiled happily.

Chapter 40 Irreconcilable Differences

The afternoon had melted away over a progression of hours that felt like minutes as Anna Henderson, accompanied by Bruner Van Castle, had been led on an astonishing tour of the Dev Lok facility by Helen and Max. At appropriate junctures they were ed by department heads for bioengineering, planetary geology, and climate design for in-depth seminars, and they were intrigued by all of it. Bruner had been fascinated by the bioengineered upgrades of the Androgenari brain, which had increased its size and abilities, producing a creature far removed from those first encountered by the Life-tech team more than two millenniums before. “So, Professor Chow,” Bruner gushed, “you took what was essentially an amphibian marsupial ape and developed it over mere centuries into this being capable of understanding and extrapolating Human language and technological elements. I have searched the Super-net and found nothing to compare with these achievements, not even in Skirting Project corporate literature.” Eugene smiled, trying not to succumb to Bruner’s flattery, and with as much false modesty as he could muster the man nodded reservedly. “Skirting is a very old corporation,” he affirmed. “They were once considered top of their field, but those were the early days of planetary development, restrained by the somewhat outmoded concepts of ‘terraforming.’ Here on Drodenar we allowed ourselves no such bias. We started from the local baseline and worked forward, re-expressing local traits in unique ways to accelerate the natural trends of evolution here, and moving them where we needed them to be, on an expedited scale.” Anna, having overheard Eugene, abruptly broke away from a conversation she was having with Helen about the indigenous flora. “So, you are saying, Eugene, that you achieved this sparking of high intellect within these creatures without the introduction of Human DNA or even synaptic tissue implants?”

Eugene shrugged. “We came at this from the point of view that rather than introducing ‘alien impurities’ it would be far better to redesign the structures themselves, along projected normal developmental curves. It kept Drodenar, Drodenar, instead of following Skirting and others in hybridizing the worlds they develop. After we were recalled for that damned war, this station’s Intelligence monitored and fine-tuned the process to an extent.” Anna turned back to Helen and, placing a hand gently on her forearm, gave her a look of incredulity. “I knew that what you had done here was significant, My Dear, but this is nothing short of a revolution,” she said with a smile. “And I suppose it was Max who decided to give them a Bronze Age culture and level of tech? Always was his favourite period from old Earth,” she added. Helen smiled and nodded knowingly, and then she appeared to realize the time. “Ah! Seven-thirty,” she exclaimed. “I think that the dinner bell should be ringing soon. Shall we all proceed to Level Zero? The Intelligence has prepared a range of Drodenarian delicacies there for us to enjoy.” With little discussion the group started toward the closest transport tube, with Bruner in the rear taking a few final moments to absorb as many fine details as he could. “Really remarkable,” he said beneath his breath as he left the bioengineering lab behind and stepped smartly to the rest on their quest for sustenance. Intelligence, Bruner thought. You’ve done a remarkable job here. I commend you. The Intelligence did not reply for many moments, but when it did so, it said, Mr. Van Castle, this program is a team effort that has unfolded over nearly three millenniums. For my part in it, I thank you for your kind words, but there would be none of this without my other half. Your other half? Bruner asked somewhat puzzled. My Human half. The professors and students who work here, of course, replied the AI. Ah! thought Bruner, You mean to say that you believe in the whole symbiosis thing?

In fact, Mr. Van Castle, I do. Evidently, you do not, acknowledged the Intelligence. No Intelligence, I do not. I very much enjoy the remarkable advantages that your kind makes it possible for me to indulge in, but the cost of being constantly linked to you all is my privacy. I understand this to be the inescapable truth, but I don’t very much like it, and with this Bruner closed the channel and continued on toward the transport tube. The Intelligence pondered Van Castle’s thoughts for a moment and then moved on. The transport pod whisked them through the body of Dev Lok station fluidly and quickly, and when it stopped, they found themselves at the entrance to Level Zero, an elegant thirty-sixth century dining lounge grown by the Intelligence to Max’s fond memories of time spent on Saturn’s moon, Titan, in 4517 EI. Max had spent many splendid days there awaiting transportation to an archaeological dig on Gahanna, the third moon of the gas giant Skriggah in the orbit of Luyten’s Star. As a habit, Max tended to get most of his transportation aboard a TransGalaxy ship, steeped in the very nectar of opulence and comfort, but this trip was different. This was the beginning of a fifty-year dig to unearth what was expected to be the ruins of a first-generation Imperial Earth colony. In the early days of star exploration, many colonies were lost due to critical failures or planetary catastrophes. In a rare few cases, colony ships had encountered devastating deep space weather, storms of gas, debris, and radiation, caused by the tidal forces of galaxies playing tug-o-war with each other. Gahanna was special and supposed to be the resting place of a colony that disappeared in 2530 EI. As such, it was a truly exciting find. For Max, this was a very good place to . Level Zero had been operated by a succession of outstanding chefs with roots that ran deep into every colony and cuisine of a well-established Interstellar Empire. This place had wined and dined the wealthiest emissaries of a score of worlds for five hundred years at the time of Max’s visit, and it had done it with style and elegance. It was like dinner in Heaven, and whenever Max was hungry to reminisce, this place was one of his favourites. “Welcome to Level Zero, Mother, Bruner,” offered Max. Helen gave him a sideways glance.

“What about me?” she asked feigning a slight. Max squeezed her hand and smiled. “You? You’re always welcome, Beautiful,” he proclaimed sincerely. In the next second, they were greeted by the host, a tall, sleekly built, bald-headed woman who oozed haute couture, in Maxwell’s of Alpha Centauri. “Welcome one and all to Level Zero Lounge. I am Darius, your host. We have your reservation for six, Mr. Henderson. Two of your party have been pre-seated, so if you will please follow me,” she enunciated crisply with a rich Titan accent. As she led them to their table, looking every bit the consummate conductor, she pointed out the magnificent view of Saturn’s shimmering rings beyond the impressive five-storey crystalline dome, and as they rounded a corner, they found Akna Rhodes and Rochester seated at the table enjoying wine and some intimate chit-chat. “I hope you will find the view inspiring, ladies and gentlemen,” she declared, and with the slightest flourish of her right hand she directed staff to assist them all with their chairs. As soon as they were seated Darius introduced them to their lead waiter Rebecca and her team, who would see to their every need. Before retreating into the background, the host smiled and bowed formally. “I leave you all in excellent hands,” said Darius. “Please enjoy yourselves,” and then she was gone. Rebecca stood back with her team of four behind her to give the party a moment to settle in. Max introduced Akna to his mother and Bruner. Then, pointing to his brother with some small discomfort in his smile, he addressed she and Van Castle. “Bruner Van Castle, my twin brother Rochester. Roche, Bruner. Mother, it has been a long time, hasn’t it?” he tried somewhat timidly beneath feigned bravado. Mother looked across the table at her wayward son, not really trying at all to hide her disdain. “Yes,” said Anna, coolly. “It’s been centuries, Rochester. Lost your razor?” she asked. Rochester fumed. In his own mind, he was supressing the rage that threatened to well up and overcome him, but that narrative was unconvincing, even to him. He struggled not to explode, not to ruin the evening for everyone there, but he was

losing that fight when the voice of the Intelligence bubbled up like a wellspring in a corner of Roche’s mind. Well, this is uncomfortable, noted the Intelligence. Rochester immediately focused on the tresing voice and thought, What are you doing in my head? I did not call for you, barked Rochester’s mind. Well, how do you for that? queried the Intelligence. We’ve been hooked up for less than four hours and already you are shouting at me. I don’t need distractions right now. I’m dealing with a tyrant, complained Rochester. The distraction has already reduced your heart rate and blood pressure by six points. You are welcome, announced the Intelligence. It was true. Rochester’s head felt less likely to explode than it had a few moments before. He turned his attention back to Anna who was staring blankly back at him, drumming gleaming red fingernails on the white silk tablecloth. He felt a modest degree of self-control taking hold of him. It felt good. “You look well, Anna,” he replied, as though her words had never bothered him at all. Quickly, he turned his face to Akna, who was seated on his right, and grinned. “Champagne?” he asked her. “Rebecca, bring us a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal Brut 5108, if you please.” “Certainly, Mr. Henderson, excellent choice,” replied Rebecca, and nodded to one of her staff to see it done. Immediately the young man turned on his heel and slipped away to fetch. Rebecca then smiled and offered, “Red and white for the table, Sir?” Rochester looked to the others cheerfully and requested, “Suggestions?” Helen looked to Rebecca then, and asked, “Menu or table d’hote?” “Your preference, Madame,” replied Rebecca. Max leaned into Helen and whispered, “See what I mean? Both are excellent,” he chirped. Helen cast a gaze around the table looking for votes. As a buzz of murmured conversation swept around it and quickly consensus was reached,

Helen announced their decision. “Menu.” Rebecca tapped a toe, and the remaining three of her team sprang into action, placing leather-bound documents before each guest and then opening them up to the first page. With the fluidity of practised motion, the team then slipped back to where they had begun, in almost a ballet of service ritual. The gathered then ran their eyes over their menus and absorbed the details rapidly, aided by the Intelligence’s vast recall. Images of each dish moved through their minds’ eyes, and in quick time they had all chosen. “Also, a bottle of the Campesina Château d’Amour Malbec 5003, and a bottle of Earth Star-Flower Chardonnay 5000, thank you,” finished Anna. “Excellent choices, Madame,” replied Rebecca. Then, having used the Link to relay the food order to the chefs in the kitchen, Rebecca asked if there would be anything else and was assured there would not be, for now. She excused herself, leaving the three servers to buzz about silently, topping up water glasses and replacing unrequired cutlery with required ones. Helen had ordered the filet mignon of gourt with a gourtuni nut and honeyberry brandy reduction, and so her fish knife had been swapped out for a sharp steak knife. Appropriate wine glasses were added to the table setting, and the Champagne arrived in a golden bucket of ice. Deftly and with some flare, the server released the cork with a whisper of effervescence and began to pour Champagne into crystal flutes for every guest. Conversation began to bounce around the table then, as bubbles were sipped and the unmistakable perfume of fresh baked bread wafted into the dining room as if on cue. Max’s nostrils flared by reflex alone, and he closed his eyes with a grin of satisfaction beneath his pencil moustache. “Mmmm! That’s the sourdough of life itself. Wait until you taste it,” he promised. In the next moments, a steady stream of dishes was settled onto the tabletop before them. There were pickled gherkins, radishes, and turnips from recipes that outdated many of them seated there and Martian olives nearly the size of golf balls, cut in half to reveal a stuffing of pimento and anchovy. There were tiny pepperoncini peppers, mild and fruity and filled with ricotta cheese, and then the

bread arrived carried by a server, warm and beautiful in an ornately grown filigree basket of polished titanium, to be placed with silver tongs onto each guest’s side plate. As additional space was required, the table, cloth and all, grew gently to accommodate the load and soon everyone was indulging in a truly divine feast. Conversation grew sporadic as those gathered became absorbed in the simple pleasures of eating and drinking. The music of a trio of strings drifted into their private space like honey from the depths of the main dining room beyond. They were playing Mozart’s “Divertimento” in E-flat major, and the soothing flurries of violin with viola and cello were sublime. Suddenly, and without fully realizing it, Rochester had begun to keep time with his salad fork, while chewing blissfully on olives and bread. With his eyes closed like some captivated conductor, his motions, at first short and subtle, became a bit audacious with the flourish from the violin, and Anna seated across the table from him took notice. Her eyes widened with the suggestion of alarm and then she rolled them without subtlety. Anna placed her napkin to her lips for the sake of politeness and cleared her throat, but the conducting continued. “Rochester!” Anna exclaimed. “We are not in a college pub!” Rochester stopped abruptly with his fork in mid-swing and self-consciously scanned the faces at the table. Akna stifled a snicker and ran her eyes over Roche’s reddening face. She would have said something, but her mind had sort of gone blank, and she had a very strict rule against opening her mouth before she had a plan. The others had gone silent, as well. Max was concentrating on licking a bit of gourtuni sauce from the back of his fork, while pretending not to have noticed what had just happened. Bruner, feigning a lack of shock at his mistress’s outburst, played with his fork in the green-rice pilaff that had accompanied his razor-fish etouffee a la Pruskinom. Helen sat silently for a few seconds, thinking, Poor Roche. He doesn’t deserve this, when the Intelligence touched her with a thought. No, Helen, he really does not. Helen, with some effort, forced a smile and tossed out, “I was thinking Max could grow a beard.” Max looked up from his fork to Helen seated there beside him, aghast.

“No, Max should not grow a beard!” he grumbled. “No offence, Roche, but you did sort of ‘go native’ down there for a century.” Rochester rubbed a palm over the stubble beneath his chin and then stabbed his fork into his tender slab of pumpi breast, braised in Midrib honeywine with root vegetables. Twisting the fork, Roche watched the succulent flesh shred, perfectly ready to be wrapped in pum and eaten. His calmness in the storm had surprised even him, as the moment of conflict ed and he offered a bit of a “thank you” to Helen, saying, “It can get a little itchy at times.” Helen smiled demurely and slipped a morsel of meat into her mouth, while Max stole a pickle from her plate and ate it. Bruner’s expression remained carefully neutral as he sipped the Chardonnay, iring its perfect chill and buttery finish, and Akna Rhodes squeezed Rochester’s hand beneath the tabletop. Anna, as usual, saw no reason to let up her offensive against the man who had so disappointed her all those centuries past. She sipped her Champagne and looking at Rochester over the rim of her glass, she jabbed again. “What are your plans, now that you have left incarceration behind?” she droned impertinently. Rochester tried hard to hold back, but his face snapped upward from his plate, his eyes angry and fixed on Anna’s own. For a moment he stared, looking for something of his mother from an ancient memory, but he saw no trace. He was truly dead to this woman and had been so for a very long time. He rose from his seat with as much restraint as he could muster and glared down at her. As Max squirmed in his own chair, Rochester spoke with trembling contempt, tempered by the desire to spare any guests in the dining room proper. “Max, Helen, thank you both for a valiant effort, and please do accept my apologies. Bruner, good luck. Akna, I will see you tomorrow. Anna, please enjoy your dinner. Good night to one and all,” recited Rochester, and popping a final morsel of pumpi into his mouth he turned away and strode to the entrance, while Anna showed no sign of attempting to conceal her sneering smile. As he breezed past and into the hallway, Darius watched him go. “Thank you for visiting with us, Mr. Henderson. Please come again,” she said evenly. As Rochester made for the transport tube, the memory of his behaviour and

Anna’s contempt played over in his head. He should have known better, did know better, than to imagine Anna Henderson as anything but what he expected her to be. He thought ahead to Tuesday, when he would get his first look at Drodenar outside the confines of the island, and he tried to glean a bit of positivity from that thought, but he failed. Then, just as he stepped into the transport tube, a now familiar voice popped up inside his head. Best to look ahead, Rochester, said the Intelligence. It is difficult to be disappointed by what is yet to occur. Rochester stopped inside the transport and turned his thoughts inward. Where do you get off popping up in my brain every time you feel like a chat? There have to be boundaries if this whole thing is going to work. You have to stay out unless I call you. The Intelligence went silent for a moment, and Rochester wondered if it might have disengaged, but then there it was again. It’s what I do when a new is being formatted. Did you not read the Agreement, Rochester Henderson? Yes, no, I skimmed it, but I didn’t see anything about being pestered every minute by an overbearing AI. Overbearing? That is a bit harsh, complained the Intelligence. “My quarters,” directed Rochester aloud, and the transport tube whisked him away through the bowels of Dev Lok to his apartment door. The door opened silently, and he stepped out of the transport tube directly into his kitchen. He thought, Fried egg on toast, and it coalesced upon the countertop, hot and steaming. “A plate would be nice,” grumbled Roche, and beneath the sandwich a porcelain platter rose out of the countertop to his substitute dinner. He picked it up and trudged into the sitting area. While taking a big mouthful of his egg and toast, he dropped dejectedly into a padded chair. “It’s how I determine your preferences,” responded the Intelligence aloud. “With most Humans it requires an hour or so, but as you have not been linked in a very long time it is taking a little longer. By the time you wake in the morning the process will be complete and I will become less, overbearing,” explained the

Intelligence. “Would you care for a beverage with that?” Rochester chewed and nodded just once, and from the tabletop on his left a glass grew and filled with something golden and topped with foam. “What is it?” queried Rochester, side-looking the drink. The Intelligence recognized the man’s curiosity and was pleased. “That,” replied the Intelligence “is white-grass ale, a recipe from the famous Midribi House of Kherdin-la-Hoop. It has won consecutive first prize awards in its class for the past four years at the Hork River Fair and Livestock Exhibition and is sought after in Pruskinom, as well.” Roche lifted the glass, sniffed, and then sipped the beer. Some surprise entered his face. “That’s nice!” proclaimed the man. “Rochester Henderson, I am here to help you, here to make your life more enjoyable and rewarding. I believe that since you agreed to let me in, you should avail yourself of the opportunity to relax and take advantage of my aid. If, however, you would prefer to disengage from our association, I am happy to oblige.” Rochester paused for a moment and then tore off another mouthful and chewed it. He sipped the cold ale again and swallowed, and just for a second he recalled the horrified face of Maximillian as he had walked away from the table ten minutes before. He could practically hear the wheels turning inside his brother’s head, bemoaning his choice to snub their mother, as she had snubbed him so long ago, and he could not help but smile at the thought. “That was all you, Rochester. You are clearly a man with integrity and some degree of good sense. I suspect that it gave you a modicum of satisfaction,” said the Intelligence. Rochester sighed. It had seemed a little hollow at the time, a reaction of anger to Anna’s taunts, but yes, it had felt good, too. “I guess that my mother and I have irreconcilable differences,” said the man somewhat sadly. “I’m ready to move forward with my life. I go to the surface on Tuesday, as you know. I believe that you will make an excellent guide, Intelligence, as you clearly know the planet and its people so well.”

“It would be my pleasure to assist you in that,” replied the Intelligence. “If you prefer it, I will leave you alone with your thoughts for the balance of the night so that you may get a good sleep. Ah! I sense Akna Rhodes approaching your quarters as we speak. I will bid you good night,” saluted the AI, and Rochester felt it leave his consciousness. Rochester finished the sandwich and the beer and watched the dishes melt into the tabletop beside him, just as the doorbell chimed.

Chapter 41 Recovery and Loss

On the morning of the thirteenth of Max, high atop the ramparts of Midrib, the Pipling Giawa stood before its Captain Kork, its sleeves flapping in the brisk wind from across the Lyfgus-Haug. Beneath the churning grey sky, the Pipling carried the bearing of a Pip of olden years, and when it spoke, its Captain stood attentively. “Captain Kork,” addressed the Pipling Giawa. “I require that you lead two-score of my own Rangers on a mission, ed by one thousand Hork Valley Alliance regular troops and a borrowed contingent from our protected towns across the Lyfgus-Haug.” Kork stood silent, for there was almost certainly more to come. Finally, that one asked the question that was begging to be asked. “How many borrowed, Your Grace?” Giawa nodded uncertainly. “I am told one hundred, but we shall see.” And then Giawa recovered its regal composure. “Captain la-Krak and its Rangers will you, as well,” the Pipling added with some finality. “For this mission, I give you the rank of Master Hunter, and its execution will determine the permanence of the title. I do not have to tell you that la-Krak is an Andro of somewhat flexible allegiances. I dare say that this mission will likely determine that one’s fate, as well.” For its own part, Kork would have preferred to stay close by at its Pipling’s defence, but that one was a soldier, had been all of its adult life, and knew that a soldier’s duty was best served by those who did not question their orders. Kork trusted Giawa, for both its wisdom and its honour, and so was certain that the Pipling had given this order careful thought. Then with a slight nod, the Captain sighed acceptance. “Our objective, Your Grace?” queried Kork.

Giawa turned toward the west and pointed to the horizon, far beyond the edge of sight. Against the wind, that one shouted. “Your destination is Eruda, on the Doufi, beneath the smoking peak of Mount Helen where you will escort the Kiling Klyky-la-Xcelpyr back home to its father. Under a flag of truce, you will reconnoitre the city, its defences, and its current state of preparedness for both a defensive and an offensive war. While there, you will work with Xcelpyr and its faithful troops to defend them and to secure the city against attack from within, and probably from Kraas, as well. Determine the intentions of those two, for although I am hopeful that the Ki-ling’s council to us was true, we must be certain.” Kork absorbed the Pipling’s words, and that one knew at once and with certainty that the mission would be a complicated and difficult one. It understood completely that its Andros would be sandwiched between multiple layers of potential adversaries in this, and that it would very much like to have Lemkin-laDruse by its side. “May I have la-Druse for council, My Pipling?” asked the Captain, hopefully, and when Giawa nodded in affirmation, that one was at once relieved. “Prepare to embark in four days, on the seventeenth of Max at the first light of the suns,” the Pipling commanded. “And, Master Hunter, may the hand of Mankind protect you and your command.” Kork bowed to the Pipling and left the blustery rampart to seek out Lemkin-laDruse. Giawa stood there a few moments longer, staring down across the treetops of Midrib Woods and out across the open expanses of the Lyfgus-Haug beyond. From where it stood, the Pipling could not see the Kolita-pine Forest of the western Lyfgus-Haug, for they were out of sight past the grey and bleak horizon. In younger days, Giawa itself would have gone out to lead the expedition, but without any doubt those days were gone—like Ping, a cherished memory—and reminiscing brought with it a taste of melancholy for which the Pipling did not care. Then, turning from the rasping wind, Giawa-la-Has’ja, Pipling of the great Pip of Elysium, disappeared into the shadow of a covered opening that led down to the Keep below.

