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Dad's pistol. The wave of attackers staggered as individuals collapsed. The
others continued forward, snarling now. These were sounds of madness, not
the barking of dogs. She felt the sounds in her teeth, like blasti music
punching from a large speaker. Jaws and claws and knives and noise.
She twisted on her side, trying to see back to the boat. Now the pain
was real. She screamed, but the sound was lost in the madness. The mob raced
around her, heading for Mom and Dad. Her parents were crouched behind a
rendezvous pylon. There was a constant flicker from the pistol in Arne
Olsndot's hand. His pressure suit had protected him from the arrows.
The alien bodies were piling high. The pistol, with its smart
flechettes, was deadly effective. She saw him hand the pistol to Mom and run
out from under the boat, toward her. Johanna stretched her free arm towards
him and cried, screamed for him to go back.
Thirty meters. Twenty-five. Mom's covering fire swept around them,
driving the wolves back. A flurry of arrows descended on Olsndot as he ran,
arms upheld to shield his head. Twenty meters.
A wolf jumped high over Johanna. She had a quick glimpse of its short
fur and scarred rear end. It raced straight for Dad. Olsndot weaved, trying
to give his wife a clear shot, but the wolf was too quick. It jinked with
him, sprinting across the gap. It leaped, metal glittering on its paws.
Johanna saw red splash from Daddy's neck, and then the two of them were
down.
For a moment, Sjana Olsndot stopped shooting. That was enough. The mob
parted and a large group ran purposefully toward the boat. They had tanks of
some kind on their backs. The lead animal held a hose in its mouth. A dark
liquid jetted out ... and vanished in an explosion of fire. The wolf pack
played their crude flamethrower across the ground, across the pylon where
Sjana Olsndot stood, across the ranks of school children in coldsleep.
Johanna saw something moving, twisting in the flames and tarry smoke, saw
the light plastic of the coldsleep boxes slump and flow.
Johanna turned her face to the earth, then pushed herself up on her
good arm and tried to crawl toward the boat, the flames. And then the dark
was merciful, and she remembered no more.
.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush
-=*=-
Peregrine and Scriber watched the ambush preparations throughout the
afternoon: infantry arrayed on the slope west of the landing site, archers
behind them, flame troopers in pounce formation. Did the Lords of Flenser's
Castle understand what they were up against? The two debated the question
off and on. Jaqueramaphan thought the Flenserists did, that their arrogance
was so great that they simply expected to grab the prize. "They go for the
throat before the other side even knows there's a fight. It's worked
before."
Peregrine didn't answer immediately. Scriber could be right. It had
been fifty years since he had been in this part of the world. Back then,
Flenser's cult had been obscure (and not that interesting compared to what
existed elsewhere).
Treachery did sometimes befall travelers, but it was rarer than the
stay-at-homes would believe. Most people were friendly and enjoyed hearing
about the world beyond -- especially if the visitor was not threatening.
When treachery did occur, it was most often after an initial "sizing-up" to
determine just how powerful the visitors were and what could be gained from
their death. Immediate attack, without conversation, was very rare. Usually
it meant you had run into villains who were both sophisticated ... and
crazy. "I don't know. That is an ambush formation, but maybe the Flenserists
will hold it in reserve, and talk first."
Hours passed; the sun slid sideways into the north. There was noise
from the far side of the fallen star. Crap. They couldn't see anything from
here.
The hidden troops made no move. The minutes passed ... and they got
their first view of the visitor from heaven, or part of him anyway. There
were four legs per member, but it walked on its rear legs only. What a
clown! Yet ... it used its front paws for holding things. Not once did he
see it use a mouth; he doubted if the flat jaws could get a good hold,
anyway. Those forepaws were wonderfully agile. A single member could easily
use tools.
There were plenty of conversation sounds, even though only three
members were visible. After a while, they heard the much higher pitched
tones of organized thought; God, the creature was noisy. At this distance,
the sounds were muffled and distorted. Even so, they were like no mind he
had ever heard, nor like the confusion noises that some grazers made.
"Well?" hissed Jaqueramaphan.
"I have been all around the world -- and this creature is not part of
it."
"Yeah. Well, it reminds me of mantis bugs. You know, about this high --
" he opened a mouth about two inches wide. "Great for keeping your garden
free of pests ... great little killers."
Ugh. Peregrine hadn't thought of the resemblance. Mantises were cute
and harmless -- as far as people were concerned. But he knew the females
would eat their own mates. Imagine such creatures grown to giant size, and
possessed of pack mentality. Maybe it was just was well they couldn't go
prancing down to say hello.
A half hour passed. As the alien brought its cargo to ground, the
Flenser archers moved closer; the infantry packs arranged themselves in
assault wings.
A flight of arrows arched across the gap between the Flenserists and
the alien. One of the alien members went down immediately, and its thoughts
quieted. The rest moved out of sight beneath the flying house. The troopers
dashed forward, spaced in identity preserving formations; perhaps they meant
to take the alien alive.
... But the assault line crumpled, many yards short of the alien: no
arrows, no flames -- the troopers just fell. For a moment Peregrine thought
the Flenserists might have bit off more than they could chew. Then the
second wave ran over the first. Members continued to fall, but they were in
killing frenzy now, with only animal discipline left. The assault rolled
slowly forward, the rear climbing over the fallen. Another alien member
down.... Strange, he could still hear wisps of the other's thought. In tone
and tempo, it sounded the same as before the attack. How could anyone be so
composed with total death looming?
A combat whistle sounded, and the mob parted. A trooper raced through
and sprayed liquid fire. The flying house looked like meat on a griddle,
flame and smoke coming up all around it.
Wickwrackrum swore to himself. Good-bye alien.
The wrecked and wounded were low on the Flenserist priority list.
Seriously wounded were piled onto travoises and pulled far enough away so
their cries would not cause confusion. Cleanup squads bullied the trooper
fragments away from the flying house. The frags wandered the hummocky
meadow; here and there they coalesced into ad hoc packs. Some drifted among
the wounded, ignoring the screams in their need to find themselves.
When the tumult was quieted, three packs of whitejackets appeared. The
Servants of the Flenser walked under the flying house. One was out of sight
for a long while; perhaps it even got inside. The charred bodies of two
alien members were carefully placed on travoises -- more carefully than the
wounded troopers had been -- and hauled off.
Jaqueramaphan scanned the ruins with his eye-tool. He had given up
trying to hide it from Peregrine. A whitejackets carried something down from
the flying house. "Sst! There are other dead ones. Maybe from the fire. They
look like pups." The small figures had the mantis form. They were strapped
into travoises, and hauled out of sight over the hill's edge. No doubt they
had kherhog-drawn carts down there.
The Flenserists set a sentry ring around the landing site. Dozens of
fresh troopers stood on the hillside beyond it. No one was going to sneak
past that.
"So it's total murder." Peregrine sighed.
"Maybe not.... The first member they shot, I don't think it's quite
dead."
Wickwrackrum squinted his best eyes. Either Scriber was a wishful
thinker, or his tool gave him amazingly sharp sight. The first one hit had
been on the other side of the craft. The member had stopped thinking, but
that wasn't a sure sign of death. There was a whitejackets standing around
it now. The whitejackets put the creature onto a travois and began pulling
it away from the landing site, towards the southwest ... not quite the same
path that the others had taken.
"The thing is still alive! It's got an arrow in the chest, but I can
see it breathing." Scriber's heads turned toward Wickwrackrum. "I think we
should rescue it."