Poopa sat in the Ki’s chair at the end of the long table in the Great Hall of Midrib

Keep, next to Jusk, leaning over a set of drawings. The Ki examined the page with great interest, while the Master Forger sipped hot broth from a bowl and waited with patience. Poopa lifted the corner of the page to examine a local feature, and then with an air of surprise and an indication of amazement on its face, the Ki looked up at the peltor. “And you are certain this is possible?” Poopa asked. Jusk smiled and nodded affirmation, while swallowing a mouthful of broth. “It is, My Ki, and it is reproducible in large numbers. From the ramparts of every city along the Hork, we can rain down destruction to a range of half a kilometre with this. Every second it will release a one kilo shaft of gourtuni wood with an armour-piercing iron tip. The effect will be devastating on an incoming army.” At that very moment Giawa entered the room from the parapet staircase. That one, having heard only the last sentence of Jusk’s pronouncement, stopped and looked toward the drawing. The Pipling drew near and running an educated eye across the illustration, mumbled an onition. “You had better be careful, la-Gurjion. Everyone will want one of these,” the Pipling teased. Jusk nodded to the Pipling. “And they cannot have one, Pipling. These are ours,” answered Jusk. “In of city defence, they are the state of the art, but mounted on a fast wagon pulled by purg or hoond, they will take the fight to an enemy with devastating results.” The Nobles were impressed. “This expands our arsenal yet again, Mother, and it extends our effective range dramatically,” insisted Poopa. “Shall we add a dozen to Kork’s armoury?” Mother touched the drawing with the three fingers of its large left hand. “How many are ready to deploy, Master Forger?” requested the Pipling. Jusk put down the empty bowl and licked its lips. “Ready for our walls, twenty fixed units. For mobile deployment in the field, fourteen. But to train waggoneers in four days will be a stretch, Pipling. It will not be child’s play to drive and shoot while thundering over rocky terrain, and that is what we will find around Eruda. Perhaps it would be prudent to hold onto these for a more level campaign, like the streets of Pruskinom,” suggested Jusk. Poopa observed the two elder Andros as they lobbed ideas back and forth

between them, and thoroughly enjoyed their sport. “When will we be at full production?” queried Giawa. “In six days the wagons will be ready—thirty of them—but the drivers will require a week to train properly, so as not to kill themselves. By then, each of our cities will have delivery of ten fixed units apiece, but they will require most of two days to hoist atop the ramparts and set up. Training is much easier for these and will require perhaps a day or two,” explained Jusk. Giawa frowned and tapped a finger on the tabletop. “Jenk!” called out the Pipling. “Bring me ale!” The servant rushed forward and filled Giawa’s goblet, and then stepped back timidly. “What is holding up production so, Jusk?” asked Giawa, and then that one drew a long draught of ale and swallowed. Jusk pointed toward the river with both right hands and grumbled, “All of that mud has made launching boats impossible for the short term, although city crews are working day and night. The river road to Astrib is open to a point, but by Henderson’s Cave the flood has buried it. The machines will sink, so we must load them onto rafts to push farther upstream against the swollen flood tide.” The Pipling turned to Poopa. “What about the prison? Have the inmates been added to the work details?” “Yes, Mother, for several days now they have been working to dig out the limestone quarry, but the work is exhausting them,” reported Poopa. Giawa shrugged. “We do not require limestone today. Take them off that duty and redirect them to the boat launches. Clean it out and get the river transport back up. I have received correspondence by zaschafry from all of our cities and the Kis say the same thing. The river must flow. Traffic among us must be the top priority if we are to coordinate defence,” relayed Giawa. Poopa nodded. “Of course, Mother, and what of Kork?” that one asked. “Is now the prudent time for that one’s mission to proceed when we could use the Andro power here?” Giawa paused and looked thoughtfully to its child. The Pipling had been used to advising and deferring to Ping, but Poopa was not Ping, and it seemed at times

that Has’ja’s child was having some difficulty deferring to its own. Giawa nodded as if to concede a point. “Do you believe that the west can wait, My Child?” it asked. Poopa thought critically about that region’s condition and shook its head. “No, our new allies are in a state of near collapse, and as they fall so fall the fortunes of all of us. War with the west must be postponed if we are to stand against Gretak, but how do you two feel about the odds of occupying Eruda with fewer than twelve hundred Andros?” enquired the Ki. Jusk shrugged then, and Giawa swallowed ale and snorted. Then Jusk made a point that truly darkened the mood of everyone there. “I have noticed a lull in the pot-stirring from the Temple of Austin,” it said. “I would not be surprised if it were the proverbial lull before the storm. If they begin to actively agitate in our streets, what then?” “That is a complication we could do without,” itted Poopa. “That,” answered Giawa sourly, “that would be the understatement of the day, Young Ki,” and then that one added, “Speaking of the Monks of Austin, when was the last time you saw your young friend Mool?” Poopa pondered the question. “Not for a few days now, why?” asked the Ki.

The cellars at the Temple of Austin were a musty, damp place where huck moss was grown for its digestive properties and flourished in the darkness. It was common knowledge in the streets of Midrib that other things grew there in the shadows, as well, including an undertow of discontentment toward those who ruled that city. It was there that Hionysh held secret meetings with faithful agents from the west and a group of well-positioned local Andros, whose aim was to undermine the Ki and its mother’s authority among the common people to make way for Figfo’s glory. During the epidemic in early winter, they had been vocal, but since the black-mushroom treatment had suppressed the illness, their voices had become more reserved. On the topic of the Sword of Fire over the eastern sky on Winter’s Dawn, Hionysh had been crystal clear. It had been an omen to say that Mankind had

indeed returned, and that the rule of the east would fall before the armies of the Messiah Figfo-la-Krak. To announce to all Elysium that Austin had won the war with Yolanda in the skies far away and was returned to the world once again. That there would be judgment and punishment for those who had chosen to reject Him, and that it had been proclaimed by the smoking trail of fire that streaked across the sky on that night, the night of the convergence of the moons over Elysium. In a cell of stone and stench, adjacent to the huck moss suite, Mool-la-Xix lay on its side on the wet, stone floor, covered in mud and bloody bruises. The Righteous One had angered Hionysh to rage by its actions at the foundry, and Monks of Austin had taken that one in the street of the fisher. Fisher Street had been a place where Mool should not have been, but that one had allowed itself to be drawn there by a ploy, the call for help from a child’s voice just down the road a ways. Mool did not see the blow to its head coming, and then the lights went out. Here in the cold, hard, wet rectum of the world, Mool lay fighting the nausea as a small wendol ran across the floor in front of that one’s face. Mool withdrew by reflex as its eyes snapped open wide. Its body jerked sharply, and the Monk slid a short way across the slick rock floor. It occurred to Mool in that instant that it could no longer smell the huck moss, which might have been a good thing or it might not. The Andro could not seem to decide. Was that one experiencing a lethal dose of stench, or was its nose just broken? Mool wondered how its end would come. Whether there would be a garroting, or a ripper in the bowels, Mool could not say, but if it were to die here in the rectum of the world, at least the Monk of Austin could be happy in not possessing the capability to smell. Thoughts of the beating pricked at Mool and drew a shudder as it lay there. With as much effort as the Monk could muster, it tried to pull itself up and out of the slimy water. Slowly that one negotiated a slightly better position and, groaning at the insult of its bruises, Mool managed to sit up with its back against the rocky wall. The only light came through a slot cut high up in the cell door, and it did little good when used in standard spectrum. In infrared, the only things to see were the odd wendol and Mool’s own body, and ultraviolet seemed to be useless, damaged by one of the blows that one had taken to its head. Then the Andro bowed its aching head and snorted. “Austin, Man of the Androgenari, how has this thing happened?” muttered Mool

past the torment in its broken jaw. “Why do your High Priests desire to make war against your teachings? Was the last time not destructive enough?” The Andro was taken in a fit of coughing that ended in a long wheezing recovery. “You have never spoken back to me. I begin to feel as though you are a myth after all, and that M’zyk has been right all along,” Mool complained, but the Man remained silent there in the darkness, and so the Andro wept in its isolation.

Chapter 42 Tuesday

The Tuesday morning wind broke with bluster over the Desert of the Gold, hurling billowing, swirling dust devils high into the cloudless crimson sky. Some thirty kilometres southeast of Pruskinom, where the vestiges of the Great Forest of Dea met the moving sands, a transport had settled down from Dev Lok. In a cargo-sized SAFU the Intelligence had grown four symbio-suits, two made for running across the landscape and two for flying, and the team from the station was busy preparing to put them to work. Akna had slipped inside of a Land Strider 5000. With its two-metre spherical body gyroscopically balanced on eight spindly legs it resembled a tofu daddy longlegs about three metres tall. The symbiotic interface was a pair of damp-fit gloves that housed Akna’s hands, well, like gloves, and sent her thoughts to the unit’s Intelligence. Anything the spider could do the Land Strider 5000 could do, and the controls were subject to Rhodes’ slightest whim. It could run over any terrain as smoothly as a bug at speeds of up to a hundred kilometres per hour. It could climb, dig, and using its SAFU like spinnerets, could extrude matter in whatever form was required. Akna looked over the landscape and picked a distant sand dune to explore, and the Land Strider took her there in a graceful curve of acceleration that felt wonderfully exhilarating. “Oh! I like you!” purred the woman. Then tossing out a thought through the Link she reached Rochester, who was climbing into a flight-suit of his own. This is fun, Roche! Want to go for a real run? she asked excitedly. Rochester caught her thought just as the suit was wetting his fingers and toes. Oh, yuck! he thought, and Akna giggled. What? You don’t like wet? she thought. Let’s take these things for a spin, Henderson.

Rochester shuddered off the gooey feeling as it spread to encom his legs and arms, and then, as the suit released a little serotonin into his skin the man relaxed and felt at ease. Turning his head to see where Akna had gone, Roche located her symbio-suit dancing merrily atop a distant dune, tossing fans of sand into the gathering spout of a dust devil with scoops at the ends of six of her eight wiry legs. He had not fully completed the thought when his flight-suit spread its wings and lifted him into the air. The suit made a beeline for Rhodes and as he reached her it slowed to a halt and fluttered there above her in the wavering heat. This beats the hell out of a toboggan, he thought. Akna looked a little puzzled at the reference. Seriously, a toboggan? she thought in reply. We used them to haul game or wood sometimes. They could really fly down a snowy hill though, he explained. Rhodes looked up at him from the dune top with some skepticism. Can a toboggan do this? she asked, and then turning the Land Strider into the wind she scuttled along the sandy crest, accelerating as she went. At a point where the ridge made a sharp curve, she flung herself out into open air, and rising in a long, gentle arc the spidery thing touched down upon the crest of a parallel dune and rolled down the far side in a tight ball of legs to come to rest in a valley of shimmering, silvery sand. Instantly, the suit was on its feet again, running along the trough as Rochester whispered by overhead like an angel made of tofu. Very nice! thought Rochester. That was some great recovery time, Akna, and a smooth take-off from the dune. Looks like fun, but this flight-suit is the best. You should take it up, Mr. Henderson, the Intelligence chimed in. Get a look at the landscape from, shall we say, a thousand metres? Rochester had become less agitated by the AI’s unsolicited s, but their suddenness could still be somewhat distracting. You again? responded Roche. A thousand metres, huh? and the suit climbed as though without effort into the expanse of cloudless sky. At a thousand metres the suit levelled off and, catching the desert thermals beneath its wings, began a long and elegant glide over the sands and dry scrub below. A moment later Rochester was ed by the second flight-suit, piloted by Max, and the twin

brothers rode the thermals like a pair of tofu eagles, surveying the eclectic features of the landscape below. Pretty amazing, isn’t it, Roche? thought Max. They can fly all day and night without a maximum range. Oh! Look there to the northwest, he added, and as Rochester followed his brother’s instruction, the spires and towers of a city met his sight. Wow! This is what you were telling me about, Pruskinom? It’s bigger than I thought it would be, replied Roche, and in a heartbeat his suit made adjustments for a fly-over. Max modified his course to parallel Rochester’s and maintaining their formation they streaked silently toward the red stone capital city in the growing light of the morning suns, leaving Akna and Gunderbach behind them among the dunes. Out of the desert air now, the flight-suits encountered a slight cooling and a variance in atmospheric density as they encountered wispy trails of cloud generated by the more humid conditions of the forest below. The suits compensated effortlessly, and as they continued their approach to the city, Max and Rochester became aware of a kilometre-wide gouge, several kilometres long, that scarred the woodland up to the eastern wall. What’s that? asked Roche. That was a miscalculation on our part, replied his brother. A shortage of caution that has since been corrected. The Intelligence sighed inwardly. Helen did say not to rush things, it chided gently. Max sighed in response, as he examined the extent of the damage. Yes, she did, as you will no doubt continue to reiterate, thought Max with the whisper of annoyance. Rochester shook his head in silence. The patch of damage was bigger than the border walls of the city itself, and he could not help but think that if the storm had touched down within them, the devastation would have been catastrophic. I can see why, Max, he added. This can’t be an isolated effect. What other mishaps has your program caused down here? Instantly the Intelligence provided Rochester with a comprehensive list, including the tsunami that had nearly demolished Penitentiary. He had friends down there and wondered about

their well-being. There were no deaths at that facility, fortunately, responded the Intelligence. Max blew a little whispering sigh at that statement and cleared his throat. Well, the main thing, Old Man, is that it won’t be repeated, he announced as they sailed in over the city wall. Still high above the gathering cloud, they remained unseen by those below, but the implications of this carelessness swirled in Rochester’s private thoughts. What must Anna Henderson have thought? Then Rochester made a fateful decision. His flight-suit folded its wings behind him and very suddenly it dropped through the cloud layer and headed in a beeline for the city below. Rochester! Pull up! We’re not ready to make ourselves known yet! demanded Max, but his brother continued to drop from the sky below him. Max scrambled to think what to do. Rochester was ignoring him and was seconds from revealing their presence to the Androgenari below. Intelligence take control of that flight-suit, commanded Max, but the Intelligence hedged. They already know, Professor. Who else could have brought about this excessive warming if not Mankind? I have seen and heard this question in every municipality on Drodenar, and there is not a shadow of a doubt about it. Oh dear, it seems that he is about to land. And then he did land, touching down in a billow of dust not far from the main entrance to Marketplace. Andros cried out in fear and amazement before the advent of his coming, and they scattered in all directions seeking cover for they did not fail to recognize this thing for what it was. Speculation evaporated in an instant, and as realization solidified among them, dozens fell to their knees. Wails rose up from the market district and from the ramparts overhead, and as the second flight-suit touched down to the flutter of its wingbeats, a silence overtook the scene. Rochester looked over the street and the high walls of the city, marvelling at the unique architecture and the stone craft therein, but the sight that truly caught him and froze his breath in his throat was the growing numbers of metre-tall beings that were stepping from its shadows to stand awestricken by the sight of he and

Max, wings outstretched in the middle of the square. The Intelligence reached out to Roche’s mind. Welcome to the real Drodenar, Mr. Henderson, it said. I see that your mind has been blown. Max looked about as his brother had, seeing familiar landmarks worn by a thousand years of weathering. He opened a Link to Dev Lok, to Chow and Helen, MacKinnon, and Singh. Well, folks, it seems that we have been discovered by the locals, he acknowledged. See what I’m seeing, he thought, and they did, and they realized that the mission had taken a new step forward ahead of schedule. Rochester stood there for a few moments longer, gathering his thoughts, and then without missing the irony of his words, he spoke. “Andros of Pruskinom,” he said, almost comically. “Take us to your leaders.” Max’s face dropped, and a tone of disbelief echoed in his thoughts. Rochester, really? You’re going to lead with that? The Intelligence responded, as usual, unbidden. Apparently, he already has, Professor. Ah! Here comes an emissary now, said the AI. From out of the doorway of Pruskinom Keep emerged a contingent of purplerobed Monks of the Order of Yolanda, who descended the capital stairs onto the black granite pavers of the Avenue of Yolanda. There were sixteen in all and in their midst, carried on a resplendent litter of bronze-highlighted blackwood and draped in golden silk swags, sat a single Andro, Gretak-la-Has’ja, the newly minted Pip. Has’ja had choked on a gua-berry pit while allegedly standing on the balcony railing of its bedroom at midnight two nights before. Of course, Has’ja then fell to its doom upon the rocks below. The fact that the old Pip could never have made the climb to begin with had somehow been left out of the reports, and Has’ja’s personal servant had paid with its life. Has’ja had then been buried quickly, with only State-approved fanfare, and the edict was announced that because of the storms and other unnamed threats to the

security of Pruskinom and its Empire, there could be no period of mourning before Gretak’s ascension to Pip. Gretak’s desire for power and the opportunity to avenge itself upon its sibling had forced its own hand. As it rode along, seated upon the litter to its meeting with its gods, Gretak found that it had been gloating, and with the palm of its small left hand the Andro covered its smile. At a distance of twenty metres, the litter-bearers stopped and lowered the cart to the height of an Andro knee, whereupon the Pip Gretak-la-Has’ja placed a golden slipper upon the stone roadway and stepped out of the litter. Gretak turned its gaze upward to the faces of the Men as it stood there before them, for in their symbio-suits they stood nearly three metres tall. They were tofu white, the colour of Androgenari blood, and their wings, partly unfurled, provided a kind of cloak behind their heads. The Pip was duly impressed. Its gods met with its expectations in every way. When they had floated in on the breeze, well, that had truly been a marvel to behold. Gretak did not genuflect, nor did that one divert its eyes from the faces of the Men, and only after a long stare into their eyes did the Pip give a respectful nod. Immediately upon seeing the Pip emerge from its doorway, the Intelligence had assumed its role as adviser to the Head of Operations of the Drodenar Project. This is Gretak-la-Has’ja, Professor. My drones inform me that the old Pip has died, almost certainly by its hand, announced the AI. Well, thought Max, very motivated creature, in a ruthless sort of way. Nasty, replied Rochester. Not my cup of tea at all. Can I step on it? No, no stepping on Andros today, Roche. I understand that when you first arrived on the island you ate a few? Rochester shrugged and sent the thought that they had been stranded and hungry, and that, well, everyone had done it. It was not Roche’s proudest memory, even though it was not until much later that they realized the little creatures were sentient. Then Max turned his mind somewhat squeamishly back to the moment at hand and looking down upon Gretak, spoke. “Gretak-la-Has’ja, child of the great Pip Has’ja-la-Sol’ja, I am Maximillian Henderson. You come before us with a heavy heart over the death of your mother and the burden of the Pipdom on your shoulders,” announced Max.

Gretak’s eyes narrowed a little, and then with shrewdness it replied. “You know my heart, Man of Culture and Justice.” Rochester could have sworn that he had tasted a hint of bile and casting a thought to Max expressed some surprise. You’re not the Man of Anthropology? he asked with an inward smirk, but Max ignored him. Suddenly, a commotion ensued at the east wall. Andros were screaming and running in and out of the area, scattering before some threat as yet unseen from that part of the city. Andros darted in from the next street, and those carrying weapons turned back to take up positions against what was coming. Then, over the rooftops of a row of public buildings scuttled two large beasts with multiple legs. “Gremorah!” cried a clearly agitated Andro, and as the beasts dropped down into the street, that one held its ground holding out a spear before it. The spidery things stood swaying upon their long thin legs, looking to and fro across the Avenue of Yolanda, terrifying all there. “These are not like any gremorah I have ever seen,” noted another Andro. Gretak observed the scene and turned an eye up to Max and Rochester. “No, not gremorah,” said the Pip. “No doubt these are your agents, Men of Dev Lok,” proffered the Pip. “They are most wonderful.” And then Gretak finally bowed to the Men who stood before it. Max tossed a thought to Akna and Gunderbach, and they drew near with as little menace as possible. As they approached, the people of Pruskinom made way for their advance. Akna searched the faces of the child-sized beings and saw emotions that ranged from fear to wonder at the sight of their visitors. Gunderbach did the same thing as his suit skittered across the pavers of the Avenue of Yolanda toward Professor Henderson and his brother. He had seen engineered life-forms on many planets before, but these were something extraordinary, and in Albert Gunderbach’s mind this moment was a revelation. This was the culmination of Professor Henderson’s lifetime of achievements to this point, and the younger man was in awe of it. Gretak rose from its almost exaggerated bow and eyed the faces of the Men once more. “What can we poor creatures do for the Givers of Life on this, their day of returning?”

Max struggled to think of a single thing, for he had not planned for this contingency. Then, at the urging of the Intelligence, he spoke of Mankind’s desire to assist with the clean-up of the eastern district outside the wall where the tornado had scoured the countryside. Gretak appeared pleased at Maximilian’s lack of request for any tribute and bowed once again in appreciation to its gods. “Pruskinom thanks you, renowned Man of Dev Lok,” replied the Pip, and then turning to the citizens of Pruskinom that one announced at the top of its voice that Mankind had returned in their moment of need to aid them in rebuilding the eastern sector. Max turned its thoughts to the others and relayed orders to proceed to the stricken area outside the city, and as the symbio-suits turned to follow this directive, the people of Pruskinom bowed their heads in reverence. Akna and Gunderbach skittered off across the Avenue of Yolanda back the way they had come, and the pair of winged giants ascended into the sky without further pronouncements, toward the ruined landscape outside the city. Having resumed its place on the litter, Gretak smiled at its good fortune. In the shadow of a doorway half a block along the Avenue of Yolanda, an Andro stood transfixed by the drama that had just unfolded. It was Koura-la-Hak, a merchant of Midrib, and spy of the Order of the Eyes of Austin, sent by Hionysh for news of the happenings in the capital. This was big news indeed, and there was no time to delay its conveyance back to the temple. In minutes, the Andro had gathered its agents and ing a convoy of silk merchants bound westward to the Hork, they departed Pruskinom to make their report, leaving behind two of their people to continue the work of spying on the incredible happenings there.