For a moment Peregrine couldn't think of anything to say; he just gaped
at the other. The center of Flenser's worldwide cabal was just a few miles
to the northwest. Flenserist power was undisputed for dozens of miles
inland, and right now they were virtually surrounded by an army. Scriber
wilted a little before Peregrine's astonishment, but it was clear he was not
joking. "Sure, I know it's risky. But that's what life is all about, right?
You're a pilgrim. You understand."
"Hmf." That was the pilgrim reputation, all right. But no soul can
survive total death -- and there were plenty of opportunities for such
annihilation on a pilgrimage. Pilgrims do know caution.
And yet, and yet this was the most marvelous encounter in all his
centuries of pilgrimage. To know these aliens, to become them ... it was a
temptation that surpassed all good sense.
"Look," said Scriber, "we could just go down and mingle with the
wounded. If we can make it across the field, we might get a look at that
last alien member, without risking too much." Jaqueramaphan was already
backing down from his observation point, and circling around to find a path
that wouldn't put him in silhouette. Wickwrackrum was torn; part of him got
up to follow and part of him hesitated. Hell, Jaqueramaphan had admitted to
being a spy; he carried an invention that was probably straight from the
Long Lakes sharpest intelligence people. The guy had to be a pro....
Peregrine took a quick look around their side of the hill and across
the valley. No sign of Tyrathect or anyone else. He crawled out of his
various hidey holes and followed the spy.
As much as possible, they stayed in the deep shadows cast by the
northering sun, and slipped from hummock to hummock where there was no
shade. Just before they got to the first of the wounded, Scriber said
something more, the scariest words of the afternoon. "Hey, don't worry. I've
read all about doing this sort of thing!"
A mob of frags and wounded is a terrifying, mind-numbing thing.
Singletons, duos, trios, a few quads: they wandered aimlessly, keening
without control. In most situations, this many people packed together on
just a few acres would have been an instant choir. In fact, he did notice
some sexual activity and some organized browsing, but for the most part
there was still too much pain for normal reactions. Wickwrackrum wondered
briefly if -- for all their talk of rationalism -- the Flenserists would
just leave the wreckage of their troops to reassemble itself. They'd have
some strange and crippled repacks if they did.
A few yards into the mob and Peregrine Wickwrackrum could feel
consciousness slipping from him. If he concentrated really hard, he could
remember who he was and that he must get to the other side of the meadow
without attracting attention.
Other thoughts, loud and unguarded, pummeled him:
... Blood lust and slashing ...
Glittering metal in the alien's hand ... the pain in her chest ...
coughing blood, falling ...
... Boot camp and before, my merge brother was so good to me ... Lord
Steel said that we are a grand experiment....
Running across the heather toward the stick-limbed monster. Leap, tines
in paw. Slash the monster's throat. Blood spouts high.
... Where am I? ... May I be part of you ... please?
Peregrine whirled at that last question. It was pointed and near. A
singleton was sniffing at him. He screeched the fragment off, and ran into
an open space. Up ahead, Jaque-what's-his-name was scarcely better off.
There was little chance they would be spotted here, but he was beginning to
wonder if he could make it through. Peregrine was only four and there were
singletons everywhere. On his right a quad was raping, grabbing at whatever
duos and singles happened by. Wic and Kwk and Rac and Rum tried to remember
just why they was here and where they was going. Concentrate on direct
sensation; what is really here: the sooty smell of the flamer's liquid fire
... the midges swarming everywhere, clotting the puddles of blood all black.
An awfully long time passed. Minutes.
Wic-Kwk-Rac-Rum looked ahead. He was almost out of it; the south edge
of the wreckage. He dragged himself to a patch of clean ground. Parts of him
vomited, and he collapsed. Sanity slowly returned. Wickwrackrum looked up,
saw Jaqueramaphan just inside the mob. Scriber was a big fellow, a sixsome,
but he was having at least as bad a time as Peregrine. He staggered from
side to side, eyes wide, snapping at himself and others.
Well, they had made it a good way across the meadow, and fast enough to
catch up with the whitejackets who was pulling the last alien member. If
they wanted to see anything more, they'd have to figure how to leave the mob
without attracting attention. Hmm. There were plenty of Flenserist uniforms
around ... without living owners. Peregrine walked two of himself over to
where a dead trooper lay.
"Jaqueramaphan! Here!" The great spy looked in his direction, and a
glint of intelligence returned to his eyes. He stumbled out of the mob and
sat down a few yards from Wickwrackrum. It was far nearer than would
normally be comfortable, but after what they'd been through, it seemed
barely close. He lay for a moment, gasping. "Sorry, I never guessed it would
be like that. I lost part of me back there ... never thought I'd get her
back."
Peregrine watched the progress of the whitejackets and its travois. It
wasn't going with the others; in a few seconds it would be out of sight.
With a disguise, maybe they could follow and -- no, it was just too risky.
He was beginning to think like the great spy. Peregrine pulled a camouflage
jacket off a corpse. They would still need disguises. Maybe they could hang
around here through the night, and get a closer look at the flying house.
After a moment, Scriber saw what he was doing, and began gathering
jackets for himself. They slunk between the piled bodies, looking for gear
that wasn't too stained and that Jaqueramaphan thought had consistent
insignia. There were plenty of paw claws and battle axes around. They'd end
up armed to the teeth, but they'd have to dump some of their backpacks....
One more jacket was all he needed, but his Rum was so broad in the shoulders
that nothing fit.
Peregrine didn't really understand what happened till later: a large
fragment, a threesome, was lying doggo in the pile of dead. Perhaps it was
grieving, long after its member's dying dirge; in any case, it was almost
totally thoughtless until Peregrine began pulling the jacket off its dead
member. Then, "You'll not rob from mine!" He heard the buzz of nearby rage,
and then there was slashing pain across his Rum's gut. Peregrine writhed in
agony, leaped upon the attacker. For a moment of mindless rage, they fought.
Peregrine's battle axes slashed again and again, covering his muzzles with
blood. When he came to his senses one of the three was dead, the others
running into the mob of wounded.
Wickwrackrum huddled around the pain in his Rum. The attacker had been
wearing tines. Rum was slashed from ribs to crotch. Wickwrackrum stumbled;
some of his paws were caught in his own guts. He tried to nose the ruins
back into his member's abdomen. The pain was fading, the sky in Rum's eyes
slowly darkening. Peregrine stifled the screams he felt climbing within him.
I'm only four, and one of me is dying! For years he'd been warning himself
that four was just too small a number for a pilgrim. Now he'd pay the price,
trapped and mindless in a land of tyrants.
For a moment, the pain eased and his thoughts were clear. The fight
hadn't really caused much notice amid the dirges, rapes, and simple attacks
of madness. Wickwrackrum's fight had only been a little bigger and bloodier
than usual. The whitejackets by the flying house had looked briefly in their
direction, but were now back to tearing open the alien cargo.
Scriber was sitting nearby, watching in horror. Part of him would move
a little closer, then pull back. He was fighting with himself, trying to
decide whether to help. Peregrine almost pleaded with him, but the effort
was too great. Besides, Scriber was no pilgrim. Giving part of himself was
not something Jaqueramaphan could do voluntarily....
Memories came flooding now, Rum's efforts to sort things out and let
the rest of him know all that had been before. For a moment, he was sailing
a twinhull across the South Sea, a newby with Rum as a pup; memories of the
island person who had born Rum, and of packs before that. Once around the
world they had traveled, surviving the slums of a tropic collective, and the
war of the Plains Herds. Ah, the stories they had heard, the tricks they had
learned, the people they had met.... Wic Kwk Rac Rum had been a terrific
combination, clear-thinking, lighthearted, with a strange ability to keep
all the memories in place; that had been the real reason he had gone so long
without growing to five or six. Now he would pay perhaps the greatest price
of all....