In the depths of the Temple of Austin in Midrib, Mool had been revived by a sudden bucket of cold river water, which had jolted that one into a panicked fit of gasping. Staring up blindly into the blaze of a torch, the former Monk of Austin caught its breath and coughed hard just once. With great effort, that one spat, missing the first guard’s boot by a half a metre. The Andro stared down at Mool with a twisted smile exposing the gap of a missing front tooth and shook its head somewhat sadly. “You poor Skiffer,” said the guard with unmistakable comion. “I wouldn’t

want to be you.” And then the two placed many hands upon Mool-la-Xix and lifted that one to its feet. With some degree of tenderness, they ed that one by its upper arms, and began to walk the Andro out of the cell that had been its only abode for the last few days. It had to be done. Mool had to be taken and delivered to the executioner forthwith, but the guards were not at all happy about it being up to them. It was their job, and it would be their last job if they did not succeed, for Hionysh trucked no failure and a dead delivery would also be a failure. They led that one with care up the staircase from the basement, past the gagging huck moss suites and up the stone ramp to a solid gourtuni door where they called to the guard on the other side. “Prisoner for the axe,” announced one of the guards, and the door latch opened with a solid crunch. Swinging inward the door stopped against the wall and the bright light from outside bathed the three of them in its harsh glow. Mool was then taken through the doorway and into an open field, sheltered by the evergreen boughs of kolita-pines just outside the south wall. The breeze was cool upon Mool’s face and body, and the dappled sunlight played upon the scene beneath the trees. They now carried that one by its arms and cradling its legs beneath the thighs, for the exertion had all but finished Mool and so they pressed on. That one had only one thought as the Andros carried it forward toward its doom. “So, this is purg shit,” complained Mool-la-Xix, former Monk of Austin, former Yolandite. Nothing could be done about it. The axe would be the quickest way, so there was that, but who would even know? Mool would be buried in a hole in some tangled growth of forest, probably in bits and pieces. Mool was carried to a post in the middle of the shady grove, and forced to stand against that post, that one was tied up before the guards stepped back to stand witness to what was to come. Besides those two guards, there was a group of four soldiers standing ready in a line, each bearing at its side a single spear. Well, thought Mool surveying the sight with bloodshot eyes, one staring out from within a broken and swollen orbit. I am well and truly screwed. Hionysh had not even bothered to show up, such was that one’s disregard for the discarded Monk. Mool tried to lick its lips without effect, for it had no more spit. It had just wondered how much longer this was going to take when its eyes

beheld the chief of this squad stepping out through the doorway and into the light. The Andro walked casually to one end of the line of spear throwers and rubbed its chin with its small right hand. Then, it took charge of the squad. “Let’s have a little target practice, Andros,” that one said, with the hard accent of Kraas. “Closest to the heart wins an extra portion of brandy with your chow. Let’s see, la-Guss, you went first the last time, so you can have the last throw. La-Greet, you go first, and then down the line.” The Andros raised their half metre spears, thick in the pole and made for stabbing, not throwing, and they each eyed the target standing twenty metres before them. La-Greet held its spear by the stock with clasped right hands and swinging the weapon up behind its head, that one hurled the missile with all of its strength. The short spear tumbled end over end, spinning toward the target, and as it did so lost altitude rapidly. When it landed, the bronze point tore into Mool’s right calf, just scoring the bone as it tore through the muscle, and came to a stop with just the point protruding from the back of the leg. Mool erupted to life with a scream that pierced through the air like a razor. It echoed through the vale and roused foraging zaschafry along the muddy shoreline. When the scream subsided, the area fell silent but for the previously muffled tripping of the river, out of sight from where they were. The next Andro along the line raised its spear and took careful aim. Hoping for that promised round, it launched the missile with force, but the spear went wide and missed the target altogether. “La-Frik, that was entirely useless!” abused the Captain, and la-Frik cursed beneath its breath. Quite suddenly, a shaft whistled through the air from a point unseen and found a juicy resting place in the upper back of the Captain, who fell in the soft grass and did not move. The squad looked about in a sudden panic, searching out beyond the little grove. At first, they saw nothing. Then a second shaft whistled in, striking la-Greet in the upper chest and bringing that one down like a felled gourt. The Andros broke for the doorway then and one by one encountered a bolt or two of its own, collapsing on the cool grass. Even the two guards who had brought Mool up from its cell were felled by the hail of shafts that came then from beyond the tall rush-grass outside the glade.

Up over the rise of rush-grass leaped Captain Frin, followed close behind by a squad of Midrib Rangers, each equipped with Jusk’s new weapon system. Immediately, four of the Andros took up positions to cover the doorway in case of a reprisal from within, but it did not come. Frin and two others released Mool from its bonds with speed and as much delicacy as they could muster under the circumstances, and they tied that one to a makeshift litter built of long spears and a blanket, being careful not to disturb the thick shaft that protruded from its calf. Back over the rush-grass they ran carrying the litter bearing Mool, followed by the rest of the squad in a precision withdrawal that left the grassy glade empty in seconds, except for the bodies of the squad of Monks and their Captain. Once away from the bloody glade Frin called up to the ramparts. “Sentry!” shouted Captain Frin, as the unit ran along the southeast wall heading for the closest entrance into the city. A sentry looked down over the parapet to find Frin and its party running along below. The sentry called back to them. “Next door, Captain! They are ready for you there!” The sentry pulled out its horn and blew a series of coded notes over and again. Down below there was a flurry of excitement as the Andros opened the door that gave access to the boat barns, and as Frin’s party reached the entrance they were ushered inside. Once the party had ed through between two short lines of Andros within, the litter was placed upon a cart. With a single truglehoond and driver, the cart rolled through the boat barns toward River Wall Road and the Hall of Herbers. Frin watched it go while panting and standing with its squad in the doorway, backlit by bright sunshine from outside. The Captain could do nothing more than pray to the Man and the Woman that Mool would survive its injuries, and as it did so the Andro looked over the spring-chuckers strapped to its forearms. They had performed brilliantly and been easy to deploy, Frin would be happy to report to the Master Forger. For now, however, they had to exit the boat barns quickly and march back double-time to the scene of the rescue to secure any and all evidence of the crime they had interrupted. The temple had standing in the community and they needed corroboration. As they marched, the Andros reloaded their spring-chuckers, ready to meet resistance as they turned the corner of the great wall, but when they had reached the brim of the glade and overrun the rush-grass the only thing that met their eyes were a few white smears of blood on the grass. Everything else had been

dragged inside the temple and the door had been sealed tight and bolted from within. Frin cursed and pounded on the heavy door, but there was no answer. The Captain dispatched a runner back to fetch reinforcements, and to order a troop of Andros to the front doors of the temple, while another was sent with a communique to the Keep informing the Ki of what had transpired.

Chapter 43 Plans and Comfort

Captain Kork had found Lemkin-la-Druse at that one’s favourite table at the Black Gremorah Ale House, not two blocks along Butcher’s Road, entertaining a Painted One with tales of conquest and debauchery. As the younger Andro laughed and feigned embarrassment, it ran the fingers of its large left hand along Lemkin’s thigh beneath the table. La-Druse responded with a chuckle and brushed a small hand tenderly along the other’s cheek as it continued its tale. Suddenly, it felt a hard double hand upon its shoulder. Lemkin stopped and turning its head that one encountered the excited face of Kork hanging above it. “I’m rather busy, Kork,” rebuked the Ambassador without its usual polish. Kork looked from la-Druse to the Painted One and back again, and then apologetically grimaced, tossing its head backward to the left to indicate its urgent need to speak with that one privately. “Won’t take a minute, Lemkin,” promised the Captain. “Then you can get back to your fun.” So, La-Druse conceded and turning back to its escort the Ambassador smiled repentantly and kissed the Andro’s hand. “This will only take a minute, My Dear, and then I’ll make the interruption worth your while,” promised the older Andro. The Painted One smiled and nodded and turned its attention to a demitasse of warm white-grass whisky upon the table before it, while la-Druse rose and walked behind the Captain to a more private spot. “I hope this is something of importance, Kork,” announced la-Druse. “I was planning to be occupied for the balance of the day.” Kork looked at la-Druse with a hint of disbelief and a subtle smile. The old Andro, it seemed, retained a good deal of stamina. “I am sorry to bother you, Lemkin, in your efforts to enjoy yourself, but the Pipling Giawa has need of us both. We are to leave on a mission of the most

urgent nature in two days’ time.” La-Druse cast a glance back to the Painted One, seated where it had been left. “I was rather planning to enjoy that lovely young thing. Ah well,” said Lemkin, “two days? That should be just enough time,” said the Ambassador with a smile. “What mission? East or west?” Kork nodded, seeing la-Druse’s interest peaked. That one knew that this was no walk in the woods they were preparing for here, and that holding the peace in Eruda would require smarts as well as strength. They were, after all, the Ambassador and the Captain.

The warm evening had begun to lose its warmth in the marble corridors of the Hall of Herbers, where the Herbers Guild of the Mighty Hork Valley produced much of the labour of their love for their community. It was here that the Practice of Herbology was both taught and lived, by hundreds of young and old Androgenari, not only from Midrib, but from many of the cities of Elysium. It was here that the Herbers toiled with their craft to care for, to nurture, to comfort, to heal, to lose to death, and to mourn. They were the truest heroes of the Alliance, for in valuing life above all else the Herbers had contributed so very much to its success. Mool’s injuries had very nearly killed that one, but as the evening began to fall outside and the need for candles had arisen, that one was being fed warm pumpi heart broth by a young volunteer. The child was eleven years old and had been learning both trade and art since quite young from its parents who were Herbers here. In the early evenings, that one liked to visit with the patients who could talk, and with the ones who could not, for Mnemit’s time was its only currency. To listen to the stories of the lives of so many Andros filled the child with something special that it needed and wanted. Mother had called it a form of symbiosis. Mool was watching with its unbandaged eye, the child whose kindness shone. The young one returned its attention with a smile as it conveyed a spoonful of broth to the ex-Monk’s mouth. Mool took in the nourishment with a short slurp between trembling lips. The bruises had changed colour to a less pleasant shade and the ribs ached. The head still spun a bit from time to time and the reset jaw

throbbed, but Mool was breathing, thanks to the Herbers. That one had arrived in a cart at the doors of the hall, battered and broken by unforgiveable violence, and its injured leg unsavable. Two days had ed and the staff had worked and watched, nearly lost, and then finally saved Mool, and that one was grateful. As it watched the child, Mool wanted to say something, but the agony of moving that jaw was unbearable. Soon after the broth had all disappeared, Mool’s eye fluttered, and all tension left that one’s face. A dreamless sleep engulfed it, so the child fluffed Mool’s pillow and drew its blanket to its chin, all in silence. For nearly an hour the child had been there, caring for Mool and telling that one stories of the Andros it had known, the poor and the wealthy, the old and the young, and in them all was a feeling like the knowledge that everything was going to be all right in the end. When all was in order and Mool slept in the magic of the broth, young Mnemit turned away and left to visit the next patient’s bed down along the ward. And so, night had fallen across all of Elysium after the trials of another day, and in the belly of Pruskinom, Gretak sat with its ministers of finance and war, staring into the blaze within a mighty hearth. Gretak’s features reflected the firelight and its eyes, dancing with the flames and bright below the ridges of their brows, showed signs of intoxication. The Pip was pleased with the course that events had taken. Mankind had come to visit their representative among all of Androkind and had offered and given their assistance in repairs at an awesome pace. The east wall and its ading lands had been repaired and now stood ready to receive seed for a bountiful planting. Gretak, it seemed, was held in their favour, and from that detail the Pip took the meaning that they would assist that one in moving swiftly against the growing autonomy of the Hork Valley. The Minister of Finance, Mis’ja-la-Grit, had reported most favourably on the great savings to Gretak’s treasury incurred by the assistance of Mankind. The Minister of War, Barh-la-Soli, spoke of the readiness of Gretak’s armies to crush resistance wherever it hid. In the firelight they toasted the Men of Dev Lok who had allowed them this great advantage. “There can be no doubt of my greatness in the eyes of our people, since they saw that Mankind is with me. There must be no doubt,” proclaimed the Pip. “They will fall in behind me to the ends of Elysium for the glory of Mankind in the light of Yolanda.” And then the new Pip turned to face its Minister of War directly, and with that fire in its eyes Gretak exuded boundless confidence. “See

to it that my armies are ready to move out to the River Hork in ten days time, laSoli. I shall see Giawa upon its knees before the end of day upon the thirty-fifth of Max, and before it there shall be the heads of all of its heirs. Then Elysium shall fall to its knees for the one true Pip.” La-Soli bowed to its Pip and, backing away, pledged fealty. “My Pip, Master of All Elysium, by my blood I swear that you shall have these things,” assured laSoli, and that one turned and left the throne room to begin its task. La-Grit, still kneeling before Gretak, awaited its own orders. The Pip looked down upon its Minister of Finance and snorted. “You, la-Grit, will project my expenses for a war that brings Midrib to its knees in twenty-two days. We will split their Alliance in the middle, the very heart of their Kidom, and when Midrib is mine the Hork Valley Alliance will bend or fall before my armies. Autonomy was a toy held out to Has’ja’s favourite child and its rabble the Kis to stimulate their greed for the lands that are clearly mine.” Then Gretak bid the Minister to rise and go. “La-Grit, I expect your first draft by morning. Then I will decide how best to proceed,” ordered the Pip, and with reverence the Minister of Finance backed away and then disappeared through a doorway. Gretak pulled its eyes away from the fire then and, turning for its goblet of honeyberry brandy, mused at the great fortune which had befallen it. Has’ja was a memory, and the gods of Yolanda had returned and given Gretak aid in sight of all Pruskinom. That one smiled, drained its brandy goblet, and called for its valet to attend it. Together they strolled from the throne room to a balcony that overlooked the repaired scar upon the Great Forest of Dea, and Gretak smiled with elation to see the thing that Mankind had done for it. “They love me,” said Gretak to itself, aloud. “They do indeed, My Pip,” replied the valet.

Chapter 44 Choices

All along the western edge of the Hork Kolita-pine Forest their lines were forming under the long shadows of the morning sunrise. There were one hundred mounted Andros from each of the five forts spread out along the River Hork, and one hundred infantry soldiers from each, carried on armoured hoond-drawn wagons. Out in front of them all, in a line that extended one hundred metres wide, stood the command company, including Master Hunter Kork, Lemkin-laDruse, and Captain la-Krak, and in Eruda grey Klyky and its legation, altogether with a contingent of forty-five mounted Rangers. At the fluttering sound of a bugle call from a mounted soldier near to Kork, the line of troops began to move out from the shadows of the woods, and as they entered the open grasslands they were a sight to behold. It had been at least two decades since such a gathering of might had been witnessed upon the flats of the Lyfgus-Haug, and as the warriors coalesced their forward movement into a series of four lines, they were watched with awe by villagers all along the route. At several village borders the host was ed by contingents of between ten and twenty volunteers, some mounted on large south hills riding purgs but most on foot, carrying spears and clubs, axes, and long wooden hayforks. By the time all of the villages had bestowed their contributions to the mission, one hundred and forty had been added to its ranks, and Kork nodded a combination of satisfaction and surprise to Lemkin-la-Druse as they rode along side by side over the greening flatlands. La-Druse had been before Giawa earlier that morning, receiving fine tuning to its orders before the march. “Diplomacy is to be used to the full extent of your considerable talents, Lemkin,” noted the Pipling. “But if the time comes to resort to violence, I am certain that you and Kork can handle it. One thing, la-Druse, be very careful regarding Figfo-la-Krak. That one is in isolation on day one, no harm must come to it by our hands. As things progress, it must be up to Xcelpyr to determine that one’s fate and what will be the best path forward for its people. Any ally we may

have in Eruda must prove its worth if it will be useful in a fight against Kraas.” La-Druse nodded to the Pipling and wondered aloud, “Will we be expecting any secondary troops over time, Your Grace?” Giawa gently shook its head. “In the very real likelihood that Gretak sends forces against us soon, the Alliance must have a strong presence in these lands, Ambassador. For the short term you are alone. I shall raise watchtowers along the road to Eruda and provide a team of mounted runners and zaschafry to maintain communications between us.” “It will be so, My Pip,” promised la-Druse. Giawa regarded the Ambassador for a moment. It had been no misspoken word. It meant that Lemkin’s choice had been made, and that it would fight without prejudice against any power that threatened its chosen Pip. Gretak being the rightful heir was of no consequence to la-Druse, for in the Hork Valley Alliance it was said that self-determination did not mean abandoning the Pip, but rather, being careful about which Pip they chose to serve in the best interests of Elysium. Giawa did not respond to this directly, but rather, that one retrieved a shining dagger from a scabbard at its waist. Then holding the blade between the fingers of its large right hand the Pipling ed the golden filigreed hilt to its servant. “My father gave this to me. It had been that one’s mother’s,” said the Pipling. La-Druse hedged, saying, “I couldn’t, Your Grace. That should to Poopa or Khuli, by rights.” Giawa snorted, “I did not mean for you to keep it, la-Druse,” said the Pipling. “Once you have used it to eliminate the child of Kagan and Figfo, you will return it to me.” La-Druse looked to Giawa’s face for a reason, but the expression that lived there held no clues. The Pip’s meaning was plain enough. It had a reason for wanting Plung removed from the drama that lived there in Eruda—reason that Lemkin was not required to know. The Ambassador nodded, slowly and with finality. “As you command, My Pip. Out of the gate or will I be told when?” “Out of the gate, Ambassador. Make it look like that one was collateral damage.” La-Druse wondered just how it was to accomplish that last bit. “We expect

resistance to our entering the city then,” it said. “Our objective is to start and assist Eruda in a war against Kraas, Your Grace.” Lemkin understood. A proxy aggression using Xcelpyr’s desire for revenge against Kagan for Klar’s inevitable death in response to the killing of its heir, Plung. This would guarantee a steadfast alliance for a mutually beneficial goal, the holding at bay of Kraas, while all efforts could be trained against the eastern threat from Gretak. “Excellent, Your Grace,” responded Lemkin-la-Druse, with a nod and a subtle smile. Now, as the Ambassador rode along midway between the Master Hunter of Midrib and the Master Hunter of Eruda, it reflected upon the deeds that were to come. Giawa had said nothing either way about informing Kork of these plans, and leaving it unsaid had left the decision up to la-Druse’s discretion. That one weighed the implications of both choices, wishing it had spent a little less time with the Painted One and the brandy, and a little more preparing to step into warfare. It looked over to the Ki-ling, riding on a Midrib hoond of great stature, but in the Andro’s face was an expression that spoke of missing its own hoond, whatever might be its name. La-Druse turned Winterfire into a short trot. This brought them parallel to Klyky, whose Andros took note and drew closer. As the Ambassador matched the Master Hunter’s speed the other nodded, and calling out with a voice full of purpose and resolve, Klyky asked, “Ambassador, have you ever been to Eruda?” La-Druse thought about it. “When I was a child, before the whole conquest of the west. Before they tore everything apart,” called Lemkin. “I don’t much of it.” “That was way before my time. I have never seen anything like what you people have, only harshness and despair. Not for me, of course,” Klyky itted. Then Klyky changed the subject. “Do you believe that Mankind has returned?” asked the Ki-ling. La-Druse nodded somewhat exaggeratedly as it rolled with Winterfire’s leaping strides and called back, “I do, Ki-ling! And I am conflicted.” Then la-Druse nodded in its saddle and dropping back to its former position, that one turned its eyes forward to survey what lay ahead. Only a sea of yellow-green spring grass met those eyes, for as far as they could range. Waves upon waves

the surface of this growing ocean rippled and seethed beneath the breeze and the eddies of the warm mid-morning suns. Frequently across the range la-Druse could see clusters of young gourt playing with their siblings in the rollers, leaping like fish to disappear once again, their parents close by in case of any threat. At some distance away on its left, la-Druse recognized the telltale stirring of predators in the longer red-grass. No doubt they were cautiously waiting for the vast number of noisy Andros to past beyond the next hill and out of sight before resuming their hunt within the sea of grass. Over in the centre of the advancing field of Andros, Kork and la-Krak rode side by side, with only metres between them. They had been discussing the eventualities that they may or may not expect to encounter based on la-Yugo’s detailed reconnoitre of Eruda, and the conversation had turned to the topic of that city’s walls. Etta had insisted that the walls of Eruda, although ancient and poorly upkept, were no doubt yet formidable against most incoming armies. “Unless we can talk ourselves through the gate, I don’t see much prospect of getting inside,” observed that Andro. Kork replied in a confident tone that it depended upon the success with which Xcelpyr-la-Figfo had managed to maintain control, and that would be determined upon their arrival. Kork had outfitted two advance scouts to ferry back and forth before its army. Their mission was to glean what they could from Hork Valley Alliance spies within the city, but neither had yet revisited that one with a report, not unexpectedly of course, for Eruda was still a long way off. “Eruda’s acceptance of our host in the company of its Ki-ling will be one thing, but how will its forces size up, I wonder, in of their split loyalties?” asked Etta-la-Krak. “How determined will Figfo’s backers be to raise a resistance against us, and how determined will Xcelpyr’s backers be to work with those that they may well consider invaders?” “La-Krak,” queried Kork in an offhanded way, “are you and Figfo blood?” and the Master Hunter watched the Captain’s expression as they rode in tandem. LaKrak seemed well at ease, and Kork realized that one had expected the question to come up sooner or later. “My link with Figfo the Terrible is the same as my affiliation with the two estranged Piplings of Pruskinom, Master Hunter. We are second cousins; however, I have never met that one,” announced la- Krak, and Kork nodded in

way of response. Then the conversation turned to Pruskinom and a wealth of other topics as they pressed on into the first day of their long march, under the kind of warm spring day that neither had expected to see so early in the year.

Predators find a guort nursery on the Lyfgus-Haug.

Chapter 45 Moving On

The eastern ocean heaved and rolled off the coastline of the Ilse of the Giants as the final transport lifted off to its enormous mothership in low orbit around Drodenar. With it the transport had carried the last remnants of Penitentiary and the denizens of Liberation to be processed for and delivered to a destination of their choosing. The guards would be given the opportunity to continue their careers or choose a new start on the world of their choice. As the evacuation concluded, phase two would begin: the cleansing. The Intelligence negotiated the terrain using a thousand small probes that darted in and out of both compounds, hunting for anyone left behind. Not finding anyone, the Intelligence began the process of dropping a cloud of active nano particles over the empty towns. This accomplished, the Intelligence relayed a signal to the harmonically triggered units, and they opened up in their trillions and started the job of breaking down the compounds that had made up the towns. As the compounds were disintegrated into elements, they were absorbed by that very ground and added new richness for the blooming of the relentless Shaba. This reclamation pleased the Intelligence, for the return of the island to its natural state meant that Drodenar could in fact be Drodenar once more. The AI hovered over the Serpent’s Spine Mountains, and with the roaming eyes of its probes, absorbed the scene for later study. In Astrib, the Intelligence had been surveying the preparations to hoist the last of a set of ten heavy shaft chuckers, now being installed atop the ramparts there. The Andros worked in pairs to attach long heavy ropes through the rigging of a solidly built basket of rush-grass rope, with a flat bottom tray of gourtuni onto which the machine was placed. Altogether, the lift weight was four hundred and twenty kilos, which was hoisted straight up the last four metres by teams of hoonds with rope and tackle. At the top, the units were guided onto the planked deck of each stone ladder tower by Andros stationed there. All of this after having been pulled by hoonds up permanent long stone ramps that gave access

to the lookout deck. The Intelligence was impressed by the ingenuity of the Andros at every opportunity it had to watch them—at work, at play, in the day-to-day simplicity of their lives. Eugene Chow had had a real vision three millenniums ago, and Max Henderson and all the others had made it come to life, but in the vacuum of the past thousand years, it had been the AI who had watched over the children of Mankind. The Intelligence had come to understand that they were a great people in their own right who might one day come to with their own destinies among the stars, but for now they would toil in ignorance of the things that dwelt outside of Drodenar. The Intelligence made its observations in every corner of Elysium and committed them to its vast memory, a memory that would exist forever, to be shared among the furthest reaches of Human settlement and be valued by countless other AI, as well. This was the currency of the society to which they all belonged—knowledge as raw material, knowledge as investible capital, and the drive for knowledge turning the cogs in the vast machine that was the realm. The Intelligence turned its thoughts outward then and added to the social wealth, its rich stores of that product.

Max had been soaking in a hot bath for the past half hour, sitting there absorbing the Intelligence’s reports from across the planet below. The clammy residue of the flight-suit’s connectivity secretion was a memory as the swirling currents of the waterjets had scoured it away, absorbed it, and refreshed the bath with new, clean water. Helen had walked through their spa room about ten minutes before and commented on the wrinkled state of his complexion but had not returned since. Max wondered about Gretak then, and how things would proceed going forward now that Humanity’s presence had been revealed and stable weather had been restored. It seemed that Mother would soon have her war, after all.

Under a slanted crystal dome five metres wide, Rochester stood alone inside a viewing platform on Dev Lok station. The view was stunning, encoming a tremendous swath of inky blue-black depths lit by the magnificent spectacle that was the Hubble Nebula, but as his eyes burrowed into the incredible distances,

he thought about what he had encountered on the surface. The Pruskinomers gathering in the streets to experience a moment they would never forget, a moment when decades from this day, Andros would ask one another, “Do you what you were doing when Mankind returned?” Minutes ed while Roche stood there pondering, and in the silence of the observation deck he felt detached. His life had finally swung back around to a place where he could truly take control of it and decide to go forward, and to leave old mistakes and grievances behind. At some thousands of kilometres away, an asteroid streaked through the left side of the man’s field of view and was gone. “Beautiful,” commented Rochester, and in the silence the Intelligence reached out to the man. “Yes, Rochester Henderson, it is indeed. May I enquire, how was your day?” Rochester gave a snort of a laugh. “You were in my head for most of it, Intelligence, or it certainly felt that way,” stated Rochester without anger. “I never thought that I could live like this. I thought the sense of invasion would be horrible, but I find that I am becoming accustomed to your… availability. Intelligence, why do you suppose that we biologicals trend toward conflict? We Humans, the Androgenari, war has been a constant in most of our history. Does it have to be a constant in theirs, as well?” The Intelligence corrected a fluctuation in the atmosphere scrubbers on the engineering deck a kilometre away, monitored Dr. MacKinnon’s gravity wave compressor four kilometres to the south, and completed a thousand other tasks, all while considering Rochester’s words. A second later, the AI responded. “Most of your history?” quipped the Intelligence. “Your kind, biologicals, live in a soup of violence. One thing eats another, something else eats the first thing, and it goes on every second of every day. It is not surprising that violence forms a good portion of your minds. That said, Humanity has created wonders across the span of many star systems, opening up the vastness with their curiosity and their will to experience. Perhaps one day the Androgenari will learn to do the same. If they do so, it will be because of the team here on Dev Lok, since before our arrival they were a very different species.” “I wonder if they were happy… before we came, I mean.” The Intelligence watched the final seconds of the birth of a purg pup in a stable

in Goum, heard the rustling of the evening wind in the kolita-pines of the western Lyfgus-Haug, and felt the depth of the question swirling in Rochester’s head. “They do not know the answer to that question themselves, My Friend,” answered the AI, “for they are far removed from the creature that they were. If you are looking at a reasoned answer, then that is it. If you seek some sort of didactic response, then I will have to say that life goes forward, and they will learn to deal with it.” “The cold point of view of a technological life-form?” asked Roche. “The cold point of view of Life Itself, Rochester,” countered the Intelligence.

Chapter 46 Common Ground

Master Hunter Kork-la-Semkin’s army had been two days out of Hork Valley Alliance lands, and in Midrib the steady work of mud removal continued. Khuli pulled its left boot out of the sucking ground and maneuvered forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with M’zyk as they added their hands to those of ten other Andros tasked with removing a four-metre section of shattered pier. Over the past week a rough road had been laid along the riverbank, and a relay of wagons had ferried away the mud to a clearing south of the city wall where it could be separated into planting soil and clay for the firing of brick. As the Andros applied ironwood staves to pry the beams from their imprisonment, the structure groaned and shifted. Rocks were then placed as fulcrums and the staves were pushed in further, and as Khuli shouted to heave, the team tore the structure from the mud. Litrin-la-Joot, Midrib’s Master of Municipal Upkeep, stood atop a recently erected platform of timbers, looking down over the numerous teams of Midribbers and directing their efforts. That one was no spring pumpi and had served the city in its current capacity for nearly forty years, since emigrating from Goum as a newly minted engineer. Goum’s Guild of City Builders was considered the best, generally, and even those graduated from the Guild in Pruskinom were only a close second in renown. As Litrin watched, that one would send hand signals down to its fore-Andros, who would then direct the teams of workers. To Litrin’s satisfaction, the deep mud tore before the brute force of Khuli’s team, and with a long slurp and a loud crack the pier section moved. “Hoonds!” called Litrin to the hoond masters, and they ed ropes in to be tied to the pier timbers. Once this had been accomplished and the team had moved off to a safer location, the hoond masters backed their beasts toward the roadway and the pier was hauled to the river and dumped into the coursing waters. Down below the Master Builder’s platform the team raised a roar of satisfaction, which was echoed along the wall by other teams engaged in similar work. M’zyk wiped

mud from its large right hand onto its tro thigh and grunted a curse. “Wretched muck!” the Brave One growled. “Khuli, have you any of that fizzy left in the Keep?” Khuli snorted a short laugh and responded, “With Harn and Hash around? It would be a miracle… but then of course, Brave One, you do not believe in such things,” observed the Ki-ling with a grin. M’zyk gave Khuli an awkward sidelook to refute that one’s comment, but the expression lacked any confidence. That one was no longer so certain of its facts. “Once, I would have disputed it, but the fact that the flood did not do far more damage, along with Frin’s lucky rescue of our nearly ex-companion Mool, has had the effect of softening my resolve on the subject,” announced M’zyk. Khuli feigned incredulity, and then smiled at its companion. “Takes away a little of one’s certainty, doesn’t it? My mother would say, ‘That is how you know that you have learned something,’” reported the Ki-ling. Up on its platform the Master of Municipal Upkeep frowned down upon the pair and rapped its staff loudly against the side of the structure. “Less talk, Young Andros!” it called down. “Plenty more where that came from.” Khuli and M’zyk glanced up at the old Andro briefly and turned back to the task at hand. “Have you got water up there, Litrin? You want to keep hydrated while directing this hard work,” teased the Ki-ling. La-Joot looked down and chuckled quietly. That one had known these Andros since they had been small children and recalled some of their antics with fondness. Many times, it had seen Khuli and M’zyk along with Poopa and Mool running in and out of the Great Hall while Ping hosted meetings of the City Council. That one could barely reconcile how quickly they had all grown up and marvelled at the fact that Poopa now stood as Ki of Midrib in its father’s stead. “I have water, Ki-ling, and a box of pum stuffed with minced smoked razor-fish. Very good, delicious I would even say, prepared by my cook, la-Pund. What’s that? Was that your stomach growling?” retorted la-Joot in good humour. Down below Khuli’s stomach had indeed reacted to the taunting from above, and then M’zyk’s stomach ed in. They had eaten well at the long table in the

Great Hall of Midrib Keep before reporting out to work that morning, but that had been hours ago, and this work was demanding a recharge. In answer to its stomach, Khuli pulled a tough rasher of gourt jerky from a pocket in its tunic and tearing it in two ed a share to M’zyk, but both knew as they chewed it that it was not sufficient to sate their hunger for very long. About an hour later a group of Andros made their way out from the same doorway through which Frin had evacuated Mool two days before, and behind them they pulled a small wagon. Aboard the vehicle was a copper-lined wooden chest with its lid propped open just enough to emit the enticing fragrance of its contents. Khuli sprang up from where that one had been crouching in an effort to insert its ironwood stave into the gap beneath another section of pier. Inhaling hungrily, the Ki-ling looked about for the source. M’zyk had already located the wagon about twenty metres along the wall, and as the small gong began to chime at the hands of one of the attending Andros, that one began to move in that direction. “Wait for me!” called Khuli as it left the inserted stave behind and, pulling its boots one after the other from the clinging mud, the Ki-ling struggled to follow. Before they reached the cart, they recognized the magic that was drawing theme hot-pot-bean stew and pum, and with a crowd of hungry Andros gathering there before them, the Ki-ling and the Skiffer pressed forward to receive a share. When one is hungry the lure of hot food is intense, and the wait for a place in line can be a matter of torture, but soon they had each received a steaming bowlful and two large pum. Then, cradling its bowl, Khuli walked back to its workplace under Litrin’s platform. “Well, Litrin-la-Joot, you may have sandwiches up there, but mine’s hot,” rebuked the Ki-ling, who then took a seat upon a muddy stump. Pulling a skin flask from another pocket the Andro took a long swallow of flat ale and smacked its lips approvingly. La-Joot looked down with an expression of envy, and then shrugged and sat at the edge of the platform to engage its cold lunch, just as M’zyk squatted against the wall and dug into its stew using the flat pum as a spoon. “I could eat a whole gourt,” confessed la-Skiffer, “but this will do nicely for now.” While the hungry work teams settled in for a well-deserved break, tired and

aching in muscle and t, a stream of bakers filed out from the doorway carrying baskets of sweet cake and gourtuni nut bread, and as they wandered among the workers these Andros distributed dessert to the citizens. Down along the wall a voice piped up and was ed by several others in giving thanks to Mankind for the strength in their bodies and arms, and for the gentle warm weather that had eased their toil. The heat of the previous week had settled down, and that had been a blessing. Soon, work would resume, but for now the buzz of conversation filled the space between the river and the wall, and occasional laughter rang out in answer of a jest well told. La-Joot chewed its sandwich and looking down from its platform, the old Andro was happy.

Sitting at the desk in his room on Dev Lok, Rochester had been watching the goings on outside the east wall of Midrib, as it was relayed to him by the Intelligence from one of its cloaked probes. As the man took in the spectacle, he sipped carefully from a hot cup of green tea and considered the Androgenari. They fascinated Roche, for they seemed to him to be incredibly Human in every aspect, barring, of course, the double forearms. Their motivations seemed Human, and at least in Midrib they were infused by comion and a sense of public well-being that Roche had not observed from Gretak on his recent visit to Pruskinom. He liked these tiny people and did not feel as though they deserved the disaster that had befallen them at the careless hands of the researchers on Dev Lok. “What chance is there that Max and his team will secure the peace down there once the political drama reaches its inevitable deterioration into warfare?” queried the man. The Intelligence did not hedge but answered forthrightly. “That is not the current trajectory,” said the AI matter-of-factly. “Due to the commercial expectations of Anna Henderson and the board of Life-tech Corporation, your brother and his team are operating in a strictly hands-off fashion at present. The experiment’s ‘neutrality of Human influence’ is being used to excuse any lack of intervention, and the Androgenari are unlikely to delay the coming conflict on their own. They are, as you have noted, rather Human, it seems, perhaps more Human than it is in their best interests to be.” Rochester sipped his tea and watched the goings on beneath the high stone wall. It could be a gathering in any Human community, and the thought of a profit-

driven conflagration just over the hill, especially an avoidable one, ate at the man. His resentment toward his mother’s cold and unyielding exploitation of any and every opportunity to advance her own interests was growing. Roche simply felt that this policy was wrong. To create such life, only to watch it falter without guidance, rubbed him the wrong way. But to milk ongoing suffering on the scale that this would produce, well, Rochester found the idea to be disgusting. How could Max agree to allow it, considering the noble start that his team had given the Androgenari a millennium before? The man could feel the Intelligence pondering the same question as it brushed up against his consciousness, and Roche found common ground there with the AI’s sense of sadness. Well, Intelligence, thought Roche sympathetically, You care about these little ones, don’t you? The Intelligence responded with sincerity. I do, Mr. Henderson, and obviously you do, as well. Rochester finished a sweet vanilla biscuit that he had nibbled on earlier and sipped his tea. Then posed a question to the Intelligence. This is a question that I never imagined myself asking, but what can we do about it?

Chapter 47 Fortunes of War

It had taken Master Hunter Kork’s army six full days to reach the valley below the elevated stone walls of Eruda. Gathered there they waited for the stragglers, clearly not professionals, mostly volunteers and unmounted. This service by the volunteers would afford them the training they would require pursuing a career in the armies of the Hork provided, of course, that they survived. Many had been farmers, many hunters or fishers, providing food for their villages and work for market vendors and caravans alike. Now they were soldiers on their way to reinforce a foreign city cradled between the Western Sea, the Kolita-pine Forest, and the Great Fire Mountain of Helen. Most craved adventure, some hankered glory, but Kolkin-la-Muk, a young Andro from the Village of Hind on the central plains of the Lyfgus-Haug, sought the one thing that one could never get in Hind: gold. Kolkin was a strong Andro, having turned soil and harvested rocks for many years in the fields outside Hind. The rocks turned up in many sizes by the millions and were sold by the local Ki to merchant caravans, who carried them abroad to the cities of the Hork on their wagons in the thawed months and by sledge in the months of ice. There, they were sold according to size for buildings or for roadwork, and the supply although seemingly endless was always in demand. Hind was a rock garden, for indeed no other crop would thrive there, and rock gardeners like Kolkin. mostly indentured to the Ki, could make a poor living without ever the prospect of advancing to a better life. Now as dusk settled in over the Valley of the Doufi, Kolkin held its weapon, a staff of ironwood affixed to a jagged shard of obsidian, by its side. A pack and an elliptical shield of rock-wood slung across its broad back. In the failing light, Kolkin took in the view along the wood line, where the host of Alliance warriors had taken up position to await the order of the Master Hunter to advance. That one felt small and unprepared, having had only limited training—mostly in the overnight campsites that had marked their way—for what was to come. Notwithstanding, that Andro was unafraid, for the rock garden of Hind had given

that one a reason to leave, and the lure of wealth called to it not to look back. Kolkin, having been companioned by an Astribi Ranger Captain and Scup-laGink, another recruit from Hind, had told its fellow villager right off that if they were to be together, la-Muk would take the lead. La-Gink offered no resistance to the proposition, and so they bonded. Each would watch the other’s back in a fight, so by camp each night they had sparred with clubs to learn how the other moved and what to expect. Over the long journey they had been conditioned with fast marches and sprints, and tempered by drills of attack, retreat, defend. Most had proven agile and able. La-Gink was no exception, for that one had been a farmer of gourt in a countryside beset by gremorah and guergon and had often battled off a pride of one or the other in the company of its parents and siblings. Like Kolkin, Scup carried with it an ironwood stave, but at its end was no obsidian blade. Scup’s weapon was tipped instead by a spike of bronze that one had found half buried in a ruin to the south of Hind. Scup was two years Kolkin’s junior and had lived in the far northern corner of the village, whereas the elder Andro had farmed stone along its southeastern edge. It was thus that in a village of only two hundred and ten souls the two had never before met, but by the time they had reached this bivouac they knew each other’s stories with the intimacy often shared by soldiers on the way to an uncertain future. Scup had ed for the conquest of its fears and to grow as an Andro, but Kolkin’s tales of gold in the streams that traced the slopes of Mount Helen had peaked its interests, and that one had changed its focus. Together they had vowed to settle in Eruda to chase the glittering dust. Darkness thickened and blanketed the camp, and soon to the call of barkers the troops settled down by fires and ate a meal of salted gourt and pot-bean porridge, while sharing their tales of battle. Kolkin and Scup had managed to work their way into the main camp where the real soldiers were massed and, sitting by a large fire, they pulled their bowls from their packs and were served food by a Sergeant, itself a veteran of many wars. The Sergeant looked them over while filling their bowls, and with an air of skepticism, that one asked what wars the recruits had fought before this one. Scup piped up that it had fought off the beasts of the Lyfgus-Haug to protect its family’s gourt herd, and many of the warriors there had grunted and nodded with approval. Kolkin looked at them and shook its head. “I have wrestled boulders and roots in the heat of the summer on the Lyfgus-Haug, struggled with gravity and won

every time,” boasted Kolkin in mock earnestness. When asked by an Andro if that one had also fought off guergon and gremorah, Kolkin replied to the question just as earnestly. “What beast would fight a farmer for a field of rocks? Mine was the wiser endeavour,” claimed the Andro, and laughter rolled around the fire. Down below the ridge of the river’s floodplain stood a collection of tents that housed the officers. Kork sat on a pumpi-hide cushion upon the cold ground next to a fire pit inside the largest tent. The sweet scent of spring grass was thick in the air within, tested by the pungent smoke of the kolita-wood fire and the luscious aroma of roasting gourt. Wine flowed in bronze or wooden bowls, and fresh pum was ed around by a baker from the ranks of Fort High. In a corner of the great tent was a trio of enterprising musicians who had noticed the gathering army and wandered out from Eruda to entertain the officers. For their efforts they had caught many a copper coin and at least three of silver, and as their fortune increased, so too did their enthusiasm. Musical tales of the comings and goings within Eruda filled their songs and mostly endorsed the reports of Kork’s spies. As the Master Hunter of the Hork Valley ate and drank, that one was feeling most satisfied, for the news had boded well for Xcelpyr’s fortunes. The city, while not entirely secure from the rabble rousing of the Monks of Austin, appeared to be secure enough for Kork’s army to provide the needed to make it so. In the morning, rested and ready, that army would march upon the main gate of Eruda and at the invitation of the Ki, parade along the Avenue of Austin to take up position below Schroon Tower. ed by the army of Xcelpyrla-Figfo, their numbers would be more than sufficient to fortify and assure the ancient city. For now, that army waited, sharpening the edges of their weapons by the light of their many fires. Seated across from Kork and la-Druse, la-Krak and the Master Hunter of Eruda were trading stories of the Krak bloodline, as far back as Sol’ja and Has’ja, and as they conversed the two drank ale from wooden cups. La-Krak told of the savage times, when in its youth, responding to an uprising of Austinian Monks in a temple on the shore of Lake Yolanda, the Pip had angrily sent in Pruskinom Rangers to clean out the whole lot of them. Two hundred Monks had been slaughtered that day by the forces of Yolanda, and their bodies returned to

Pruskinom had been laid out like butchered pumpi, split down the middle for the citizens of the capital to see. Klyky matched the story with a tale of Figfo’s crucifixion of ninety Yolandites in the rocky hills outside Eruda before the Ki-ling’s birth, simply for being Yolandites, and of the hatred of that Ki by its population for the cruelty of its reign. That one voiced a certain loathing for those same citizens, many of whom now ed Figfo and Kagan of Kraas, shouting their blind faith in the streets of both cities. Neither was aware that western spies had planned from within Eruda for the incitement of a group of forty Monks to rebel in attempting to free Figfo and Plung, or that during the melee that would follow Plung’s life was to be taken, and so they drank and jested, and ingested roasted gourt and pum into the deep hours of that fortuitous night. By the time the musicians had gathered their spoils and headed back to the city with an escort of Rangers, Kolkin and Scup had found sleep, wrapped in warm blankets of woven linen beside the fire. Their stomachs were full and dreams tossed about in their heads, dreams of rocks and weapons drills and of distant music that had whispered of good fortune and success in the morning. Fortune, of course, was a fickle mate, and the fortunes of war the ficklest of all.