Rum sighed, and could not see the sky anymore. Wickwrackrum's mind
went, not as it does in the heat of battle when the sound of thought is
lost, not as it does in the companionable murmur of sleep. There was
suddenly no fourth presence, just the three, trying to make a person. The
trio stood and patted nervously at itself. There was danger everywhere, but
beyond its understanding. It sidled hopefully toward a sixsome sitting
nearby -- Jaqueramaphan? -- but the other shooed it away. It looked
nervously at the mob of wounded. There was completeness there ... and
madness too.
A huge male with deeply scarred haunches sat at the edge of the mob. It
caught the threesome's eye, and slowly crawled across the open space toward
them. Wic and Kwk and Rac back away, their pelts puffing up in fright and
fascination; the scarred one was at least half again the weight of any of
them.
... Where am I? ... May I be part of you ... please? Its keening
carried memories, jumbled and mostly inaccessible, of blood and fighting, of
military training before that. Somehow, the creature was as frightened of
those early memories as of anything. It lay its muzzle -- caked with dried
blood -- on the ground and belly crawled toward them. The other three almost
ran; random coupling was something that scared all of them. They backed and
backed, out onto the clear meadow. The other followed, but slowly, still
crawling. Kwk licked her lips and walked back towards the stranger. She
extended her neck and sniffed along the other's throat. Wic and Rac
approached from the sides.
For an instant there was a partial join. Sweaty, bloody, wounded -- a
melding made in hell. The thought seemed to come from nowhere, glowed in the
four for a moment of cynical humor. Then the unity was lost, and they were
just three animals licking the face of a fourth.
Peregrine looked around the meadow with new eyes. He had been
disintegrate for just a few minutes: The wounded from the Tenth Attack
Infantry were just as before. Flenser's Servants were still busy with the
alien cargo. Jaqueramaphan was slowly backing away, his expression a
compound of wonder and horror. Peregrine lowered a head and hissed at him,
"I won't betray you, Scriber."
The spy froze. "That you, Peregrine?"
"More or less." Peregrine still, but Wickwrackrum no more.
"H-how can you do it? Y-you just lost...."
"I'm a pilgrim, remember? We live with this sort of thing all our
lives." There was sarcasm in his voice; this was more or less the cliché
Jaqueramaphan had been spouting earlier. But there was some truth to it.
Already Peregrine Wickwrack...scar felt like a person. Maybe this new
combination had a chance.
"Uk. Well, yes.... What should we do now?" The spy looked nervously in
all directions, but his eyes on Peregrine were the most worried of all.
Now it was Wickwrackscar's turn to be puzzled. What was he doing here?
Killing the strange enemy... No. That's what the Attack Infantry was doing.
He would have nothing to do with that, no matter what the scarred one's
memories. He and Scriber had come here to ... to rescue the alien, as much
of it as possible. Peregrine grabbed hold of the memory and held it
uncritically; it was something real, from the past identity he must
preserve. He glanced towards where he had last seen the alien member. The
whitejackets and his travois were no longer visible, but he'd been heading
along an obvious path.
"We can still get ourselves the live one," he said to Jaqueramaphan.
Scriber stamped and sidled. He was not quite the enthusiast of before.
"After you, my friend."
Wickwrackscar straightened his combat jackets and brushed some of the
dried blood off. Then he strutted off across the meadow, passing just a
hundred yards from the Flenser's Servants around the enemy -- around the
flying house. He flipped them a sharp salute, which was ignored.
Jaqueramaphan followed, carrying two crossbows. The other was doing his best
to imitate Peregrine's strut, but he really didn't have the right stuff.
Then they were past the military crest of the hill and descending into
shadows. The sounds of the wounded were muted. Wickwrackscar broke into
double time, loping from switchback to switchback as he descended the rough
path. From here he could see the harbor; the boats were still at the piers,
and there wasn't much activity. Behind him, Scriber was talking nervous
nonsense. Peregrine just ran faster, his confidence fueled by general newby
confusion. His new member, the scarred one, had been the muscle behind an
infantry officer. That pack had known the layout of the harbors and the
castle, and all the passwords of the day.
Two more switchbacks and they overran the Flenser Servant and his
travois. "Hallo!" shouted Peregrine. "We bring new instructions from Lord
Steel." A chill went down his spines at the name, remembering Steel for the
first time. The Servant dropped the travois and turned to face them.
Wickwrackscar didn't know his name, but he remembered the guy: fairly
high-ranking, an arrogant get-of-bitches. It was a surprise to see him
pulling the travois himself.
Peregrine stopped only twenty yards from the whitejackets.
Jaqueramaphan was looking down from the switchback above; his bows were out
of sight. The Servant looked nervously at Peregrine and up at Scriber.
"What do you two want?"
Did he suspect them already? No matter. Wickwrackscar braced himself
for a killing charge ... and suddenly he was seeing in fours, his mind
blurred with newby dizziness. Now that he needed to kill, the scarred one's
horror of the act undid him. Damn! Wickwrackscar cast wildly about for
something to say. And now that murder was out of his mind, his new memories
came easily: "Lord Steel's will, that the creature be brought with us to the
harbor. You, ah, you are to return to the invader's flying thing."
The whitejackets licked his lips. His eyes swept sharply across
Peregrine's uniforms, and Scriber's. "Impostors!" he screamed, at the same
instant lunging one of his members toward the travois. Metal glinted in the
member's forepaw. He's going to kill the alien!
There was a bow snap from above, and the runner fell, a shaft through
its eye. Wickwrackscar charged the others, forcing his scarbacked member out
front. There was an instant of dizziness and then he was whole again,
screaming death at the four. The two packs crashed together, Scar carrying a
couple of the Servant's members over the edge of the path. Arrows hummed
around them. Wic Kwk Rac twisted, slashing axes at whatever remained
standing.
Then things were quiet, and Peregrine had his thoughts again. Three of
the Servant's members twitched on the path, the earth around them slick with
blood. He pushed them off the path, near where his Scar had killed the
others. Not one of the Servant had survived; it was total death, and he was
responsible. He sagged to the ground, seeing in fours again.
"The alien. It's still alive," said Scriber. He was standing around the
travois, sniffing at the mantis-like body. "Not conscious though." He
grabbed the travois poles in his jaws and looked at Peregrine. "What ...
what now, Pilgrim?"
Peregrine lay in the dirt, trying to put his mind back together. What
now, indeed. How had he gotten into this mess? Newby confusion was the only
possibility. He'd simply lost track of all the reasons why rescuing the
alien was impossible. And now he was stuck with it. Pack crap. Part of him
crawled to the edge of the path, and looked around: There was no sign they
had attracted attention. In the harbor, the boats were still empty; most of
the infantry was up in the hills. No doubt the Servants were holding the
dead ones at the harbor fort. So when would they move them across the
straits to Hidden Island? Were they waiting for this one's arrival?
"Maybe we could grab some boats, escape south," said Scriber. What an
ingenious fellow. Didn't he know that there would be sentry lines around the
harbor? Even knowing the passwords, they'd be reported as soon as they
passed one. It would be a million-to-one shot. But it had been a flat
impossibility before Scar became part of him.
He studied the creature lying on the travois. So strange, yet real. And
it was more than just the creature, though that was the most spectacular
strangeness. Its bloodied clothes were a finer fabric than the Pilgrim had
ever seen. Tucked in beside the creature's body was a pink pillow with
elaborate stitchery. With a twist of perspective he realized it was alien
art, the face of a long-snouted animal embroidered on the pillow.