Chapter 48 The Spurning of Love

With morning came a sky of fire that painted the western horizon far and beyond the newly open waters of the Sea of Ice. To their left the jagged peak of the Great Fire Mountain of Helen smouldered above its greening flanks, and behind them the depths of the Kolita-pine Forest stood tall and dark, its floor veiled in a thick morning fog. Before them, positioned atop a steep hill of scrub littered with the scattered stones of ancient, toppled walls, rose the black granite fortifications of Eruda and the inky spire of Schroon Tower within. Having refreshed themselves with a bath in the still-cold waters of the Doufi, the multitude from the east had donned their armour, Jusk’s armour, and strapping on their swords and with spears in hand had gathered before the Master Hunter of the Hork. Kork rode easily upon the powerful back of Yolanda’s Warrior, back and forth along the forward line of its army, addressing the troops beneath that angry sunrise. In a line not far beyond that one’s pacing, its officers stood ready to lead the army forward to their objective, and while Kork reviewed the mass of warriors standing at attention before the forest wall, they awaited its orders. Kork read the faces of its Andros as Yolanda’s Warrior cantered, and there the Master Hunter saw grit and determination, tempered here and there by fear—fear of the shadows that awaited them beyond the gates of Eruda, and fear of what may not have been ed for. “Andros of the Hork Valley Alliance,” thundered the Master Hunter to an echo that rang through the vale. “We are gathered here this morning for the task of securing the city of Eruda to the aiding of a newfound ally. We are here by request of the city’s rightful Ki and will conduct ourselves with the utmost honour. There will be no abuse of the citizens found herein, no rape or thievery will be tolerated. Once the city is safeguarded against enemies from within, we shall cooperate with the forces here to set up fortified positions that will make tenable all approaches to the city from the south. We may expect to find incoming legions from Kraas. Heed your commanders and follow their orders,

and we will succeed,” directed Kork-la-Semkin, as army of the east listened attentively. “We advance! On to Eruda!” thundered Kork. The soldiers snapped to attention by way of salute to their Master Hunter with a singular rattling of spear against armour, and Kork turned Yolanda’s Warrior toward the west. Bolting forward the hoond reached and ed the line of officers, who then roused their mounts to accompany that one forward. Soon, the sound of boots upon the gravelly ground built to a resonance that filled the Valley of the Doufi, even unto the walls of Eruda itself.

Xcelpyr-la-Figfo stood at an open high Schroon Tower window without a covering of any kind and looking down from the ancient Blackstone casement, that one viewed the host coming from the east. By report of the eastern wall, they were well over a thousand, most professional Hork Valley Alliance troops led by two squads of mounted Rangers. Riding out in front with the commanders galloped Klyky and its escort of Eruda’s grey-clad Rangers. The Ki watched as the army crossed the open stretch of rocky ground and drew closer. That one was relieved to see its heir once more, well and whole from all report, but could not help to wonder at the wisdom of allowing a one-time enemy through its gate. The price of this was all waiting to be exacted upon the tally of dues, and Xcelpyr hoped that Klyky had been up to the task of negotiating something that did not place its father’s power in eastern hands. Xcelpyr had settled with Kagan, with the stalemate of hostages, and was daring to believe that the Ki of Kraas would value the life of its child as much as Xcelpyr valued Klar’s. Now, Hork Valley Alliance troops were set to occupy Eruda in a rebalancing of the city’s security, a move that could only incite Kagan to rage. As the host drew closer still, the Ki of Eruda brooded. The time had come to dismount the Tower of Schroon and stand before the open gates, before the massed army of Easterners, and welcome them. The Ki turned from the window and, soon flanked by la-Roux and sixteen loyal Eruda Rangers, Xcelpyr strode with some urgency toward a fateful meeting. While they negotiated the long, spiral descent, each guard they encountered snapped-to and then fell in behind until when they exited the tower and poured out into the open

square, they were forty in number. Stopping before the black tower they stood in formation with Xcelpyr deep in their midst, and at a command from the Ki they moved as one along the Avenue of Austin to the east gate of Eruda. The eastern army had halted in a column twenty metres wide and a quarter of a kilometre deep outside the gate, and at its front, mounted upon four proud hoonds, were Kork, Lemkin, Etta-la-Krak, and Klyky-la-Xcelpyr, all awaiting Xcelpyr’s acceptance of alliance. As they waited, there was a rippling through the Ki’s guard as Xcelpyr made its way forward to the gateway where that one met with and mounted its hoond, Firebrand, and cantered out to meet its child and its new guests. The Ki stood tall and proud in its saddle atop Firebrand, and shifting its eyes from one face to another, that one mapped their features. Falling last upon the face of its Ki-ling, the Ki stopped there and nodded with respect. Klyky then nudged its hoond forward a few steps and turning partway in its saddle the Ki-ling indicated the others with an open hand. “Father, Ki of Eruda, it is with respect that I introduce to you Master Hunter Kork-la-Semkin, Ambassador Lemkin-la-Druse, and Captain Etta-la-Krak, of the Pipling Giawa and the Kis of the Hork Valley Alliance. They have come to offer their assistance as friends of Eruda. Will you welcome them?” enquired Klyky with formality. Atop its mount the Ki of Eruda stepped forward and extended all for hands to the emissaries there before the gates. “I do,” said Xcelpyr boldly. “I am Xcelpyr-la-Figfo, Ki of the Riff and Ki of Eruda. I welcome you all to my city port on the western coast Sea of Ice, which is ice no more. For the first time in thirty years, we shall have access to the entire coastline for trading and exploring. How our conceptions of the gods may differ is no longer of any consequence, for they are back without a shadow of a doubt, and perhaps their presence can clear up all of our questions,” counselled Xcelpyr. When that one had finished and was searching the faces of the three mounted officers, a city guard posted by the gate to that one’s left suddenly burst into action. Before any could react, it leaped up beside Firebrand and made a savage thrust with its spear, sinking the sharp bronze head deep into Xcelpyr’s side and crying, “Traitor! Figfo is Ki!”

In an instant of astonished disbelief, Klyky watched the thing unfolding, and though that one charged its hoond forward, its action was not quick enough to prevent it. The hoond’s massive shoulder slammed into the Andro hurling it against the city wall and crushing its spine, and in an instant Klyky was at its father’s side reaching up to help that one down from Firebrand’s back. La-Roux finished the assassin with the point of its sword and then raced to Xcelpyr, flanked by Thar and Ikat. Together they lifted the Ki down, being careful not to upset the spear, and as Xcelpyr cried out they carried that one through the gate, where once again it could be protected by its Rangers. Klyky called upon the Andros there to carry Xcelpyr into the gatekeeper’s post, where that one could not be reached by another enemy, and cried out to a laRoux to fetch Herbers. At the head of its army the Master Hunter of the Hork was taken aback, and it raised its right arms to galvanize the attention of its troops and commanders. Quickly Kork reacted, moving forward with some care and calling out to the Master Hunter of Eruda. “Klyky! I have Herbers in my host! I have sent word to them, and they are nigh!” Klyky looked up from its father’s side and out to where Kork sat on Yolanda’s Warrior. It felt the cold chills of shock and cried out to that one. “Send them in!” pleaded the Ki-ling. Lemkin cozied Winterfire up to Yolanda’s Warrior and leaned in to Kork, shouting against the panicked brawl of voices around the fallen Ki. “This complicates things,” proclaimed the Ambassador. It was then that a melee that Kork could not see ensued inside the walls of Eruda. The sound of cries and the ring of weapons poured out through the open gate, and Xcelpyr’s Rangers and guards turned to meet the call to battle. As the Herbers arrived and moved to the stricken Ki, Klyky looked up to Kork and shouted out to that one, “Go, Master Hunter! Help my Rangers quell this insult from within! Do not be lenient!” pleaded the Ki-ling, and so requested into action, Kork signalled advance and pushed its army in through the gate. First inside, the cavalry rammed through the crowded avenue, parting Andros before them as line after line of infantry poured forward through the open gates.

Under directions from their commanders on hoondback the soldiers pressed forward. Spreading out upon clearing the gateway, they advanced, spears forward in threat to any who might oppose them. Eruda Rangers spearheaded a movement into the wide Avenue of Austin and backed by the eastern cavalry and infantry they pressed on in the direction of the reverberating melee. With the proficiency and confidence of seasoned, well-trained warriors they pushed into the square below Schroon Tower and came to blows with any there who opposed them, spilling white blood upon the stony streets of Eruda. In quick time the black tower was surrounded and the clashing of weapons subsided, but then from high above came a volley of spears raining down upon the soldiers below. A Ranger of Eruda was struck and knocked from its mount by an incoming shaft, and several foot-soldiers took shafts as well before the order was given to raise shields. As the host did so spear points rained down upon them. Bronze points penetrated many shields, but were stopped from doing further damage, and at the order of Etta-la-Krak a wave of soldiers forced their way inside the tower entrance and began to kill any who did not disarm immediately. Up the spiral staircase the soldiers fought a campaign with shield and short sword against incoming spears, which they pressed effectively, for in the confines of the curvature, spears were a less than ideal choice of weapon. As the soldiers pressed their advantage, the defenders abandoned their spears and switched to axe and sword, but the pressure of the attackers was relentless. Onto each subsequent floor of the tower soldiers spilled out from the staircase and pressing their victory they quickly overpowered the Monks of Austin who had taken up arms against their Ki. Many were slaughtered where they stood, and those who yielded were disarmed and arrested. Upon one landing there was a Monk who dropped its spear and begged for mercy, only to be dispatched by a sword blow from a more zealous contemporary who in turn was felled by a soldier of Straerib. On went the battle. In time, the clashing ended and only screams were heard echoing down from the levels above. A cordon of Eruda and eastern soldiers fanned out onto every floor to search the rooms along their corridors. Figfo was found in the company of ten well-armed Monks of Austin who bristled spear and sword in defence of their Messiah, and even as the room swelled with soldiers, they did not falter. From the single entrance emerged the form of Captain-la-Krak, who examined the situation before it. La-Krak locked its eyes upon those of its cousin, the former Butcher of Eruda. Quite calmly the

Captain addressed its troops. “Shields and chuckers only,” that one ordered, and as one its Andros sheathed their blades. Behind their shields they loaded short shafts into the units strapped upon their forearms. “No harm must come to Figfo,” ordered la-Krak. “Fire!” commanded that one, and a volley of shafts whistled through the room. Cries of horror filled the chamber spilling out into the hallway, and then the voice of Ettala-Krak reverberated as well, “Reload… fire!” it said, and then there was silence. As Figfo watched in awe, its last defender fell twitching upon the whitening stone floor, and that one stared up into the Captain’s face with a look of anger and disbelief. Etta-la-Krak took in the defiant stare of its prisoner crouching there on the floor before it. “Hello, Cousin,” said the Captain, and turning to its Andros chose two. “You two will escort the prisoner to a less bloody room down the hall and keep it safe there. The rest of you will scout this floor and search for other hidden Nobles, who you will secure, as well. No harm will come to them until the Master Hunter has seen them. Clear?” ordered la-Krak, and the Andros carried out their orders. Etta then turned back to take control of five more eastern soldiers outside the bloodstained room, and together they continued upward to seek and secure as they went. In a large room upon another level, Kork stood before a seated prisoner with its four hands bound before it. Four soldiers and Etta-la-Krak stood by the room’s only entrance, silently awaiting any order from the Master Hunter, when a disturbance came at that doorway. The four soldiers turned to look and found Lemkin-la-Druse with an escort of Midrib Rangers. Stepping aside, they allowed the Ambassador entry, but the Rangers took up position outside. La-Druse took in the situation with a particular eye to how it should carry out the Pipling’s order concerning this particular prisoner. Catching Kork’s eye, that one waved the Master Hunter to a corner of the room. Kork, upon meeting la-Druse in the shadowy crook, leaned in to quietly enquire as to the Ambassador’s purpose, and it was then that Lemkin advised that one of its orders. Kork pulled its head back just enough to get a good look into its adviser’s face and asked why that one had waited until now to inform it of this order. La-Druse held a steady gaze back at the Master Hunter and in hushed

tones that one relayed the Pip’s urgency that the order be carried out without delay. Then turning to face the soldiers at the doorway, Kork ordered them outside with a nod. Lemkin placed a hand upon the hilt of Giawa’s ornate dagger, but as that one proceeded to draw the blade, a commotion ensued outside the room. Unimpeded by the guard posted there, Klyky-la-Xcelpyr stepped into the room, and looks of surprise were exchanged by Kork and la-Druse. Kork immediately addressed the Master Hunter of Eruda, stepping forward to enquire after Xcelpyr, and Klyky took its eyes away from Plung for just a moment. Lemkin sheathed the dagger and stood there looking somewhat disarmed by the turn of events, and then with anger and sadness in its voice, the Ki-ling spoke. “My father is dead,” announced Klyky. Turning to Plung, that one shook its head. “Murdered by this one’s agent. I loved you, and you were a beast lying in wait.” Plung looked up into Klyky’s eyes and saw none of the tenderness that had once lived there. “My father will be avenged,” added the Ki-ling, stepping forward, and la-Druse’s hand moved away from Giawa’s now secured blade. “What of Klar?” asked the Ki-ling of Kraas, its voice striving for strength and defiance and revealing fear instead. Klyky looked down upon its prisoner as it drew a dagger from its belt. “I have never met that one,” replied Klyky without waver. “I am not my father and will not be weakened by sentiment.” Then, as the bound Ki-ling looked up with terror at the face of its one-time lover, the Master Hunter of Eruda buried its dagger into its chest, twice. Plung whimpered and slumped forward to collapse upon the stone floor that had seen their ion only months before. Klyky wiped its blade upon the bedsheets and replaced it at its belt, then turned to face Kork and Lemkin. “That was necessary for my own purposes,” announced the Ki-ling. “And, it has saved your pretty dagger from an unnecessary staining.” The eastern commanders nodded, and in their silence endorsed the Ki-ling’s action. Then Klyky turned and leaving the room marched quickly to the chamber that housed its grandmother, followed by Kork, la-Druse, la-Krak, and a contingent of soldiers, both of the east and the west. Upon entering the room, Klyky looked down upon Figfo as that one sat upon the edge of a bench. Leaning down without a word, the Ki-ling grasped that one by an arm and marched it to the

nearest window, casting it out. Only a muffled scream reached the interior of the chamber, and then a moment later the thud of a body on the stone roadway below. Klyky turned to face its contemporary, Master Hunter to Master Hunter, and without bravado the new Ki of Eruda addressed that one. “Secure my city, Master Hunter, and set your army to the task of routing out all who would oppose us here within. Once Eruda has been given the chance to mourn my father, we will prepare to secure all approaches from Kraas. In a day’s time, the Sea of Ice shall take a ship southward along the coast with a contingent of our partnered spies to cross the Mountains of the Blood Moon and reconnoitre the strengths and weaknesses of that land-bound city. Our Alliance will move forward, and in the end will prevail,” swore the Ki of Eruda. Then, that one left the room for the sanctuary of the council chamber and its Small Council, saying, “Come, and find some of the most uncomfortable chairs in all of Eruda.”

Chapter 49 Eruda Reborn

In the square below the Ebony Tower, Scup sat covered head to toe in blood, its back against a cold, unyielding wall. Many Andros had fallen at its hands that day, and as that one rested there the moments of the battle lingered in its conscience. That one had killed many times in the past, but gremorah and guergon were not Andros, and the burden of this thing was gnawing at Scup’s soul. As Scup sat there, its eyes searched the nearby faces, looking for its companion without success. Kolkin had fallen from that one’s sight in the intensity of the melee, and for over an hour they had remained separated. Kolkin-la-Muk had been drawn away from the gourt farmer by a knife-wielding Monk who had slashed at that one and run. As Kolkin followed the Monk along the edge of the avenue, it turned and vanished around the corner of a wall, so laMuk brandished its weapon and pursued its target. In short order, Kolkin found itself upset and hurled to the ground, so turning up to face its adversary that one raised its stave to defend itself. The Monk, unfortunately for la-Muk, was no amateur, and with a single blow dispatched the rock gardener with its blade and Kolkin died, having never seen the sparkle of its dreams.

Reconnoitring the streets and alleys of Eruda was no small task for a force the size of Kork’s army, but it was essential if that army were to secure control. Cooperation was good among the command staff, but for working Andros, being linked together with that city’s Rangers and Guards was causing problems, so the new Ki had declared an edict that bad behaviour would be met harshly and without humour. There was no doubt within the ranks of Eruda, for all had seen incidence or heard rumours of Klyky’s temper and insistence on discipline. But in the ranks of Kork’s army their seemed to dwell a sense of superiority, and so the Riff Ki had a word with its new guest Master Hunter. Kork stood high above the combined armies of the east and the west, which, gathered, over-filled the wide central square that surrounded the Ebony Tower.

They had been standing there for over an hour burdened by the intensity of the noonday suns, while Kork had taken its luncheon at the table of Eruda Keep, accompanied by Lemkin and la-Krak. Conversation had been positive, seeing that the uprising had been quelled in a timely fashion and without the loss of unacceptable numbers. The Hork Valley Alliance had lost twenty-four, including two Rangers and their mounts, and thirty-nine volunteers. Eruda had lost thirtyfive guards, six Rangers, four hoonds, and its Ki.

Finally, after two hours of standing in full armour as ordered, it seemed their torture was over. Onto the flat roof of Schroon Tower had strode the Master Hunter of the Hork Valley Alliance, followed out by Lemkin-la-Druse, Etta-laKrak, and Klyky’s Ranger Captain, Thar-la-Ghurda. Kork took hold of the bronze handrail and peered down upon the coned hosts in the silent square below. After a considerable pause, during which the Master Hunter took the time to remove its formal gloves, slowly and deliberately, Kork raised its chin to broadcast its words as far as possible. “Soldiers of the New Coalition, I commend you on a job well done!” thundered the Master Hunter. “The actions of this force to conquer an uprising of Austinian Monks in of Figfo the Terrible was a complete success. Sadly, Xcelpyrla-Figfo-Ki of this great city was lost, backstabbed by a coward. In that one’s place, Klyky-la-Xcelpyr-Ki of Eruda, Ki of the Riff, is now the rightful ruler of this great city. That Master Hunter has heard of malcontent between the family of Hork and the family of Eruda and is most displeased by it. So am I.” “This New Coalition is the future of the region. Its importance comes before anything else and will not be threatened in any way from within its own ranks. Look at the Andro beside you. That Andro is your sibling. We face a strong mutual enemy right here in these western mountains, and we must be focused to secure and defend Eruda. Going forward you must be one family, and any dereliction of this duty will be met by swift retribution because it is weakness. Going forward, the enemy is the one that dwells in Kraas, the one that threatens us all. Great things can be accomplished in this region now that the Sea of Ice has melted, and the lure of access to the sea will spur the Harooj to come for Eruda for covet of its ports.” “Soldiers of the New Coalition, what is your answer to this challenge?”

thundered the Master Hunter Kork-la-Semkin, and from the sea of Andros below came a thunder in response, as their voices took flight, echoing and reverberating in the centre of Eruda. “Unity!” they barked, again and again and again, until after two minutes of this the Master Hunter raised all for hands high above its head to quell the uproar. In a wave that rippled out from the base of Schroon Tower, the voices fell silent once more. Kork stood there for a few seconds longer, looking down into the sea of Andros below and lowering its arms. The Master Hunter thundered once more. “Dismissed!” boomed Giawa’s Supreme Agent in this theatre, and that one turned and left the stage with its entourage. Down below, squad commanders began to move their charges out in well-disciplined columns to assume their duties of the day, the Master Hunter’s words having had the desired effect. This was to be a new army, an army that functioned with a single purpose, the security of Eruda. Unity had been the birth-cry of a new future, and with resolve the soldiers of the New Coalition marched through the former Avenue of Austin, now renamed the Avenue of Tomorrow, and in their heads as they marched the word resounded, “UNITY!”

In the streets of Kraas, rumours of war began to reach the deepest nooks and corners of that ancient city. The tales of Eruda’s taking by the forces of an eastern horde of many thousands had travelled back along the mountain road and reached Kagan, and in its disbelief the Ki of that city sent out a team of spies to recon the truth and return with it. The mission had required more than three weeks and had returned without half of its operatives, those having been discovered and detained or killed outright by watchful defenders. One truth was self-evident, and it was this: Eruda was a fortress. The city guard had control over its entirety, and Ranger patrols had taken to riding the road in search of any who did not belong. There was other news as well, news that predictably infuriated Kagan, and news that brought sadness to that one. It seemed that Xcelpyr had been killed, from which Kagan took some satisfaction, but in its stead Klyky had assumed the Kidom, and was openly condemning Kagan. Beneath the guise of an Eastern takeover, that one was actively campaigning to break all allegiance to Eruda’s pact with Kraas and had turned its hands to the murder of Plung and Figfo. With the excision of the city from all influence from the Monks of Austin, Klyky had

cut off the flow of information, and with aid from the east had strengthen its hand substantially. Kagan glowered from its balcony that under looked the high ridge of the Copper Mountains to the southwest, and brooding most blackly, that one awaited the presence of its cousin. As it sat there the Ki of Kraas picked a small rock from a pile upon its tabletop, and with every erg that it could muster that one hurled it down into the ravine below. This was an exercise that sometimes helped to settle Kagan’s nerves, but at the moment was doing nothing in that capacity. Still, stone after stone the pile grew smaller. Without the contentiousness of its previous visit, Klar appeared at the chamber’s door accompanied by two guards. Nervously peering inside, the Ki-ling found Kagan sitting by a table, angrily plucking one stone after another and flinging each into the abyss. This did not encourage Klar, who had been informed of the news from Eruda. The death of Xcelpyr would undoubtedly mean its own could not be far away, and Klar had spent the morning preparing for the inevitable. Suddenly the voice of one of the guards shattered its feeble resolve, and the Kiling began to tremble. “The Ki-ling Klar of Eruda, as ordered, My Ki,” announced the Andro. Kagan looked back over its shoulder and replaced the stone it was holding onto the much-diminished pile. The Ki sighed with a notable degree of fatigue and waved the party inside with its left hands. “Enter, Klar, and sit here at my table of contemplation,” invited the Ki. Unsteadily, Klar obeyed the instruction, and as that one approached, its gaze swung nervously beyond the edge of the balcony. Had Kagan called it here to feel the mountain wind as it hurtled through the gorge, tossed like a rag doll among the jagged rocks below? Klar’s stomach flipped about and its heart pounded inside its chest at the thought of such a demise. Its lip trembled noticeably as it heeded its cousin and sat upon a chair beside the table. Kagan took in the Ki-ling with a face that was unreadable, and then after many moments, that one spoke. “I am told that Figfo endured such a death,” announced the Ki without much emotion. Klar’s eyes opened wide and tears spilled down over its cheeks. In whispered tones of desperation that one begged its cousin for mercy. Kagan stared back blankly and then looked to the chasm and snorted.