So escape through the harbor was a million-to-one shot; some prizes
might be worth such odds.
"...We'll go down a little farther," he said.
Jaqueramaphan pulled the travois. Wickwrackscar strode ahead of him,
trying to look important and officerly. With Scar along, it wasn't hard. The
member was the picture of martial competence; you had to be on the inside to
know the softness.
They were almost down to sea level.
The path was wider now and roughly paved. He knew the harbor fort was
above them, hidden by the trees. The sun was well out of the north, rising
into the eastern sky. Flowers were everywhere, white and red and violet,
their tufts floating thick on the breeze -- the arctic plant life taking
advantage of its long day of summer. Walking on sun-dappled cobblestones,
you might almost forget the ambush on the hilltops.
Very soon, they'd hit a sentry line. Lines and rings are interesting
people; not great minds, but about the largest effective pack you'd find
outside the tropics. There were stories of lines ten miles long, with
thousands of members. The largest Peregrine had ever seen had less than one
hundred: Take a group of ordinary people and train them to string out, not
in packs but as individual members. If each member stayed just a few yards
from its nearest neighbors, they could maintain something like the mentality
of a trio. The group as a whole was scarcely brighter -- you can't have much
in the way of deep thoughts when it takes seconds for an idea to percolate
across your mind. Yet the line had an excellent grasp of what was happening
along itself. And if any members were attacked, the entire line would know
about it with the speed of sound. Peregrine had served on lines before; it
was a strung out existence, but not nearly as dull as ordinary sentry duty.
It's hard to be bored when you're as stupid as a line.
There! A lone member stuck its neck around a tree and challenged them.
Wickwrackscar knew the password of course, and they were past the outer
line. But that passage and their description was known to the entire line
now -- and surely to normal soldiers at the harbor fort.
Hell. There was no cure for it; he would go ahead with the crazy
scheme. He and Scriber and the alien member passed through the two inner
sentries. He could smell the sea now. They came out of the trees onto the
rock-walled harbor. Silver sparkled off the water in a million changing
flecks. A large multiboat bobbed between two piers. Its masts were like a
forest of tilting, leafless trees. Just a mile across the water they could
see Hidden Island. Part of him dismissed the sight as a commonplace; part of
him stumbled in awe. This was the center of it, the worldwide Flenser
movement. Up in those dour towers, the original Flenser had done his
experiments, written his essays ... and schemed to rule the world.
There were a few people on the piers. Most were doing maintenance:
sewing sails, relashing twinhulls. They watched the travois with sharp
curiosity, but none approached. So all we have to do is amble down to the
end of the pier, cut the lashings on an outside twinhull, and take off.
There were probably enough packs on the pier alone to prevent that -- and
their cries would surely draw the troops he saw by the harbor fort. In fact,
it was a little surprising that no one up there had taken serious notice of
them yet.
These boats were cruder than the Southseas version. Part of the
difference was superficial: Flenser doctrine forbade idle decoration on
boats. Part of it was functional: These craft were designed for both winter
and summer seasons, and for troop hauling. But he was sure he could sail
them given the chance. He walked to the end of the pier. Hmm. A bit of luck.
The bow-starboard twinhull, the one right next to him by the pier, looked
fast and well-provisioned. It was probably a long-range scout.
"Ssst. Something's going on up there." Scriber jerked a head toward the
fort.
The troops were closing ranks -- a mass salute? Five Servants swept by
the infantry, and bugles sounded from the fort's towers. Scar had seen
things like this, but Peregrine didn't trust the memory. How could --
A banner of red and yellow rose over the fort. On the piers, soldiers
and boatworkers dropped to their bellies. Peregrine dropped and hissed to
the other, "Get down!"
"Wha -- ?"
"That's Flenser's flag ... his personal presence banner!"
"That's impossible." Flenser had been assassinated in the Republic six
tendays earlier. The mob that tore him apart had killed dozens of his top
supporters at the same time.... But it was only the word of the Republican
Political Police that all Flenser's bodies had been recovered.
Up by the fort, a single pack pranced between the ranks of soldiers and
whitejackets. Silver and gold glinted on its shoulders. Scriber edged a
member behind a piling and surreptitiously brought out his eye-tool. After a
moment: "Soul's end ... it's Tyrathect."
"She's no more the Flenser than I am," said Peregrine. They had
traveled together from Eastgate all the way across the Icefangs. She was
obviously a newby, and not well-integrated. She had seemed reserved and
innerlooking, but there had been rages. Peregrine knew there was a deadly
streak in Tyrathect.... Now he guessed whence it came. At least some of
Flenser's members had escaped assassination, and he and Scriber had spent
three tendays in its presence; Peregrine shivered.
At the fort's gate, the pack called Tyrathect turned to face the troops
and Servants. She gestured, and bugles sounded again. The new Peregrine
understood that signal: an Incalling. He suppressed the sudden urge to
follow the others on the pier as they walked belly-low toward the fort, all
their eyes upon The Master. Scriber looked back at him, and Peregrine
nodded. They had needed a miracle, and here was one -- provided by the enemy
itself! Scriber moved slowly toward the end of the pier, pulling the travois
from shadow to shadow.
Still no one looked back. For good reason; Wickwrackscar remembered
what happened to those showing disrespect at an Incalling. "Pull the
creature on the bow-starboard boat," he said to Jaqueramaphan. He leaped off
the pier and scattered across the multiboat. It was great to be back on
swaying decks, each member drifting a different direction! He sniffed among
the bow catapults, listened to the hulls and the creak of the lashings.
But Scar was no sailor, and had no recollection of what might be the
most important thing.
"What are you looking for?" came Scriber's Hightalk hiss.
"Scuttle knockouts." If they were here, they looked nothing like the
Southseas version.
"Oh," said Scriber, "that's easy. These are Northern Skimmers. There
are swingout panels and a thin hull behind." Two of him dropped from sight
for a second and there was a banging sound. The heads reappeared, shaking
water off. He grinned surprise, taken aback by his own success. "Why, it's
just like in the books!" his expression seemed to say.
Wickwrackscar found them now; the panels had looked like crew rests,
but they were easily pulled out and the wood behind was easy to break with a
battle axe. He kept a head out, looking to see if he were attracting
attention, while at the same time he hacked at the knockouts. Peregrine and
Scriber worked their way across the bow ranks of the multiboat; if those
foundered, it would take a while to get the twinhulls behind them free.
Oops. One of the boat workers was looking back this way. Part of the
fellow continued up the hillside, part strained to return to the pier. The
bugles sounded their imperative once more, and the pack followed the call.
But his whining alarums were causing other heads to turn.
No time for stealth. Peregrine hotfooted it back to the bow-starboard
twinhull. Scriber was cutting the braid-bone fasteners that held the
twinhull to the rest of the ship. "You have any sailing experience?"
Peregrine said. Foolish question.
"Well, I've read about it -- "
"Fine!" Peregrine shooed him all into the twinhull's starboard pod.
"Keep the alien safe. Hunker down, and be as quiet as you can." He could
sail the twinhull by himself, but he'd have to be all over to do it; the
fewer confusing thought sounds, the better.
Peregrine poled their boat forward from the multiboat. The scuttling
wasn't obvious yet, but he could see water in the bow hulls. He reversed his
pole and used its hook to draw the nearest boat into the gap created by
their departure. Another five minutes and there'd be just a row of masts
sticking out of the water. Five minutes. No way they could make it ... if
not for Flenser's Incalling: up by the fort, troopers were turning and
pointing at the harbor. Yet still they must attend on Flenser/Tyrathect. How
long would it be before someone important decided that even an Incalling can
be overridden?