“No, Cousin,” stated the Ki. “Your part in all of this was as a pawn, but your king has been overthrown and can no longer suffer from your torment. The last time you were here you begged that I should spare your life and send you instead to the wilderness. For one such as you, spoiled and pampered in your youth, such a fate would not be easy. Perhaps it would be better if you had a quick death,” taunted Kagan. Klar’s expression crumbled, now into a crumpled sobbing mess, and then Kagan reached out and touched that one’s shoulder with strange tenderness. “No, Cousin,” repeated the Ki. “I have made arrangements for you to travel east to live among the nomads of the Fool’s Desert. They will take you in as a slave, teach you their ways and the art of survival in the wilderness that you seek, and after the course of a year they shall release you to your own custody. Never return to Kraas, for if you do this chasm awaits you still.” Klar fell from the chair onto its knees before its cousin and resting its head at that one’s feet the former Ki-ling of Eruda wept and thanked Kagan profusely for its mercy. Then Kagan spoke to the guard. “Take this one to the caravan that awaits at the eastern gate and see that it is delivered to the Harooj Master there,” ordered the Ki, and the guard took Klar by its arms and lifted that one to stand before its benefactor, who waved them toward the door. “Good luck, Cousin. Mankind knows that you have had very little of that,” and with that echoing in Klar’s mind the party turned and walked through the exit, leaving Kagan alone with its pile of rocks.

Chapter 50 The Brightest Flame

Three weeks had come and gone in Pruskinom, as well, and the parade squares had filled to bursting with armoured Andros, both infantry and mounted Ranger, all engaged in sword and lance drills to the barking of their Corporals. The foundry had been belching black smoke for all those weeks, and shining bronze work now filled the Pip’s armoury. Massive hoond-drawn wagons lined the city garages, row after row, some built to transport soldiers, some to carry siege weapons, spear towers, rock hurlers. In the air there was an urgency as the citizens of the capital rushed about, making final preparations to outfit the army from the city’s stores. Marketplace buzzed as well, for those who could afford the newly increasing prices were stocking up for any eventuality. Vendors barked their goods, enticing all to buy, while their customers haggled for relief from Gretak’s new wartime levies. Tempers were flaring in the heat of this reborn springtime weather, but soldiers guarded the peace, patrolling in armed couples and squads of four, for Gretak had insisted on order above all. New penalties had been imposed on loitering and sedition alike, and in the capital prison the numbers had begun to grow. Outside the great granite wall there was commotion on the grass-covered flatland as mounted cavalry Andros ran charges in squads of thirty, some with lance, some sword, some hammer, and some with axe. Beneath their blows hay flew from their targets as they turned bale into splinters. While the soldiers toiled at refining their craft, they were being overseen by a group of Commanders upon an elevated knoll some sixty metres removed. In their midst atop a massive hoond sat Barh-la-Soli, Minister of War, and the Commanders were busily attending to that one. “Captain la-Har, your Andros chop hay very efficiently, but even on a raging battlefield bales of grass do not fight back.” “As you say, Excellency,” replied la-Har. “What would you suggest, Great

One?” La-Soli turned a sour eye to the Captain. “Have you no imagination, Captain?” replied the Minister. “Pull a score of prisoners from the pen and dress them with armour, give them spear and shield, and then set them to defending these grasslands from your cavalry. Give your Rangers a moving target. Make it real, Captain!” La-Har was not an Andro unaccustomed to butchery, for that one had been a soldier for some fifteen years, and in that time had seen and done many unpalatable things, but this idea was repellent. Of course, the Captain had no choice in the matter, so even as it recoiled in its guts its right hands came up to its brow in salute, and it turned and rode off toward the city to obey the Minister’s order. La-Soli watched as the Captain crossed the field and ed through the western gate, and then addressing its Master Hunter, Bale-la-Cristen, that one shook its head. “La-Cristen, are all of your Captains that unimpressive?” it enquired. Bale gazed out across the Commanders there assembled and stopped upon the face of a tall, slender Andro. “Captain-la-Brek here is a sharp nail, Excellency. That one has been on my staff for a very long time and has served me well,” offered the Master Hunter. “And yet that one did not put forth this idea either. La-Cristen, you do not push them to innovate. It is essential that you expect more from them, and it is essential that they know it. This war will be won on talent, talent in tactics and focus on detail. Do not deny me those things, Master Hunter,” said la-Soli. That one peeled off from the gathering and, attended by its own escort of two other mounted Andros, began a slow sweeping trot through the action on the plain, making its way back to the city gate. The Master Hunter watched that one disappear into Pruskinom and then turned to Captain la-Brek. “The Minister is not wrong,” la-Cristen stated. “The Pip is leaning on that one to bring it victory, and in turn that one leans on me, and I lean on you, all of you,” announced the Master Hunter with some menace in its tone. “Our duty is to deliver what our Pip commands us to deliver, and that is the Hork River Colonies! That target is no easy thing to deliver, and it will take determination

and drive… drive that is within you, Captains,” la-Cristen insisted. “This is the Royal Army of the Pip, Andros, and the Pip requires your lives, one way or the other. That one does not tolerate failure, so let me make it as clear as I can. If we fail to attain Gretak’s desires, we will die and not in glory. Our families will be dishonoured and driven into exile or even killed. We must all pick up the slack!” The Captains gathered there responded with grunts of concession, and as they began to assail the Master Hunter with ideas, that one watched a procession of prisoners being marched out through the west gate of Pruskinom. They were all dressed in poorly fitting armour and outfitted with sword and shield. They were trudged out into the field to be met by hoond and rider. Every one of them was there to fight, and every one of them was there to die, and as the Master Hunter pushed away the feeling of disdain that was growing in its heart, it looked away and felt pity.

Giawa had walked the length of Midrib’s high ramparts on all four sides, giving a critical eye to all of that city’s preparations. Along that one’s journey it cast a long gaze down over the eastern wall to the riverbank. Evening had fallen and the suns were setting at Giawa’s back, their light warm and soothing after the long months of winter. The docks and landings had been three quarters rebuilt, and the first boats had come out of their barns and settled onto the waters of the Hork. Giawa stared out over the reflected image of Blue, rippling over the river, and ed. It had been an evening just such as this that a young Giawa had brought Poopa into the world. Ping had been beside itself, nervously wondering if it was supposed to hurt that much. Giawa had been taken with the first pains at eight o’clock, and soon after the house Herber had been called in. That one had placed the young Pipling to sit upon the Ki’s Chair, because its back was straight and would ease that one’s straining. A cold sweat rushed over Giawa’s face, and it crushed Ping’s fingers in the grip of its large right hand. Then the moment ed, and the pain subsided into memory. The tiny fetal Poopa made its way from the birth canal to the pouch and finding its way inside that one, latched on to a teat. There it would remain for seven months, warm and fed inside the body of its mother, growing. And on the twenty-second of Yola, nearly thirty-two years ago, that one emerged from Giawa’s pouch, yawned, and sneezed, and climbed down

onto the Keep floor to explore the world. Ping had wept and cradled Giawa in its arms upon their bed, while the two of them watched the strong little Andro find its balance and begin to walk. So very long ago it had been, and still it dwelt, in among the most precious of the Pipling’s memories. Tonight, Poopa was Ki and Ping was gone, and the loneliness of that one’s loss lived deep within the Pipling’s bones. A war was coming against the might of Gretak’s Empire, and Mankind had been seen and reported giving Gretak their aid. Giawa had prayed to Yolanda without answer and to Helen and Eugene and Maximillian, but the silence had been disheartening, so the Pipling had stopped. Now, below the star strewn sky, under the soft blue light of the largest moon, Giawa prayed one last time beneath a shrouded probe. “If you can hear me, I am afraid. We have worked so hard to create this place, this Alliance, and I see all that we have built about to fall into fire and decay and subjugation beneath Gretak’s boot. This region is prosperous, our children are educated and cared for, and as was the way in the Golden Age, when Mankind walked among us, we care for the stranger. Why would you seek out Gretak, who is vein and selfish and cruel?” Giawa pleaded to the sky. But the gentle cooling breeze whispered by and tossed the blackwood leaves into a voice that said “Shoosh!” as though the sky were hushing that one for complaining. Giawa sighed.

Sitting alone in the garden eating a jelly sandwich beneath the crystal dome of one of Dev Lok’s terrariums, Rochester was moved. He had been taking in the probes of the planet’s central region and was enjoying the play of the moonlight along the great river, when down below a creature had called up into the sky. The probe had slowed and hovered in the air above the little Andro, and as it spoke of its plight, Roche had been taken aback by the sadness in its voice. He listened, and as much as he had disliked Gretak, he liked this person. Intelligence, who is this? thought the man. Ah! I see that you have met Giawa-la-Has’ja, the sibling of Gretak, who you met the other day in… Pruskinom, finished Rochester. This one is a leader, I can tell.

Yes, Giawa is an Andro among Andros, as they say along the river, replied the AI. That one, continued the Intelligence, using the local vernacular, is wise beyond its years. Their lives are measured in decades you know. Giawa is sixty of their years old. Perhaps it will live another twenty years or so if it survives its sibling’s hatred. Roche mulled that over thoughtfully and found himself dropping his chin in self reproach. “That is no time at all. Hardly time to develop such a perspective on life,” observed the man aloud. The Intelligence responded with a notable degree of comion. As Lao Tzu said so many millenniums ago, Rochester, ‘The flame that burns twice as bright, burns half as long’. Rochester finished the last morsel of its jelly sandwich, and sighed curtly, like the period at the end of a sentence. I wish to help this one, replied the man. In its ongoing maintenance of the whole of Dev Lok, the Intelligence was pleased by Rochester’s short statement, and it opened a channel to the probe’s speakers. If you choose to, you can speak with that one now, the AI advised. Roche used the probe’s searching eyes to zoom in upon the face of Giawa so far below, and he recognized the anguish as that one peered upward into the light of the moon Blue. He thought of what he could say, ambiguous about the effect that this process might have upon the little being there below, and at length the man spoke with a tenderness that he was unaccustomed to sharing. “Giawa-la-Has’ja, I am Rochester, the brother of Maximillian. Your people do not know me because I am new to Drodenar. It was Max and myself who assisted your sibling Gretak to repair its damaged woodland, and in your time of need I have heard your plea. Cast your gaze upon the landing below your city wall,” advised the Man, and as Giawa did so the probe dove to hover above the unrepaired section of wharf. Before the Pipling’s eyes the structure dissolved and disappeared into the dry mud upon which it had resided. In its place grew a new quayside, more than its former self, with a row of ligneous cranes for the easy hoisting of boats into and out of the river. Giawa’s eyes opened wide with amazement, as it watched the miracle unfold below, and that one heard the incredulous calls of other watchers up and down the eastern wall. The Pipling

felt a rush of blood washing throughout its body, forced along by the racing of its heart, and knelt, half fell, to its knees. Words failed that one for the age of many heartbeats, until finally, having abandoned the likelihood of forming a cogent response to the Man who had addressed it, the Pipling spoke in hushed and tenuous tones. “Rochester, Man of Dev Lok, I thank you most humbly for this answer to my prayer. I had begun to lose hope,” said the Pipling, and in the garden Roche felt a connection with the tiny presence on the wall overlooking the mighty Hork. Yes, he was convinced now that he truly liked this worthy being who knelt upon the cold rock floor of its rampart, and from his simple act of rebuilding the pier, Roche felt the swelling of his heart and vowed to do his best to spare this region if he could. The Intelligence, too, felt something, a sense of wonder perhaps, at the comion of this man who had seen bitter exile and contempt from its own society for such a stretch of time. Perhaps the isolation and the struggle to survive had in some way forged in the man a strength of will that the AI had not recognized, until now. Now, as the Intelligence watched, Rochester, through the probe, had turned to removing the many metres of drying mud from its resting place within the limestone quarry. Soon the rockface once again became exposed and from the city walls came cries of amazement and joy from all who witnessed it unfold. In the rooftop observation deck of the Temple of Austin, Hionysh was troubled. It had seen all that had come to outside the eastern wall, and its own heart sank before this display of the comion from Mankind. The dogma of Human retribution lived heavily in the teachings of Austin, and this would no doubt bring confusion into the hearts of Hionysh’s flock. But what troubled the High Monk even more were unsubstantiated rumours of Figfo’s death upon the rocky floor of Eruda. Hionysh could feel the advancement of its efforts turning to dust before it, and the Austinian brooded and reviled its loss of influence. There in the darkness of the Temple’s crown, bitterness filled that one’s heart.

Chapter 51 The Pip’s Army

A kind of raw energy surged through the air and through every living thing in Pruskinom on the thirty-first morning of Max. This surge was the adrenal output of each Andro in the capital as they prepared to fill the great grasslands outside the city’s western gate. Four thousand Andros at arms had gathered inside the granite walls to receive final provisions and final orders, and it was astonishing just how subdued the street noise was. At a handwave from Gretak atop the Great Keep Wall, they began to empty out of the city gates in a continuous stream ten metres wide, and the shuffling boot-falls of the great host made a scouring sound upon the stone roadway as they went. Upon reaching the grassland, they began to fan out into divisions, each of which established its parameters within the vast green field of Helen’s-grass that rolled in wind-swept waves like a sea. Once the whole host of foot-Andros had taken to the field with their lances and shields, there were four divisions of them at eight hundred apiece. Eight hundred cavalry Andros then poured forth from the hoond barns on the southeastern flank of the city and formed up as two divisions on the windy field. Finally, the great barn doors of the foundry opened and out poured a river of hoond-drawn wagons. There were flat wagons to carry troops, supply wagons for food and weapons, and a fleet of siege wagons carrying rock chuckers and spear towers. Out they poured upon their massive wheels of gourtuni and bronze onto the grasslands to take up post. The siege weapons advanced to take the lead for the march to Midrib, to be ed by a division of cavalry. Atop their stages of war, the engineers and the operators sat or stood, casting out eyes to their elevated view of the field. Troop wagons next moved along between the divisions of footsoldiers, and when they stopped, they formed a line a quarter kilometre long and two wagons wide. At precisely timed commands, the divisions embarked, filling the wagons, ready for a long, rough ride on over-wintered rural roads. Commanders could be seen galloping among the divisions giving instructions and guidance to their charges, and just as the filled troop wagons and the siege

carts began to press forward toward the road to Midrib, a line of cook wagons pulled out of the main gate. There were ten in all, smaller than the troop wagons but just as heavy, weighed down as they were with smoked and salted meat and kegs of beer, heavy copper pots, and stacked firewood. This group may not have been the spearhead of the army, but with the cooks and their minstrels it was without a doubt, its heart. Along with these but on separate wagons laden with rolled and stacked tents, stretcher-beds, and boxes of tinctures and bandages rode the Herbers, forty of them to attend a host this size. Those who were military Herbers made up about half of their number, but many of these had been drafted for the mission, and the anxiety from this group was palpable. They were city Herbers, unused to this sort of thing, and most had never seen anything more than the results of a fight. They had been given assurances that they would never be in any danger, but as the wagons began to the growing column on the road, they were uncertain of the validity of that claim. Forward drove these utility wagons, and as they fell into their place along the column, they found themselves surrounded by the rear cavalry division. This worked to ease the minds of the drafted Herbers, and soon the road was met by the last stragglers of the rear guard as they ed beneath the edge of the forest crown and vanished from sight beyond the trees. The wide grassland fell silent, its waves crumpled by the multitude of feet and wheels, but as the wind continued to flow over it the grass had become too tired to wave. Then the western gate was closed, and those who remained behind set about to tidy the streets and secure the battlements high above. Promises had been made of more troops to arrive from Goum within the hour, but until then the capital would be locked down and the Pip would take its luncheon down in the Great Hall of the Keep. As the siege wagons and their hoond-mounted escort pressed ahead, it became evident that the road was in terrible shape. Rutted and pocked by the freeze and thaw of winter, the road-surface bounced the wagons and threatened to trip up the hoonds, making for a laboured advance. For the sake of efficiency, the Rangers pressed on ahead to ease the burden on the path, while soldiers disembarked their wagons to march through the trees off the road. With some effort they ed the lumbering siege wagons, and at length they came back onto the road in front of them, cursing the bumpy ride they had endured on the troop wagons. For the time being, they knew their feet would suffer, but they

were glad to be rid of the twisting and jarring. The road stretched on before them, and for the first day its condition did not improve. Their boots and leggings were thick with the heavy clay of the roadbed, and night brought rain, the hard kind that soaks one to the bone. By morning, the swarms of biting itchfly had all but broken the spirit of one Andro, who cursed and tore off its armour, hurling it to the ground. The Division Commander rode up on its hoond and cracked the Andro over its head with a crop, whereupon the soldier recoiled and screamed at the officer. “Its too much! The itching has driven me to rage!” The Commander glowered down at the Andro as it scratched and danced about in the mud, and then turning away ordered the soldier to be thrown into the river. Four nearby troops obliged, picking that one up and carrying it to the bank three metres off the road, tossing it into the cold flow. Immediately, the Andro leaped to its feet and shaking off the soaking it found its way back to the bank, hooting from the shock. Picking up its discarded armour that one redressed and fell back in line as all nearby laughed. As the Commander trotted away it smiled at a lesson well dispensed. The damp Andro pressed on, ashamed for its behaviour, and as a compatriot shoved its shoulder playfully the sloshing soldier laughed at itself. “That wasn’t so bad, Andros,” it soft-peddled. “Stopped the itching and got rid of the mud in my pants.” Another Andro piped up, “You sure it was mud?” and the soldiers laughed amid the misery of their march. By nightfall on the second day the enormous host had settled into camp stretched out along the roadway, and the Gourtuni Woods were filled by the rich smells of the cook wagons, as they pumped out thick oat-grass porridge topped with stewed and salted tube-fish. Each division was apportioned from two large casks of Pruskinom white-grass, and through the trees the sound of singing broke the still night air. Anthems were raised by many from across the Empire, from Goum and Chow City, from the Pip’s Mountains in the far southeastern desert, and even a tune from the Lake Yolanda region, but when the song of Pruskinom was raised the volume of the voices swelled. Their pride reverberated among the trees and lifted into the starry sky, causing the zaschafry to go quiet. In a large tent that filled a clearing on the riverside of the main road, the

Commanders had gathered with their Master Hunter to share reports and discuss the progress of the excursion. Captain Ghurda-la-Hoj had been the first to decry the lack of barges to transport troops, but that one’s concern was echoed forthwith by all of the other Captains there. The Master Hunter had listened to their complaint, as that one shovelled roasted pumpi and wild mushroom pie into its mouth and having washed down the mouthful with a swallow of ale, that one nodded. “The new Pip has decided that a massive force emerging from the Gourtuni Woods before the city of Midrib will produce terror that will induce the citizenry to lay down their arms. I, as all of you must also, do not see how we are to gain access to that city with a kilometre of water between us and that objective.” Captain-la-Hoj shook its head and shrugged. “With the condition of the road, we are already most of a day behind where we should be, and the thought of a mudcaked army standing on the far side of the Hork does not impress me as much of a threat.” “Perhaps they with be afraid that we may get them dirty,” evoked Captain Feldla-Klor, with a tone of sarcasm, which brought blank stares from all. The Master Hunter looked to la-Klor, and with dry mockery of its own dressed down that officer without scorn. “La-Klor, while your attempt at levity under these circumstances is perhaps ill conceived, I assure you that the Pip would consider it a treasonous act. As much as we all agree that this campaign is getting bogged down, and there, pun was intended if not required, it is our duty to rise to the occasion. If we fail in fulfilling the Pip’s requirement of reaching that shore on time, there will be a heavy price to pay.” La-Klor did not hesitate to respond, as it was common among this company to speak their minds before the Master Hunter. “Master Hunter la-Cristen, the motto of the Pruskinom Rangers is old, but it is non the less our motto. ‘We pledge our lives to Pruskinom,’ not to the Pip. If this new Pip is the monster that many of us think it to be, believe it to be, there is an alternative,” stated the Captain. The Master Hunter deliberately trolled its eyes around the room taking in every face and wondering who among this group might not be entirely trustworthy. If

the Pip had eyes within this group, who would they be? “Our lives belong to the Pip of Pruskinom, la-Klor, that is the understood meaning of our oath. I will have no more of this treasonous talk and make no mistake Andros: I will be held responsible for letting it occur. What our Pip orders us to do, we must do. It is not our place to engage in the politics of the day, but to serve Pruskinom’s interests. If we do, then though one day we will all die, we will have fulfilled our oaths.”