He hoisted canvas.
The wind caught the twinhull's sail and they pulled out from the pier.
Peregrine danced this way and that, the shrouds grasped tightly in his
mouths. Even without Rum, what memories the taste of salt and cordage
brought back! He could feel where tautness and slack meant that the wind was
giving all it could. The twin hulls were sleek and narrow, the mast of
ironwood creaking as the wind pulled on the sail.
The Flenserists were streaming down the hillside now. Archers stopped
and a haze of arrows rose. Peregrine jerked on the shrouds, tipping the boat
into a left turn on one hull. Scriber leaped to shield the alien. To
starboard ahead of them the water puckered, but only a couple of shafts
struck the boat. Peregrine twisted the shrouds again, and they jigged back
in the other direction. Another few seconds and they'd be out of bowshot.
Soldiers raced down to the piers, shrieking as they saw what was left of
their ship. The bow ranks were flooded; the whole front of the anchorage was
a wreck of sunken boats. And the catapults were in the bow.
Peregrine swept his boat back, racing straight south, out of the
harbor. To starboard, he could see they were passing the southern tip of
Hidden Island. The Castle towers hung tall and ominous. He knew there were
heavy catapults there, and some fast boats in the island harbor. A few more
minutes and even that wouldn't matter. He was gradually realizing just how
nimble their boat was. He should have guessed they'd put their best in a
corner bow position. It was probably used for scouting and overtaking.
Jaqueramaphan was piled up at the stern of his hull, staring across the
water at the mainland harbor. Soldiers, workers, whitejackets were crowded
in a mind-numbing jumble at the ends of the piers. Even from here, you could
see the place was a madhouse of rage and frustration. A silly grin spread
across Scriber as he realized they really were going to make it. He
clambered onto the rail and jumped into the air to flip a member at their
enemies. The obscene gesture nearly cast him overboard, but it was seen: the
distant rage brightened for a moment.
They were well south of Hidden Island; even its catapults could not
reach them now. The packs on the mainland shore were lost to view. Flenser's
personal banner still whipped cheerfully in the morning breeze, a dwindling
square of red and yellow against the forest's green.
All Peregrine looked at the narrows, where Whale Island kissed close to
the mainland. His Scar remembered that the choke point was heavily
fortified. Normally that would have been the end of them. But its archers
had been withdrawn to participate in the ambush, and its catapults were
under repair.
... so the miracle had happened. They were alive and free and they had
the greatest find of all his pilgrimage. He shouted joy so loud that
Jaqueramaphan cowered and the sound echoed back from the green and
snow-patched hills.
.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush
-=*=-
Jefri Olsndot had few clear memories of the ambush and saw none of the
violence. There had been the noises outside, and Mom's terrified voice,
screaming for him to stay inside. Then there had been lots of smoke. He
remembered choking, trying to crawl to clear air. He blacked out. When he
woke, he was strapped onto some sort of first-aid cot, with the big dog
creatures all around. They looked so funny with their white jackets and
braid. He remembered wondering where their owners were. They made the
strangest noises: gobbling, buzzing, hissing. Some of it was so high-pitched
he could barely hear it.
For while he was on a boat, then on a wheeled cart. Before this, he had
only seen pictures of castles, but the place they took him was the real
thing, its towers dark and overhanging, its big stone walls sharply angled.
They climbed through shadowed streets that went skumpety skumpety beneath
the cart's wheels. The long-necked dogs hadn't hurt him, but the straps were
awfully tight. He couldn't sit up; he couldn't see to the sides. He asked
about Mom and Dad and Johanna, and he cried a little. A long snout appeared
by his face, the soft nose pushing at his cheek. There was a buzzing sound
he felt all the way down to his bones. He couldn't tell if the gesture was
comfort or threat, but he gasped and tried to stop the tears. They didn't
befit a good Straumer, anyway.
More white-jacketed dogs, ones with silly shoulder patches of gold and
silver.
His cot was being dragged again, this time down a torch-lit tunnel.
They stopped by a double door, two meters wide but scarcely one high. A pair
of metal triangles was set in the blond wood. Later Jefri learned they
signified a number -- fifteen or thirty-three, depending on whether you
counted by legs or fore-claws. Much, much later he learned that his keeper
had counted by legs and the builder of the castle by fore-claws. Thus he
ended up in the wrong room. It was a mistake that would change the history
of worlds.
Somehow the dogs opened the doors and dragged Jefri in. They clustered
around the cot, their snouts tugging loose his restraints. He had a glimpse
of rows of needle-sharp teeth. The gobbling and buzzing was very loud. When
Jefri sat up, they backed off. Two of them held the doors as the other four
exited. The doors slammed shut and the circus act was gone.
Jefri stared at the doors for a long moment. He knew it was no circus
act; the dog things must be intelligent. Somehow they had surprised his
parents and sister. Where are they? He almost started to cry again. He
hadn't seen them by the spaceship. They must have been captured, too. They
were all being held prisoner in this castle, but in separate dungeons.
Somehow they must find each other!
He climbed to his feet, swayed dizzily for a moment. Everything still
smelled like smoke. It didn't matter; it was time to start working on
getting out. He walked around the room. It was huge, and not like any
dungeon he'd seen in stories. The ceiling was very high, an arching dome. It
was cut by twelve vertical slots. Sunlight fell in a dust-moted stream from
one of them, splashing off the padded wall. It was the room's only
illumination, but more than enough on this sunny day. Low-railed balconies
stuck out from the four corners of the room just below the dome. He could
see doors in the walls behind them. Heavy scrolls hung by the side of each
balcony. There was writing on them, really big print. He walked to the wall
and felt the stiff fabric. The letters were painted on. The only way you
could change the display was by rubbing it out. Wow. Just like olden times
on Nyjora, before Straumli Realm! The baseboard below the scrolls was black
stone, glossy. Someone had used scraps of chalk to draw on it. The
stick-figure dogs were crude; they reminded Jefri of pictures little kids
draw in kinderschool.
He stopped, remembering all the children they had left aboard the boat,
and on the ground around it. Just a few days ago, he'd been playing with
them at the High Lab school. The last year had been so strange -- boring and
adventurous at the same time. The barracks had been fun with all the
families together, but the grownups hardly ever had time to play. At night
the sky was so different from Straum's. "We're beyond the Beyond," Mom had
said, "making God." When she first said it, she laughed. Later when people
said it, they seemed more and more scared. The last hours had been crazy,
the coldsleep drills finally for real. All his friends were in those
boxes.... He wept into the awful silence. There was no one to hear, no one
to help him.
After a few moments he was thinking again. If the dogs didn't try to
open the boxes, his friends should be okay. If Mom and Dad could make the
dogs understand....
Strange furniture was scattered around the room: low tables and
cabinets, and racks like kids' jungle gyms -- all made from the same blond
wood as the doors. Black pillows lay around the widest table. That one was
littered with scrolls, all full of writing and still drawings. He walked the
length of one wall, ten meters or so. The stone flooring ended. There was a
two-by-two bed of gravel where the walls met. Something smelled even
stronger than smoke here. A bathroom smell. Jefri laughed: they really were
like dogs!
The padded walls soaked up his laughter, echoless. Something ... made
Jefri look up and across the room. He'd just assumed he was alone here; in
others continued forward, snarling now. These were sounds of madness, not
the barking of dogs. She felt the sounds in her teeth, like blasti music
punching from a large speaker. Jaws and claws and knives and noise.