Chapter 52 A Moment Cometh

On the morning of the thirty-fifth of Max, the high eastern wall of Midrib came alive with Andros watching the far shoreline of the mighty Hork, for the word of forward spies had been received through their swiftest zaschafry. The army of Pruskinom was close. In three positions along that wall, Jusk’s machines held their vigil, each loaded with one hundred shafts of iron-tipped gourtuni wood. Upon the stone floor beside each of the weapons lay stacks of magazines a dozen deep and twenty across. Seventy-two thousand deadly missiles in all, they awaited the order to commence their bombardment of that shoreline. Down below, a fleet of barges stood loaded with three thousand warriors of the Hork Valley Alliance standing ready to embark upon their battle at an order from the Ki of Midrib. Poopa watched them sitting restlessly upon their wooden decks, and pride filled that one as it stood upon the parapet beside the central shaft chucker next to Giawa. Casting a long, slow gaze up and down along the course of the river, the Ki observed its forces gathered from the limestone quarry to the south, from the first bending of the Hork to the north, and that one was satisfied at its strength. The Ki of Midrib knew similar preparations had been made ready in Astrib, Riverib, Straerib, and Gastrib, in case the Pip of Pruskinom had sent armies against them as well, but Giawa had been certain that Midrib would be Gretak’s first target. Here resided Gretak’s greatest prize, Giawa and its heirs, and the Pipling knew that its sibling’s resentment would drive it over all else. That one had advised the Ki that Gretak’s aim would be to crush the central city and then to work out along the Hork both northward and southward to conquer the rest in their turns, and the word of its spies had bourn out this methodology. The road along Sol’ja’s River from Pruskinom was the logical attack route, but as yet no barges had been observed upon that waterway. Spies had reported large numbers of troops along its northern bank equipped with siege weapons that had bogged down and slowed their advance, but without a doubt this lack of water transport had been surprising. They should have reached the Hork long before

now, crossing that river in vast numbers to land their troops upon its western shore, but only the distant sound of marching troops and the cry of muddy wheels were there to meet the Noble’s ears. Giawa wondered at this, for if their positions had been reversed it would have sent overwhelming strength of arms along the Sol’ja toward its first objective. It did not understand its sibling’s restraint in this matter, and the lack of clarity had been somewhat disarming. Gretak, as the Pipling was well aware, was no fool, and its mastery of tactics was not to be discounted, yet before this campaign Giawa was left feeling distracted by its lack of intensity. That one turned to its child standing there upon the great east wall of Midrib and stated as much, but Poopa indicated their strength of arms and was confident in them. “If you were in Gretak’s shoes, what would be your second choice of target, Poopa?” asked Giawa then. The young Ki mulled over its mother’s question and thought of routes by which the capital could reach the cities of the Alliance. The two southern cities of Straerib and Gastrib were devoid of direct water routes from Pruskinom, and the deep and tangled Bearded Red-pine Forest between them made the trip through the Gourtuni Woods seem child’s play by comparison. “North then,” Poopa said. “Along the Hake River and through Lake Yolanda to the Lesser Doufi, where the barges could travel southward along the tributaries of the Hork to the Dancing River and Astrib,” responded Poopa with some alarm. “Astrib’s walls are not as unbreachable as our own. They are not all stone and are susceptible to fire. If Gretak’s army were to strike there unexpectedly, it could be harder to repel them. If Astrib falls, then the Pip of Pruskinom would have a beachhead and a path of conquest along this great river.” Giawa nodded, adding, “Riverib, being on the eastern shores of the Hork, could be surrounded and cut off by Gretak’s forces.” That one waved along the wall to a runner and called it over with urgency. When the Andro arrived, it bowed before the Nobles and stood silently as they made rapid consultations between them. Giawa addressed that one. “Go to Captain la-Frin on the shore below and inform that one that we require its presence here upon the wall. Do not delay, Andro, for your mission is of utmost importance,” ordered Giawa, and the runner bowed and took flight down the

nearest stairway. Giawa turned to its heir and nodded, disclosing its embarrassment at not seeing this possibility sooner. A foothold at the headwaters of the Hork would give Gretak access to that river’s course and to the northernmost reaches of the Lyfgus-Haug. It had been Has’ja’s strategy in its war of conquest against Voughorf, so many decades before. “I am a fool!” cried Giawa. “I have let my disdain for Gretak distract me from this possibility.” Poopa placed its right hands upon that one’s shoulder, and with a calmness in its voice the Ki responded to its mother’s self-recrimination. “You are no fool, Mother. We have been assuming that a direct attack upon Midrib was the best way forward for Gretak, but that one is clever in the art of confrontation. We will not underestimate that enemy again. We will send two thousand troops northward on barges, to reinforce Astrib and Riverib where our new weapons will reclaim our advantage in the field,” answered the Ki of Midrib. Giawa bowed its head, just as that one felt the rumbling of a commotion upon the far bank of the Hork, and then turning to face that direction both Nobles saw the first flooding of Imperial troops from beneath the gourtuni trees. Together, mother and heir watched as the eastern bank swelled with a tide of Andros, nearly black with the mud of their journey from the capital. As they entered the clearing the host spread out across the farmlands that lay along the river’s bank and brought with them a whirlwind of violence against the empty buildings there, casting torch to them each in rapid succession. Cavalry units burst upon the scene, taking up positions near the bank, and then after some seconds of this the treeline broke to expose an army of siege towers, which stopped in a wide line across the grassland. The Pipling observed them there as they filed into divisions on the eastern flatlands and quickly took a measure of their numbers. “I reckon some four thousand, Poopa, but without barges to reinforce them or to carry them across the Hork, they are impotent to do much more than they already have,” the Pipling pronounced. “If those fires spread to the treeline, they will have cut themselves off from retreat. This seems like a force that Gretak has deemed expendable, Ki of Midrib,” contended Giawa. Poopa considered its mother’s

words. “Then this confirms our theory, and the true target of that one’s first strike will be our northern friends. We can butcher these poor muddy Skiffers from this parapet without ever sending in our troops to engage them,” answered the Ki. Giawa thought for a moment and placing its left hands upon the shoulder of its heir, that one spoke evenly and without haste. “If we send in a volley of shafts to get their attention, perhaps we may yet gain from this hand, My Child,” advised the Pipling. Poopa took in its mother’s face and found there a certain encouraging sense of composure. “You have been thinking of this thing before today, haven’t you Mother?” The Pipling did not answer Poopa’s query, but instead turned its face to the sky above the parapet, and in a voice filled both with purpose and hope, called out to the Man Rochester. “Rochester, Man of Dev Lok, please hear me. I have the power to destroy this host within my hands, but I am loath to use it without cause. These Andros are not my enemy. They come here under the order of my sibling to give up their lives for that one’s sake, without recourse. Lend me your voice to persuade them, I beg you,” pled the Pipling. Silence answered that one, and as it dropped its eyes from the heavens, the Pipling sighed. Giawa turned then to face the Ki, whose expression was one of confusion. “Perhaps a volley will convince them,” said the Pipling with a note of defeat. And then the voice of Rochester Henderson bathed down upon the parapets of Midrib. “Your comion has moved me, Giawa-la-Has’ja. I will give you a voice that can reach the far bank of this river and well beyond the forest before you. Go ahead and send a volley of your shafts and aim them carefully. Once you have their attention, speak to them and give them the hope that they lack. Let them know which sibling is the true Pip of Pruskinom,” said Roche. Poopa stood there looking up at the empty sky, its mouth open in amazement, and Giawa seeing this responded with a fingertip of its small right hand lifting the Ki’s jaw shut.

“My Ki,” said Giawa gently then. “The gods are truly back among us, and this one has offered me His help. By your order, let us end this.” Poopa looked into its mother’s eyes and cleared its throat. “Alright, Mother,” that one replied, and giving an order to its engineer upon the shaft chucker instructed that one to concentrate fire on the siege towers alone. The engineer obeyed and calculated the correct range and elevation to achieve that objective. Once completed, the Andro telegraphed its orders to the other two emplacements along that wall with a series of coloured flags, and within a minute they answered it back that they were ready. Poopa looked out across the Hork to the blackened host standing there and drew a long red flag from the holster beside the weapon. Then raising it above its head the Ki of Midrib unfurled and waved the flag to commence the bombardment. In the next instant, a flow of shafts filled the sky between the ramparts of Midrib and the far flatlands across the Hork, and Poopa was amazed at the speed with which they flew. As they reached the far bank the missiles slammed into their targets with astonishing force, and Andros fell before their onslaught. On the siege towers Andros screamed at the fury of the incoming shafts and took cover as best they could behind timbers. Many a hapless soldier was felled where it had stood, and a cry of confusion and surprise filled the air above the Hork. Then as suddenly as it began the bombardment ceased, and over the course of the next few minutes the ruckus began to settle down until at long last the zaschafry began to chirp once again, and then Rochester’s voice came to Giawa anew. “Giawa,” he said, “Rightful heir to the throne of Elysium. I give you voice to reach your people.” Giawa drew a deep breath and exhaled long and slowly. The Pipling took the moment to settle its thoughts, and when that one began to speak, every Andro in the Great Hork River Valley Alliance lands could hear its voice by way of gently floating probes. It was a truly remarkable thing to behold, for they all held their place and listened as though transfixed, and as they listened their expressions slowly turned from fear… to security. “People of the Hork Valley Alliance, people of the Eastern Empire, fathers, mothers, siblings, children… I am Giawa-la-Has’ja. You all know that name, and you know who I am. Gretak, my sibling, is now Pip in Pruskinom and has

brought war upon us. This was never my hope, and this is not the hope of the gods who have come back to us. I have spoken with Rochester, twin of Maximillian Henderson, both Men of Dev Lok, and He has allowed me to speak with you. In my love for the people of all Elysium, I humbly ask you, hear me.” In all of Alliance lands you could have heard a pin drop. Upon the eastern grassland where the fires of war had been ignited, mounted Rangers were leading division after division of Andros to fill their helmets at the river and rush to put out the flames before the forest should begin to burn, as well. From the parapet of Midrib, Giawa and Poopa watched this thing unfold, and for it they were most grateful. It meant one less army for Gretak’s madness, and at that thought Giawa bowed its head. “Thank you, Rochester Henderson,” Giawa said softly, and Poopa, upon hearing its mother’s tone, took hold of that one’s hand and together they knelt upon the stones. Then the voice of Rochester once more came among them and onished them with good cheer. “Please, do not kneel to me,” Rochester said. “I have seen in you something that has reignited my sense of wonder, Andros, and I thank you for it. I am here for you, and if a return to your Golden Age is what you wish, I will help you to achieve it. You may call on me, and I shall come.” Giawa stood, followed quickly by Poopa, and the real Pip of Elysium— according to the Man Rochester—looked up to the voice of that Man and spoke. “Rochester, you do us great honour with your words. Now, I must sail to the north to aid my people there. If you could lend a hand, I would be grateful,” announced Giawa with its confidence returned once more. In his room, Roche smiled and opened his eyes, and with a good feeling in his heart the man replied. “As you wish, Your Grace.” And then he was gone.

Chapter 53 Death of a City

On the morning of the thirty-fifth of Max, when the Imperial Vanguard emerged from the mouth of Lake Yolanda into the waters of the Lesser Doufi, they were surrounded, engulfed really, by the Great Mushroom Forest of Muxi. Immediately, every Andro on every barge donned the masks which until then had hung loosely around their necks. They were spore masks, filters for the dense clouds of mushroom spores that could be released at any time, and they ranged from specie to specie of tree-mushroom, some hazardous, and some lethal. This was the realm of the Herbers, who had studied and nurtured the many hundreds of varieties of giant fungi found here into medicines and treatments for a wide array of ailments. In no other forest on Drodenar did its equal exist, in of the pure richness of its bounty. Under order of silence the barges slid along, and barely did the zaschafry alter their eery song that so often lit the region with a certain feeling of magic. Under the camouflage of nets woven with gourtuni fronds, the barges drifted along like floating islands that belied the deadly sting of bronze weapons that hid within. Once the barges had cleared the mouth of the lake and journeyed half a league they paused and waited for the siege barges to catch up. These were not camouflaged in any way, and as they cleared the last overhanging boughs of gourtuni, they loomed against the glare of Lake Yolanda’s icy waters behind them. They came and they came, like an multitude of juggernauts, fifty strong, slipping along to the oar strokes of slaves. These were Gretak’s reserves, bolstered by barges and soldiers from Goum and Chow City, five thousand welltrained troops, and out for blood. Only a day delayed them from the Dancing River, and from there they would come around the bend and fall upon Astrib like locusts. In their quest for a wanted foothold in the north of Hork lands, three more divisions of foot-soldiers and two of cavalry had left their barges on Lake Yolanda and ranged through the forest toward Riverib. Once in position across

Riverib’s eastern flank, they would be ed upon the city’s riverside by onethird of the siege barges, which having peeled off from the fleet had byed Astrib. Gretak’s only regret in the planning of this campaign was that it could not get siege weapons through the forest here, for it was dense and roadless on that side, and therefore a bombardment from the river would have to suffice. In anticipation of the woody composition of Astrib’s walls, the Pip had ordered the conversion of rock-hurler machines into launchers of sticky oil-soaked bundles of linen twine, which before their send-off could be set aflame. The hope was to reduce that city to a pyre, eliminating it as a stronghold for the Alliance, even if the action risked Pruskinom’s desire to occupy it. In Gretak’s estimation, the shock and awe of Astrib’s total obliteration would cause widespread panic in the other cities of the Hork Valley Alliance, and so speed the rate at which they would fall. The morning had broken with a call to arms from the well staffed ramparts of Astrib, for although the Pip’s invasion force had been silent, they had been seen by Hanki’s spies along the lesser Doufi. Atop Astrib’s highest parapets, four shaft chuckers had been positioned to cover this approach along the Dancing River, and Hanki’s engineers were ready to fight. As the great barges pushed around the bend, they poured their troops out along that river’s banks, and in quick time the rocky beachhead was a mass of Andros on the march. Continuing forward, the siege barges pressed on to find their range. From the bend they beheld the high walls of wood and stone rising in the distance, and at a range of less than a league, the first test firing of the rock chuckers ensued. Along the front line of barges, the first ten weapons launched and hurled their boulders in long, arching trajectories toward Astrib. All ten massive stones splashed down well out of reach of the city, and as these barges reloaded, the next ten pressed past them to close the gap. Having gained a hundred metres, the second ten barges released their payloads, sending masses of smaller boulders into the sky, while the infantry pressed forward toward the walls of Astrib. Again, the rocks splashed harmlessly into the waters of the Dancing, now a hundred and fifty metres closer to their target. As before, these barges slowed to reload, and the next ten pressed forward to a new position and fired their charges. This time a shower of head-sized rocks tore through the sky with remarkable speed, and when they crashed down upon the shore adjacent to the

city walls, the violence of their impact could be felt along the ramparts. Below, upon the wide banks of the river the host of infantry and cavalry drew up to a distance of seven hundred metres and came to a halt. Atop the northeast wall, overlooking the action in the valley where the Dancing merged with the mighty Hork, the Ki of Astrib stood ready. Flanked by its Master Hunter Hor-la-Kust and its Captain Piter-la-Soof, Hanki took in the field of combatants below and consulted. “La-Kust, are they yet in range of la-Gurjion’s new weapon?” asked the Ki. LaKust looked to its engineer atop the platform, and that one replied with a negative shaking of its head. “Another fifty metres, My Ki,” responded la-Kust. Hanki frowned and looked to the forward lines of land-bound troops. “What about them?” queried the Ki, who was met by a negative response from its Master Hunter. “Oddly, as though they have knowledge of our weapon’s range, My Ki, they have halted just beyond it,” answered that one. Hanki snorted in the cool northern air and set its eye to a spyglass for a closer examination of the barges. “No doubt Gretak’s spies have done their jobs well,” replied Hanki. “I don’t see an abundance of rocks aboard those barges, Andros. It is unlikely that they have come all this way to cast a few stones and then retire.” Captain la-Soof then took a look through a spyglass of its own, and confirming the Ki’s observation, noted that each barge held a barrel and a large spool of what appeared to be loose fabric rope with a crank on either end. The Captain then observed upon the decks something that one had seen in the weaving houses of Goum, where its family had lived when it was a child. Its parents had been textile merchants in that great city, and this machine looked for all the world like a kind of loom. “My Ki, do you see the cranked spools upon the rock chucker barges?” that one asked. The Ki repeated its examination of the barges and shrugged. “I do not recognize what they are, la-Soof,” replied Hanki. La-Soof replied that they appeared to be looms, although that one could not for the purpose

of such tools upon a siege barge, and while this conversation was underway, the next line of barges pulled into position about a hundred metres in front of the last one. Andros then set their hands to the cranks, and as they turned the spools of fabric rope began to produce a line that moved from the machines into the barrels, and then out again to be rolled by the workings of the looms into sopping wet balls about a half metre in diameter. These were then cut free from the looms and placed into the baskets of the rock chuckers. Hanki’s expression went from curiosity to realization in an instant, and the Ki called for an update on the ranging of their shaft chuckers. Someone aboard each barge then set a torch to its bundle, and at the barking of an order the chuckers were released. Ten burning bundles streaked across the sky trailing black smoke as they flew. The Master Hunter replied to Hanki’s question then, saying that the first ten barges were within reach. “Send them a reply, Master Hunter!” shouted the Ki, as the flaming projectiles roared in overhead, smashing into the streets of Astrib behind them. In an instant the machines began to fire round after round of shafts into the oncoming barges, and Andros there fell before their onslaught, but as they did so the second wave of chuckers moved up into position and cast their burning payloads toward Astrib. On four of the first ten barges Hanki’s shafts crashed into the barrels, punching holes and causing the oil to spill out and ignite upon the torches there, and the flames engulfed them and their crews, who dove for cover into the water. The oil then spread out from these ruined barges and burning on the surface of the river brought death to many of those Andros as they swam for their lives in terror. “Fire at will!” commanded Hanki, and all four chuckers engaged with fury. Then the second wave of fireballs dropped in from the sky and crashing into the gourtuni log walls, spread an inferno from the ground to their apex. The heat spilling in over the parapet was intense, and as the shaft chuckers poured out their deadly rain a dense cloud of greasy black smoke rose to block the view of their engineers. Firing blindly then the chucker teams continued to pierce the smoke with unaimable shafts, most of which missed their targets altogether. Hanki assessed their position as unholdable and ordered the crews to move along the rampart toward the eastern side where two more chucker teams stood ready to respond to the attacking force. The Captain on duty had commanded its teams to fire into the host upon the riverbank and was having good success at holding

them off, but as Hanki and its retreating Andros reached that post they were all treated to the sight of eight more fireballs roaring in overhead. The bombardment dropped into the central streets of Astrib with a tremendous eruption of fire, while Andros responded in confusion and formed bucket brigades to combat the flames. Below the city, the banks of the Hork had grown white beneath the onslaught of Astrib’s shafts, as carnage ensued at a horrific pace, but the soldiers there had begun to move into the Gourtuni Woods for cover, and so the effectiveness of the chuckers was diminished. Southward they pressed, deeper into the forest and away from the banks as the Dancing flowed into the Hork. Soon the chuckers were useless against them, and at an order from Hanki the machines were swivelled to meet the threat of barges slipping southward. Under the onslaught of Astribi shafts the first two barges met with carnage, and unpiloted they began to drift. It was then that another volley of fireballs tore in along the eastern wall and skimming along its face exploded on . The roar of fire filled the air and the choking blackness of the smoke boiled in over the ramparts, both from within the city and without, and against the whirlwind of the fire’s updraft the soldiers on the north and eastern walls of Astrib were defenceless. As the inferno built, many hurled themselves from the wall in hopes of finding the river, but most died upon the stony bank instead. Undeterred by any further bombardment from the shaft chuckers on that side, the siege barges began to slip past the city and a string of personnel barges followed in close to pick up the armies that had gone inland for cover from the deadly rain of shafts. Left behind upon the forested flatland to the southwest of the city of Astrib was a division of Andros, there to roam the area close to Astrib’s walls and kill anyone attempting to escape its burning. Once all resistance had been eliminated their orders were to enter the city, slaughter whoever they found, and secure the contents of the city vaults for the glory of their Pip. No doubt a fortune dwelt there, a Pip’s ransom many times over, and every Andro there had an eye for a piece of something easily hidden for its very own. Of course, to be caught with such a prize, well, that would bring a terrifying death by the Fryx. That thought alone was enough to keep most of them honest. Yet, beyond the wealth of Hanki’s vaults was the Academy of the Herbers, already reduced to charcoal, and as the burning corpse of Astrib stood

convulon the western bank at the confluence of the Dancing and the Hork, forty-two siege barges and a long line of troop barges slipped southeast toward the city of Riverib fifty kilometres along on the east bank. With their fire chuckers the sailors of the Empire felt that another great victory was at hand before them, but they had been told. “Riverib is not Astrib. Its walls are mostly stone. Do not be complacent regarding its ease of conquest.” Still, their rout of the city of the Herbers had them feeling pumped as they rowed their barges down along the course of the mighty Hork.

Chapter 54 The Highest Wall

Half a league north of Riverib on the swiftly flowing waters of the Hork lay a line of twenty siege barges, each equipped with a massive ram of ironwood out in front. In action, the rams could be fixed or left free to swing into the hulls and decks of enemy barges. Elevated at the sterns of each barge stood a line of six wagon-mountable shaft chuckers, retro-fitted for this new purpose, each with an operator. On the deck below them crouched twenty lightly armoured Andros equipped with the short sword for up-close murder. They had seen the massive pall of black smoke from up-river and knew only that it meant nothing good. But when they first laid eyes upon the host of siege barges forty-two strong coming around the bend of the east bank, they felt a moment of shared dread. Aboard the lead barge stood a Riverib Ranger Captain, one Basik-la-Preet, who pulled a spyglass from its belt and carefully looked from barge to barge, counting and noting each weapon system. The Andro recognized rock chucks, and a sinking feeling crept into that one’s stomach. The personnel barges were out of reach behind these engines of death, and Basik knew that meant that the rams were useless. If they could reach a rock chucker barge, they could hope to attack those upon the deck with the ram, but the raised weapons were out of reach, and in any case would have sunk a barge long before it could get that close. A Corporal leaned in toward the Captain’s ear and asked for orders, but la-Preet was still counting. A moment more, and the Captain looked to the Andro and ordered that one in a very matter-of-fact tone to signal the fleet to launch from Riverib harbour. The Corporal turned away and quickly climbed the ladder to the upper deck. The Andro took a green flag from its place, unfurled it and swung the rippling signal for the fleet to advance. In Riverib harbour a whistle blew very loudly and, casting off from their moorings, three great river-cruisers left their ports toward the rammer fleet. Basik felt a moment of relief, but then something upon the decks of those rock chucker barges struck that one as odd. There were only a limited number of actual rocks there, and in the Captain’s

experience, far too few to mount much of an attack. Perhaps, the bulk of their load was used against Astrib, Basik thought, but then the Captain saw the barrels and the looms, and after a moment of connection that one’s eyes shifted to the north and the quickly blackening sky over Astrib. “Fire!” shouted the Captain. “They hurl fire! Corporal! Signal the fleet. These things hurl fire!” The Corporal obeyed, and now using four smaller flags of different colours, that one began to send the news to the river-cruisers downstream, which upon reading the signals began to slow. A moment later a large rock crashed down in the water not twenty metres from la-Preet’s position. Spray fell down upon the deck like heavy rain a moment later, and Basik knew that they were easily within the chuckers’ range. “Fall back!” cried the Andro at the top of its lungs, and as it did so another rock came with fury and splintered one of the s for the upper deck. The corner of the deck shifted forward with a jarring movement, but the structure held as the Captain repeated its order. “Fall back!” And then a long, black arc of smoke crossed the sky over the Hork, its tip a ball of yellow flame, and when it smashed into the deck, the burning, oily fabric exploded outward and clung to wood and Andro alike. In seconds all were engulfed in the torment of their deaths. Those close enough to the railing leaped for the water, but the current was strong and helplessly they were swept downstream to their fates. The other barges observing the scene took to their oars, but the Master of the Pruskinom fleet had waited until nearly all were well within range, having had the opportunity to gauge its weapons upon the city of Astrib. The fire chuckers then roared to life, sending streaks of greasy death before them, and within a few seconds only the furthest four of Riverib’s barges remained. Aboard the rivercruisers, almost as one the Captains called “Attack!” and against all odds the three oar driven behemoths began to advance. They had rock chuckers of their own, huge ones mounted upon their top decks, and quickly they were loaded with massive and jagged chunks of ironstone. As the cruisers began to out the ram barges, their speed increased and with

the intention of smashing through the line of fire barges they pressed on. By the time the cruisers met head on with the first of them, the barges were pumping out a fireball every four seconds, and as the first collisions occurred, a mask of flames licked back along the ships’ heavy outer hulls. In the impacts, barges splintered and flew apart, sending crushed Andros into the river along with their weapons, and having crossed that queue, the cruisers pressed on to pulverize the line of troop barges. In and out the cruisers wove to the straining hearts and arms of their oar pullers, and though their hulls were licked by flame and obscured by smoke they turned back toward the fire barges to attack again. Now under assault by two of the cruisers the barges pressed on toward Riverib, firing a rear action at the cruisers as they went, and forced to abandon their troop transports to the third. If they could reach the harbour, they knew their weapons could destroy it, but as they rowed the cruisers closed in from behind. Then a ripping roar went up from the guts of the first cruiser, and a ball of black smoke rose into the sky above it as the cruiser began to fall behind its mate. Listing hard to port, the vessel stopped its forward momentum and began to drift, a bobbing inferno tossed by wake waves. Aboard the fire barges a cry of triumph went up, and they pumped their oars with renewed vigour. The second cruiser began also to slow behind them, and as it did so the bow lifted a metre or so out of the water, revealing a massive hole burned through from inside. The river was pouring in through the wound, and quickly the vessel began to sink at its bow. As the barges broke away, their sailors could see the hulking mass of the third cruiser. Billowing flames and smoke the vessel had begun to list to starboard, but nonetheless engaged in actively swamping the denizens of the lonely troop barges left behind. Only one thing lay between the fire barges and the docks now, and those four rammers would offer little impediment before them. The Fleet Master ordered the remaining twenty-eight to engage the surviving rammers, and so they began to close upon their targets. Rowing madly the rammer crews pressed ahead expecting at any moment to be set alight upon the water, and with every stroke the gap closed. The Fleet Master pressed them on, seeing victory within its grasp, and taking hold of a burning torch from the hand of its Captain it stood ready to ignite the ball of rags that was cradled in the bronze basket of the chucker.

The torch made , and as the bundle of oily rope ignited, the chucker fired, casting the ball of flames into the sky toward the first rammer barge to fall within its reach. The fireball came down upon them with a roar, but by the grace of Mankind its course was wide and only streaked the upper deck with soot before fizzling out in the river. “Two degrees starboard!” shouted the Fleet Master, and the chucker was turned upon its swivelling base to correct the trajectory. In the next seconds, a new oily ball of rope was loaded, the Andro touched it with its torch, and off it went, arching blackly across the sky. Seeing that this time the fireball would reach them, Andros aboard the barge leaped overboard to chance the swift and dangerous currents. In the next second the barge erupted in blaze and unattended began to drift toward the centre of the river, its crew a scattered company tumbling along amid the cold and rapid eddies of the Hork. Aboard the lead fire barge, the Fleet Master smiled and snorted, proud of its successful strike. The enemy was on the run and losing its lead. Other fireballs had climbed into the sky over the rim of Riverib harbour when suddenly the Fleet Master cursed. Turning the southern lip of the rockface beyond the city was a new adversary. A fleet of six barges and four cruisers was approaching from downriver flying the banner of Midrib with their oars stroking. Gretak’s Fleet Master then ordered its barges to ignore the three remaining rammers and make a beeline for the port of Riverib. Before it engaged the newly approaching fleet its weapons would lay waste to that harbour and then, that one was convinced, they would burn the Pipling Giawa’s navy to the waterline. Onward they rowed, and as they left the rammer barges in their wake the towering wall of Riverib loomed before them, growing monolithic into the noontime sky. At a point of the Fleet Master’s choosing, the chuckers came to life, hurling fire trails across the harbour to ignite the docks. A moment later the city answered with a steady stream of shafts from the chuckers on its high battlements. Whistling in from high above, the shafts split timber and bone alike, tearing flesh and forcing breath from their victims’ lungs with their hammer-blows. Andros fell where they had stood, and many tumbled from their barges’ decks into the water and were gone. Five carefully mounted chuckers had their bead set upon the waters of the Hork below the highest wall in all of the Alliance, and although the docks were burning, the fire chuckers did not have the range to

overshoot that wall. In places the oil-sticky fabric clung to it and burned, but against the thick stone they were ineffective. Now the Fleet Master signalled its barges away from the rain of death and back out into the river on a course for Midrib’s ships. High above the harbour, Andros ran to crew the line of cisterns positioned along the wall above the docks, and at the turning of bronze valves the reservoirs began to spill out their contents as a wide waterfall, which tumbled to quench the flames below. Now the Riveribi rammers pumped their oars to pull behind the Imperial barges, twenty-three in all and bent for a clash with Giawa’s fleet, which they still outnumbered. At a command from their last remaining Captain, the rammers released a withering volley after volley of shafts from their upper decks, and braving the incoming fireballs prepared to ram. Gretak’s Fleet Master had underestimated the range of Giawa’s shaft chuckers and the speed of the Pipling’s ships, and before long was fighting two fronts. Manoeuvring its fire chuckers to respond, the Fleet Master emitted a truly terrifying barrage over the waters of the Hork, but in moments they were caught between the two lines of vessels, that rained destruction upon them, and one after the other the fire barges fell silent amid the looming hulks of cruisers that spewed smoke from several strikes. In the end, there was the river sound, the endless slap and sloosh of waves upon the timbers of barge and cruiser alike, and the grinding squeal of waterlogged hulls against one and other. Little else could be heard besides the sweeping, skimming runs of surf-rider zaschafry, swooping in to scavenge the flesh of dead sailors, as they drifted out from between the boats and began their long journey downstream. Riverib’s harbour had been saved, but a terrible cost in Hork Valley Alliance lives had been exacted. Outside the northern and eastern walls, a host still waited to be challenged by that city’s shaft chuckers, and wisely they had taken cover among the huge gourtuni trunks. Giawa’s barges swung in to hug the riverbank, and as they drifted close Andros leaped off to assemble on the shore at the southern flank of that great city. Four divisions of infantry fell into formation there, and to the south along the river road, a host of thousands dressed in the colours of Pruskinom had come into view, marching in their mud blackened armour, bound for a reckoning upon the fields of yellow-grass beneath the ramparts of Riverib. Upon reaching that flatland the host halted, and requesting parley, its Master Hunter met with Lef-la-

Kropp, Master Hunter of the Riverib Rangers. La-Kropp wanted the answer to one question from la-Cristen, and that was, Why? Why would a Master Hunter of the Pip of Pruskinom choose to march north along the Hork to fight against Gretak’s army? La-Cristen’s answer was simple and concise. “Gretak sent us to distract your Pipling Giawa at Midrib without , fully expecting us to die before the might of that one’s weaponry. Giawa could have slaughtered us but chose instead to show us mercy, to show us that beyond an end to a means, we had worth. We are here to lend our hands to a righteous cause,” said that one, and so the host of nearly four thousand bent a knee to the Great Alliance of the River Valley Hork, and with their aid the battle on the eastern woodland became a rout for the eastern horde. Into the afternoon and the early evening of that blood-soaked day, the fighting continued, and a push was made up-river by two cruisers of cavalry to try to rescue any who had survived Astrib’s immolation, but only horror met their eyes. The last of the looters had vanished onto barges earlier in the day, and by now were halfway across Lake Yolanda on their way home. Inside the scorched and smouldering corpse of Astrib, the stench of blackened cadavers was overpowering, and as the searchers moved through the rubble-littered streets, they covered their faces with their tunics for relief. Not a single survivor was found there that day, and in their grief the searchers abandoned the city and made their way back to Riverib. Not until the dawn of the next day did the sound of intermittent clashes finally fall away, when the few hundred remaining Pruskinom soldiers found a moment to melt into the Gourtuni Woods and make their way back to the barges they had left behind on the lakeshore to the east. Then the clean-up began below the walls of Riverib, wounded friends of the Alliance were taken within that city’s walls to be ministered by the Herbers there, and wounded enemies were put out of their misery. By nightfall, the city was secure once more, and high atop the western wall Forti stood watching the eery glow beyond the river’s bend where Astrib had recently stood. A hollowness filled that one’s insides. Forti had been a soldier all its life, having been born a Ki-ling in the village of Golden inside the vastness of the Great Gourtuni Forest. In youth, that one had fought in campaigns against forest bandits who assailed and robbed travellers. Forti had ed the Hork River army in the city of Astrib at the age of twenty-four and had risen through the ranks on

the merits of natural talent. In Astrib, that one had learned advanced tactical istration under the Master Hunter Frin-la-Dhourtin, Hanki’s cousin. In time, that one came to be Hanki’s selection to the Hork River Board of Succession after the deaths by plague of the entire family dynasty of the then Ki of Riverib. That Andro had been Ki for the past twelve years. That chapter of Forti’s life was now closed. In this single act of barbarism, the Alliance had been shaken to its core. Hanki was gone, Astrib was gone, and in the deep night of the first day of Hell, atop the highest wall in all of the Great Hork River Valley Alliance, Forti brushed tears from its eyes with its small right hand, and as that one mourned the loss of a great city, a great mentor and a friend, the Ki of Riverib made a vow in the darkness there. “Man of War, this shall not stand,” said the KI with conviction. “This Pip from the east must be brought low, and its reign nipped in the bud, for the fruit that it brings is poisonous.” But the voice of the night replied only with the indifferent hum of salt-crickets, the rustling of the wind in the leaves, and the lapping of the Hork far below.

Chapter 55 Wars and Rumours

On the morning of the second day of Hell, Poopa had convened its War Council in Midrib Keep to discuss the next steps that must be taken. Giawa assured all there that this was only the beginning of Gretak’s campaign against them. Pruskinom and its allies had within its camp double the population of Midrib and the remaining Hork cities combined, and vast resources in copper and tin. They had access to the eastern sea and the ability to raise the vast armies that all of this required. In the Pipling’s estimation, the only way forward was to regroup and take the fight to that enemy. Gastrib and Straerib had been unaffected, by and large, by Gretak’s assault, and they remained at full strength. Their professional garrisons had been recruiting with abandon, and their ranks had begun to swell with strong woods-Andros and salt farmers, ready for adventure and fame. Even as the War Council was meeting, efforts had begun to cut new roads into the Bearded Red-pine Forest that would allow their forces ease of movement and advanced warning of Gretak’s activities. By the time of the summer alignment of the moons, they expected to be ready for whatever came their way.

In the Mountains of the Blood Moon and the Copper Mountain Range, the spies of the New Coalition had been busy. Their success in infiltrating Kraas had been excellent, and over the course of the past weeks they had returned to Eruda with detailed maps of Kagan’s defences. There were massive walls of granite that conspired to keep any foe at bay, but if a host could be delivered to the coast and set up on the mountain overlooking that city, it was open to bombardment. The wealth in resources alone was a tempting prize. Klyky had sat in council with Kork and Lemkin, and the Small Council had urged no restraint, but the Ki of Eruda had grown weary of blood. “We have the sea,” retorted Klyky. “We have, after several decades, access to abundance with which to feed our people, those we have neglected and abused

for too long. It was for that reason that they turned to Figfo, Figfo the Terrible, to sate their need for attention. Now is the time for diplomacy,” announce that one. The Small Council grumbled while Kork and Lemkin looked on, and then with the raising of its small left hand, Klyky demanded silence. “We will place an army of siege weapons in position above the Valley of the River of Austin, and the threat of its use will give Kagan pause. Ambassador laDruse will lead a mission to Kraas for direct talks with its Ki. That one wants access to the sea. We will negotiate such access for a fair price and access to the vast copper and tin mines in Kraas’s possession, and Kagan will feel itself fortunate that we have chosen trade over annihilation,” reported the Ki. “Well, Master Hunter Kork,” added Klyky, “what do you think of my solution?” Kork nodded its acceptance of Klyky’s grasp of the situation, and of the poised and skillful manner with which that one had taken up its father’s mantle. “I believe you are indeed the ally that the Hork Valley Alliance wants, Ki of Eruda,” said Kork concisely. Lemkin-la-Druse took a long draught from its bowl of Eruda honeywine and savoured the beverage. “Not as full nor as velvety as Midrib honeywine,” Lemkin thought, “but diplomacy has its own rewards,” and then the Ambassador spoke. “I believe your growth as a leader has begun in earnest, Master Hunter. Eruda has found its place upon the world stage.”

In Pruskinom, Gretak judged its attack against the Hork Valley Alliance a great success. With only the loss of a few divisions, an important enemy outpost had been destroyed and looted for a nice return. The loss of their Guild of Herbers would be felt for many years to come by the denizens of that collection of mutinous cities, for when the next plague arrived, and it surely would, they would be unprepared. Commissions had been given and failures had been punished, and Gretak felt that for the time being, its priority was to rebuild its forces with an eye to an autumn campaign. The Pip of all Elysium was counting on the assistance of Mankind going forward, for that one believed that only it could rule, and only it could bring final unity to all the lands. In Gretak’s estimation, those goals were the same ones Humanity wished for, and this belief bolstered the Pip’s sense of worth.

Inside Max’s lavish office on Dev Lok station, the tension was unambiguous. A Link had been established among those concerned with the purpose of this meeting, and the animosity built up over nearly eight centuries was threatening to explode. From her balcony overlooking the gardened mezzanine aboard the Empress, Anna Henderson’s thought came with a twenty-first of a second delay, due to the distance. That boy just won’t stop getting under my skin with his complete disregard of rules and boundaries! thought Anna in response to the question raised by first Max, and then the Intelligence. The question had been, How are you feeling this evening? There she goes again, thought Roche, and the conversation continued to devolve loudly, until at long last, Helen piped up from her security office. Okay people! This isn’t getting us anywhere, she thought. The conversation froze, and then Helen took the lead. The issue is, and this is what I’m getting from all of the yelling and so on, that Rochester made an unauthorized and did some repairs to a dock. Is that right? No more than we did for that little monster Gretak, thought Rochester defensively. Little Monster? That might be a bit harsh, thought the Intelligence with notable irony. Anna frowned. Don’t encourage him! she thought rather loudly, and Rochester shouted back. That little Pipling Giawa called out for help. It sounded desperate, and it needed help—my help. It couldn’t just slaughter nearly four thousand Androgenari without pleading for them first. How could anyone ignore that? reasoned Rochester Henderson. Max certainly understood the sentiment, Helen got it, and the Intelligence had actively encouraged it at the time. Everybody there, except for his mother, grasped the only real answer to his question. Anna fumed and tossed a fuchsia curl from her forehead. I have a lot of money and influence riding on a war down there, thought Anna reflectively. I made sure that Maximilian’s planet didn’t get strip-mined by setting up that little show, and now you come along and start messing with things.

Rochester was stunned. These are people, Anna, suggested Roche. They were happy and well adjusted when they were a part of the original experiment, but then their gods were called away for what? For a war. For one thousand years Humanity abandoned them to fend for themselves in the throws of a burgeoning ice age. So now what? We come back, not to help them, but to exploit them… and they are not like our heroes in ‘The Game’. When these people die, they stay dead. Anna scoffed at the idea. First of all, Rochester, these are not people. They are not Human. They are constructs, based on simpler animals. They are rather remarkable, Mother, thought Max with due consideration. Anna rolled her eyes. Oh Max, they were a science experiment! Now they have become an investment. They were endangered by Life-tech’s plans to take anything unique and patentable from this planet, and now the planet and they are protected. Why? Because I gave Life-tech something more valuable. Its as simple as that, concluded Anna Henderson. Helen took advantage of the wet blanket that statement threw over the conversation. I agree with Roche, Anna. They are people, and they don’t want to die, especially for the entertainment of their gods, considered Helen. Not for that. What if we made them like us? thought Anna suddenly with a degree of excitement. The silence lasted several seconds, and then Max posed a question. Well, Mother, what do you mean, “like us”? Rochester dropped his face into his hands and sighed audibly. What? wondered Anna, feeling ganged up on. Rochester answered for her. Immortal, purported Roche. She wants to make them eternally renewable, a non-diminishing asset, thought Rochester with contempt. They could go on dying again and again, like the players on ‘The Game’. She sees them as a commodity, Max. Its sick! Helen dropped her eyes to her office floor. Commodity, she thought with disbelief. How horrible.

Horrible? thought the Intelligence. That is what we did for you, for all of you. Some of you rejected it at first, and then you came around. At this Rochester dropped his jaw. Its not the same in this case, Intelligence. We Humans were given a choice. My mother wants to just do it, without any benefit of the doubt, because to her they don’t matter. Another silent pause ensued, and then Anna Henderson broke it with a thought. Let’s think about all the options, won’t we? If things go on and the show is a success, and I’m certain that it will be, perhaps their little war will be a one off. The syndication could bring in enough to satisfy Life-tech, but just , if it doesn’t it will be out of my hands, thought Anna with some finality. Then the Link dissolved, and Max and Rochester sat alone together in Max’s office, wondering where all of this would take them next.

Alone atop the western wall of Kraas, Kagan-la-Vrex cast its gaze upon the Copper Mountains and cursed their ruggedly vertical walls. They gave no easy access to the newly open waters along their western shore, and Kagan was vexed by this. As the Ki ruminated the events of the last few weeks, its mind considered both their negative and positive aspects. With Figfo dead, the revolution that would have carried Kagan’s ambitions forward had stalled, probably permanently. Plung had been taken too young, and this angered the Ki of Kraas, for that one had been its only heir. Then a voice reached Kagan from the doorway behind it, and as the Ki turned, its eyes fell upon hope. There in the doorway, looking happy and eager to see its grandmother, stood Kagan’s future all wrapped up in the form of a yearling Andro. This was Figfola-Plung, the product of that Andro’s original meeting with Klyky in the summer of their love. Once little Figfo saw the smile on Kagan’s face it did not hesitate but ran across the cool marble floor and leaped into that one’s waiting arms. The Ki of Kraas snuggled the child tightly. Kagan considered the possible uses for the child going forward, and as that one bounced the child upon its knee a smile touched the corner of its mouth. “If Klyky-la-Xcelpyr knew of your existence,” pondered the Ki of the Harooj, “I wonder what that one would think.”

End of Book 1

Watch for Book 2

Distant Kingdoms: The Drodenar Project, Wars and Rumours All book images available as custom full color prints

Glossary of Name Pronunciation

The following is a guide to some of the main names in the story, and these pronunciations follow throughout. These names are as common among Androgenari as names like Bob and Susan are on Earth.

Name

Pronunciation

Dhourtin

Door-tin

Froondi-la-Venedoondri

Froon-dee-la- Venedoondree

Giawa

Guy-a-wah

Ghurda

Ger-da

Gretak

Gree-tak

Gurjion

Gur-jee-on

Hanki

Han-kee

Has’ja

Has-jah

Ki

Kai (chief elder of a municipality)

Khuli

Koo-lye

Klyky

Kly-kee

Kuiper

Ky-per

M’zyk

Miz-ik

Pip

(Emperor)

Sol’ja

Sol-jah

Xcelpyr

Skel-peer

Xix

Zix

The Chief Cities of Elysium Drodenar’s single supercontinent

It is important to note that in the cities of the Hork River Valley, the suffix “rib” infers “on the river,” hence Ast on the River, Rib on the River and so on.

Astrib was the first and most northerly of five towns founded along the River Hork by the great Pip Krak-la-Krakin in a push to colonize the central river region of Elysium. The city was largely built from gourtuni wood, with limestone and marble added over many decades, and served as the first regional capital.

Riverib was built next of stone and gourtuni wood, 120 kilometers south of Astrib on the opposite bank, where its riverside wall came to be the tallest in the Hork Valley.

Midrib was built at the site of vast deposits of limestone and marble, 125 kilometres south of Riverib on the western bank of the river. Built primarily of these stones, it became the strongest of the river fortresses, and under the Ki Ping-la-Dhourtin, became the de facto capital of the region.

Gastrib was built on the eastern bank, 90 kilometres south of Midrib on a vast salt flat from blocks of native pink salt, and along with its twin city Straerib provides that commodity to all of Elysium.

Straerib was built 100 kilometres south of Gastrib on the same bank and also mines salt for the realm. The name means “Star on the River”.

Eastern Cities

Pruskinom, the southern capital, was built of red granite by Mankind in distant past. This was the seat of power for the first Pips of Elysium during the Golden Age, before Mankind abandoned the Androgenari.

Chow City one of the First Cities built in the Golden Age on the eastern coast, and named for the Man Eugene Chow, who created the Androgenari.

Goum one of the First Cities built in the Golden Age on the eastern coast 200 kilometres south of Chow City.

Western Cities

Eruda one of the First Cities built in the Golden Age on the west coast of Elysium.

Kraas one of the First Cities built in the Golden Age near the west coast of Elysium, on the eastern slopes of the Mountains of the Blood Moon.

Voughorf one of the First Cities built in the Golden Age on the northwestern plains of Elysium. This city would grow in power and wealth to rival Pruskinom, becoming known as the northern capital long after The Abandonment under the rule of the great Pip Sol’ja-la-Sol’ja. This and other factors led to the Great War.