She twisted on her side, trying to see back to the boat. Now the pain
was real. She screamed, but the sound was lost in the madness. The mob raced
around her, heading for Mom and Dad. Her parents were crouched behind a
rendezvous pylon. There was a constant flicker from the pistol in Arne
Olsndot's hand. His pressure suit had protected him from the arrows.
The alien bodies were piling high. The pistol, with its smart
flechettes, was deadly effective. She saw him hand the pistol to Mom and run
out from under the boat, toward her. Johanna stretched her free arm towards
him and cried, screamed for him to go back.
Thirty meters. Twenty-five. Mom's covering fire swept around them,
driving the wolves back. A flurry of arrows descended on Olsndot as he ran,
arms upheld to shield his head. Twenty meters.
A wolf jumped high over Johanna. She had a quick glimpse of its short
fur and scarred rear end. It raced straight for Dad. Olsndot weaved, trying
to give his wife a clear shot, but the wolf was too quick. It jinked with
him, sprinting across the gap. It leaped, metal glittering on its paws.
Johanna saw red splash from Daddy's neck, and then the two of them were
down.
For a moment, Sjana Olsndot stopped shooting. That was enough. The mob
parted and a large group ran purposefully toward the boat. They had tanks of
some kind on their backs. The lead animal held a hose in its mouth. A dark
liquid jetted out ... and vanished in an explosion of fire. The wolf pack
played their crude flamethrower across the ground, across the pylon where
Sjana Olsndot stood, across the ranks of school children in coldsleep.
Johanna saw something moving, twisting in the flames and tarry smoke, saw
the light plastic of the coldsleep boxes slump and flow.
Johanna turned her face to the earth, then pushed herself up on her
good arm and tried to crawl toward the boat, the flames. And then the dark
was merciful, and she remembered no more.
.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush
-=*=-
Peregrine and Scriber watched the ambush preparations throughout the
afternoon: infantry arrayed on the slope west of the landing site, archers
behind them, flame troopers in pounce formation. Did the Lords of Flenser's
Castle understand what they were up against? The two debated the question
off and on. Jaqueramaphan thought the Flenserists did, that their arrogance
was so great that they simply expected to grab the prize. "They go for the
throat before the other side even knows there's a fight. It's worked
before."
Peregrine didn't answer immediately. Scriber could be right. It had
been fifty years since he had been in this part of the world. Back then,
Flenser's cult had been obscure (and not that interesting compared to what
existed elsewhere).
Treachery did sometimes befall travelers, but it was rarer than the
stay-at-homes would believe. Most people were friendly and enjoyed hearing
about the world beyond -- especially if the visitor was not threatening.
When treachery did occur, it was most often after an initial "sizing-up" to
determine just how powerful the visitors were and what could be gained from
their death. Immediate attack, without conversation, was very rare. Usually
it meant you had run into villains who were both sophisticated ... and
crazy. "I don't know. That is an ambush formation, but maybe the Flenserists
will hold it in reserve, and talk first."
Hours passed; the sun slid sideways into the north. There was noise
from the far side of the fallen star. Crap. They couldn't see anything from
here.
The hidden troops made no move. The minutes passed ... and they got
their first view of the visitor from heaven, or part of him anyway. There
were four legs per member, but it walked on its rear legs only. What a
clown! Yet ... it used its front paws for holding things. Not once did he
see it use a mouth; he doubted if the flat jaws could get a good hold,
anyway. Those forepaws were wonderfully agile. A single member could easily
use tools.
There were plenty of conversation sounds, even though only three
members were visible. After a while, they heard the much higher pitched
tones of organized thought; God, the creature was noisy. At this distance,
the sounds were muffled and distorted. Even so, they were like no mind he
had ever heard, nor like the confusion noises that some grazers made.
"Well?" hissed Jaqueramaphan.
"I have been all around the world -- and this creature is not part of
it."
"Yeah. Well, it reminds me of mantis bugs. You know, about this high --
" he opened a mouth about two inches wide. "Great for keeping your garden
free of pests ... great little killers."
Ugh. Peregrine hadn't thought of the resemblance. Mantises were cute
and harmless -- as far as people were concerned. But he knew the females
would eat their own mates. Imagine such creatures grown to giant size, and
possessed of pack mentality. Maybe it was just was well they couldn't go
prancing down to say hello.
A half hour passed. As the alien brought its cargo to ground, the
Flenser archers moved closer; the infantry packs arranged themselves in
assault wings.
A flight of arrows arched across the gap between the Flenserists and
the alien. One of the alien members went down immediately, and its thoughts
quieted. The rest moved out of sight beneath the flying house. The troopers
dashed forward, spaced in identity preserving formations; perhaps they meant
to take the alien alive.
... But the assault line crumpled, many yards short of the alien: no
arrows, no flames -- the troopers just fell. For a moment Peregrine thought
the Flenserists might have bit off more than they could chew. Then the
second wave ran over the first. Members continued to fall, but they were in
killing frenzy now, with only animal discipline left. The assault rolled
slowly forward, the rear climbing over the fallen. Another alien member
down.... Strange, he could still hear wisps of the other's thought. In tone
and tempo, it sounded the same as before the attack. How could anyone be so
composed with total death looming?
A combat whistle sounded, and the mob parted. A trooper raced through
and sprayed liquid fire. The flying house looked like meat on a griddle,
flame and smoke coming up all around it.
Wickwrackrum swore to himself. Good-bye alien.
The wrecked and wounded were low on the Flenserist priority list.
Seriously wounded were piled onto travoises and pulled far enough away so
their cries would not cause confusion. Cleanup squads bullied the trooper
fragments away from the flying house. The frags wandered the hummocky
meadow; here and there they coalesced into ad hoc packs. Some drifted among
the wounded, ignoring the screams in their need to find themselves.
When the tumult was quieted, three packs of whitejackets appeared. The
Servants of the Flenser walked under the flying house. One was out of sight
for a long while; perhaps it even got inside. The charred bodies of two
alien members were carefully placed on travoises -- more carefully than the
wounded troopers had been -- and hauled off.
Jaqueramaphan scanned the ruins with his eye-tool. He had given up
trying to hide it from Peregrine. A whitejackets carried something down from
the flying house. "Sst! There are other dead ones. Maybe from the fire. They
look like pups." The small figures had the mantis form. They were strapped
into travoises, and hauled out of sight over the hill's edge. No doubt they
had kherhog-drawn carts down there.
The Flenserists set a sentry ring around the landing site. Dozens of
fresh troopers stood on the hillside beyond it. No one was going to sneak
past that.
"So it's total murder." Peregrine sighed.
"Maybe not.... The first member they shot, I don't think it's quite
dead."
Wickwrackrum squinted his best eyes. Either Scriber was a wishful
thinker, or his tool gave him amazingly sharp sight. The first one hit had
been on the other side of the craft. The member had stopped thinking, but
that wasn't a sure sign of death. There was a whitejackets standing around
it now. The whitejackets put the creature onto a travois and began pulling
it away from the landing site, towards the southwest ... not quite the same
path that the others had taken.
"The thing is still alive! It's got an arrow in the chest, but I can
see it breathing." Scriber's heads turned toward Wickwrackrum. "I think we
should rescue it."
For a moment Peregrine couldn't think of anything to say; he just gaped
at the other. The center of Flenser's worldwide cabal was just a few miles
to the northwest. Flenserist power was undisputed for dozens of miles
inland, and right now they were virtually surrounded by an army. Scriber
wilted a little before Peregrine's astonishment, but it was clear he was not
joking. "Sure, I know it's risky. But that's what life is all about, right?
You're a pilgrim. You understand."
"Hmf." That was the pilgrim reputation, all right. But no soul can
survive total death -- and there were plenty of opportunities for such
annihilation on a pilgrimage. Pilgrims do know caution.
And yet, and yet this was the most marvelous encounter in all his
centuries of pilgrimage. To know these aliens, to become them ... it was a
temptation that surpassed all good sense.
"Look," said Scriber, "we could just go down and mingle with the
wounded. If we can make it across the field, we might get a look at that
last alien member, without risking too much." Jaqueramaphan was already
backing down from his observation point, and circling around to find a path
that wouldn't put him in silhouette. Wickwrackrum was torn; part of him got
up to follow and part of him hesitated. Hell, Jaqueramaphan had admitted to
being a spy; he carried an invention that was probably straight from the
Long Lakes sharpest intelligence people. The guy had to be a pro....
Peregrine took a quick look around their side of the hill and across
the valley. No sign of Tyrathect or anyone else. He crawled out of his
various hidey holes and followed the spy.
As much as possible, they stayed in the deep shadows cast by the
northering sun, and slipped from hummock to hummock where there was no
shade. Just before they got to the first of the wounded, Scriber said
something more, the scariest words of the afternoon. "Hey, don't worry. I've
read all about doing this sort of thing!"
A mob of frags and wounded is a terrifying, mind-numbing thing.
Singletons, duos, trios, a few quads: they wandered aimlessly, keening
without control. In most situations, this many people packed together on
just a few acres would have been an instant choir. In fact, he did notice
some sexual activity and some organized browsing, but for the most part
there was still too much pain for normal reactions. Wickwrackrum wondered
briefly if -- for all their talk of rationalism -- the Flenserists would
just leave the wreckage of their troops to reassemble itself. They'd have
some strange and crippled repacks if they did.
A few yards into the mob and Peregrine Wickwrackrum could feel
consciousness slipping from him. If he concentrated really hard, he could
remember who he was and that he must get to the other side of the meadow
without attracting attention.
Other thoughts, loud and unguarded, pummeled him:
... Blood lust and slashing ...
Glittering metal in the alien's hand ... the pain in her chest ...
coughing blood, falling ...
... Boot camp and before, my merge brother was so good to me ... Lord
Steel said that we are a grand experiment....
Running across the heather toward the stick-limbed monster. Leap, tines
in paw. Slash the monster's throat. Blood spouts high.
... Where am I? ... May I be part of you ... please?
Peregrine whirled at that last question. It was pointed and near. A
singleton was sniffing at him. He screeched the fragment off, and ran into
an open space. Up ahead, Jaque-what's-his-name was scarcely better off.
There was little chance they would be spotted here, but he was beginning to
wonder if he could make it through. Peregrine was only four and there were
singletons everywhere. On his right a quad was raping, grabbing at whatever
duos and singles happened by. Wic and Kwk and Rac and Rum tried to remember
just why they was here and where they was going. Concentrate on direct
sensation; what is really here: the sooty smell of the flamer's liquid fire
... the midges swarming everywhere, clotting the puddles of blood all black.
An awfully long time passed. Minutes.
Wic-Kwk-Rac-Rum looked ahead. He was almost out of it; the south edge
of the wreckage. He dragged himself to a patch of clean ground. Parts of him
vomited, and he collapsed. Sanity slowly returned. Wickwrackrum looked up,
saw Jaqueramaphan just inside the mob. Scriber was a big fellow, a sixsome,
but he was having at least as bad a time as Peregrine. He staggered from
side to side, eyes wide, snapping at himself and others.
Well, they had made it a good way across the meadow, and fast enough to
catch up with the whitejackets who was pulling the last alien member. If
they wanted to see anything more, they'd have to figure how to leave the mob
without attracting attention. Hmm. There were plenty of Flenserist uniforms
around ... without living owners. Peregrine walked two of himself over to
where a dead trooper lay.
"Jaqueramaphan! Here!" The great spy looked in his direction, and a
glint of intelligence returned to his eyes. He stumbled out of the mob and
sat down a few yards from Wickwrackrum. It was far nearer than would
normally be comfortable, but after what they'd been through, it seemed
barely close. He lay for a moment, gasping. "Sorry, I never guessed it would
be like that. I lost part of me back there ... never thought I'd get her
back."
Peregrine watched the progress of the whitejackets and its travois. It
wasn't going with the others; in a few seconds it would be out of sight.
With a disguise, maybe they could follow and -- no, it was just too risky.
He was beginning to think like the great spy. Peregrine pulled a camouflage
jacket off a corpse. They would still need disguises. Maybe they could hang
around here through the night, and get a closer look at the flying house.
After a moment, Scriber saw what he was doing, and began gathering
jackets for himself. They slunk between the piled bodies, looking for gear
that wasn't too stained and that Jaqueramaphan thought had consistent
insignia. There were plenty of paw claws and battle axes around. They'd end
up armed to the teeth, but they'd have to dump some of their backpacks....
One more jacket was all he needed, but his Rum was so broad in the shoulders
that nothing fit.
Peregrine didn't really understand what happened till later: a large
fragment, a threesome, was lying doggo in the pile of dead. Perhaps it was
grieving, long after its member's dying dirge; in any case, it was almost
totally thoughtless until Peregrine began pulling the jacket off its dead
member. Then, "You'll not rob from mine!" He heard the buzz of nearby rage,
and then there was slashing pain across his Rum's gut. Peregrine writhed in
agony, leaped upon the attacker. For a moment of mindless rage, they fought.
Peregrine's battle axes slashed again and again, covering his muzzles with
blood. When he came to his senses one of the three was dead, the others
running into the mob of wounded.
Wickwrackrum huddled around the pain in his Rum. The attacker had been
wearing tines. Rum was slashed from ribs to crotch. Wickwrackrum stumbled;
some of his paws were caught in his own guts. He tried to nose the ruins
back into his member's abdomen. The pain was fading, the sky in Rum's eyes
slowly darkening. Peregrine stifled the screams he felt climbing within him.
I'm only four, and one of me is dying! For years he'd been warning himself
that four was just too small a number for a pilgrim. Now he'd pay the price,
trapped and mindless in a land of tyrants.
For a moment, the pain eased and his thoughts were clear. The fight
hadn't really caused much notice amid the dirges, rapes, and simple attacks
of madness. Wickwrackrum's fight had only been a little bigger and bloodier
than usual. The whitejackets by the flying house had looked briefly in their
direction, but were now back to tearing open the alien cargo.
Scriber was sitting nearby, watching in horror. Part of him would move
a little closer, then pull back. He was fighting with himself, trying to
decide whether to help. Peregrine almost pleaded with him, but the effort
was too great. Besides, Scriber was no pilgrim. Giving part of himself was
not something Jaqueramaphan could do voluntarily....
Memories came flooding now, Rum's efforts to sort things out and let
the rest of him know all that had been before. For a moment, he was sailing
a twinhull across the South Sea, a newby with Rum as a pup; memories of the
island person who had born Rum, and of packs before that. Once around the
world they had traveled, surviving the slums of a tropic collective, and the
war of the Plains Herds. Ah, the stories they had heard, the tricks they had
learned, the people they had met.... Wic Kwk Rac Rum had been a terrific
combination, clear-thinking, lighthearted, with a strange ability to keep
all the memories in place; that had been the real reason he had gone so long
without growing to five or six. Now he would pay perhaps the greatest price
of all....
Rum sighed, and could not see the sky anymore. Wickwrackrum's mind
went, not as it does in the heat of battle when the sound of thought is
lost, not as it does in the companionable murmur of sleep. There was
suddenly no fourth presence, just the three, trying to make a person. The
trio stood and patted nervously at itself. There was danger everywhere, but
beyond its understanding. It sidled hopefully toward a sixsome sitting
nearby -- Jaqueramaphan? -- but the other shooed it away. It looked
nervously at the mob of wounded. There was completeness there ... and
madness too.
A huge male with deeply scarred haunches sat at the edge of the mob. It
caught the threesome's eye, and slowly crawled across the open space toward
them. Wic and Kwk and Rac back away, their pelts puffing up in fright and
fascination; the scarred one was at least half again the weight of any of
them.
... Where am I? ... May I be part of you ... please? Its keening
carried memories, jumbled and mostly inaccessible, of blood and fighting, of
military training before that. Somehow, the creature was as frightened of
those early memories as of anything. It lay its muzzle -- caked with dried
blood -- on the ground and belly crawled toward them. The other three almost
ran; random coupling was something that scared all of them. They backed and
backed, out onto the clear meadow. The other followed, but slowly, still
crawling. Kwk licked her lips and walked back towards the stranger. She
extended her neck and sniffed along the other's throat. Wic and Rac
approached from the sides.
For an instant there was a partial join. Sweaty, bloody, wounded -- a
melding made in hell. The thought seemed to come from nowhere, glowed in the
four for a moment of cynical humor. Then the unity was lost, and they were
just three animals licking the face of a fourth.
Peregrine looked around the meadow with new eyes. He had been
disintegrate for just a few minutes: The wounded from the Tenth Attack
Infantry were just as before. Flenser's Servants were still busy with the
alien cargo. Jaqueramaphan was slowly backing away, his expression a
compound of wonder and horror. Peregrine lowered a head and hissed at him,
"I won't betray you, Scriber."
The spy froze. "That you, Peregrine?"
"More or less." Peregrine still, but Wickwrackrum no more.
"H-how can you do it? Y-you just lost...."
"I'm a pilgrim, remember? We live with this sort of thing all our
lives." There was sarcasm in his voice; this was more or less the cliché
Jaqueramaphan had been spouting earlier. But there was some truth to it.
Already Peregrine Wickwrack...scar felt like a person. Maybe this new
combination had a chance.
"Uk. Well, yes.... What should we do now?" The spy looked nervously in
all directions, but his eyes on Peregrine were the most worried of all.
Now it was Wickwrackscar's turn to be puzzled. What was he doing here?
Killing the strange enemy... No. That's what the Attack Infantry was doing.
He would have nothing to do with that, no matter what the scarred one's
memories. He and Scriber had come here to ... to rescue the alien, as much
of it as possible. Peregrine grabbed hold of the memory and held it
uncritically; it was something real, from the past identity he must
preserve. He glanced towards where he had last seen the alien member. The
whitejackets and his travois were no longer visible, but he'd been heading
along an obvious path.
"We can still get ourselves the live one," he said to Jaqueramaphan.
Scriber stamped and sidled. He was not quite the enthusiast of before.
"After you, my friend."
Wickwrackscar straightened his combat jackets and brushed some of the
dried blood off. Then he strutted off across the meadow, passing just a
hundred yards from the Flenser's Servants around the enemy -- around the
flying house. He flipped them a sharp salute, which was ignored.
Jaqueramaphan followed, carrying two crossbows. The other was doing his best
to imitate Peregrine's strut, but he really didn't have the right stuff.
Then they were past the military crest of the hill and descending into
shadows. The sounds of the wounded were muted. Wickwrackscar broke into
double time, loping from switchback to switchback as he descended the rough
path. From here he could see the harbor; the boats were still at the piers,
and there wasn't much activity. Behind him, Scriber was talking nervous
nonsense. Peregrine just ran faster, his confidence fueled by general newby
confusion. His new member, the scarred one, had been the muscle behind an
infantry officer. That pack had known the layout of the harbors and the
castle, and all the passwords of the day.
Two more switchbacks and they overran the Flenser Servant and his
travois. "Hallo!" shouted Peregrine. "We bring new instructions from Lord
Steel." A chill went down his spines at the name, remembering Steel for the
first time. The Servant dropped the travois and turned to face them.
Wickwrackscar didn't know his name, but he remembered the guy: fairly
high-ranking, an arrogant get-of-bitches. It was a surprise to see him
pulling the travois himself.
Peregrine stopped only twenty yards from the whitejackets.
Jaqueramaphan was looking down from the switchback above; his bows were out
of sight. The Servant looked nervously at Peregrine and up at Scriber.
"What do you two want?"
Did he suspect them already? No matter. Wickwrackscar braced himself
for a killing charge ... and suddenly he was seeing in fours, his mind
blurred with newby dizziness. Now that he needed to kill, the scarred one's
horror of the act undid him. Damn! Wickwrackscar cast wildly about for
something to say. And now that murder was out of his mind, his new memories
came easily: "Lord Steel's will, that the creature be brought with us to the
harbor. You, ah, you are to return to the invader's flying thing."
The whitejackets licked his lips. His eyes swept sharply across
Peregrine's uniforms, and Scriber's. "Impostors!" he screamed, at the same
instant lunging one of his members toward the travois. Metal glinted in the
member's forepaw. He's going to kill the alien!
There was a bow snap from above, and the runner fell, a shaft through
its eye. Wickwrackscar charged the others, forcing his scarbacked member out
front. There was an instant of dizziness and then he was whole again,
screaming death at the four. The two packs crashed together, Scar carrying a
couple of the Servant's members over the edge of the path. Arrows hummed
around them. Wic Kwk Rac twisted, slashing axes at whatever remained
standing.
Then things were quiet, and Peregrine had his thoughts again. Three of
the Servant's members twitched on the path, the earth around them slick with
blood. He pushed them off the path, near where his Scar had killed the
others. Not one of the Servant had survived; it was total death, and he was
responsible. He sagged to the ground, seeing in fours again.
"The alien. It's still alive," said Scriber. He was standing around the
travois, sniffing at the mantis-like body. "Not conscious though." He
grabbed the travois poles in his jaws and looked at Peregrine. "What ...
what now, Pilgrim?"
Peregrine lay in the dirt, trying to put his mind back together. What
now, indeed. How had he gotten into this mess? Newby confusion was the only
possibility. He'd simply lost track of all the reasons why rescuing the
alien was impossible. And now he was stuck with it. Pack crap. Part of him
crawled to the edge of the path, and looked around: There was no sign they
had attracted attention. In the harbor, the boats were still empty; most of
the infantry was up in the hills. No doubt the Servants were holding the
dead ones at the harbor fort. So when would they move them across the
straits to Hidden Island? Were they waiting for this one's arrival?
"Maybe we could grab some boats, escape south," said Scriber. What an
ingenious fellow. Didn't he know that there would be sentry lines around the
harbor? Even knowing the passwords, they'd be reported as soon as they
passed one. It would be a million-to-one shot. But it had been a flat
impossibility before Scar became part of him.
He studied the creature lying on the travois. So strange, yet real. And
it was more than just the creature, though that was the most spectacular
strangeness. Its bloodied clothes were a finer fabric than the Pilgrim had
ever seen. Tucked in beside the creature's body was a pink pillow with
elaborate stitchery. With a twist of perspective he realized it was alien
art, the face of a long-snouted animal embroidered on the pillow.
So escape through the harbor was a million-to-one shot; some prizes
might be worth such odds.
"...We'll go down a little farther," he said.
Jaqueramaphan pulled the travois. Wickwrackscar strode ahead of him,
trying to look important and officerly. With Scar along, it wasn't hard. The
member was the picture of martial competence; you had to be on the inside to
know the softness.
They were almost down to sea level.
The path was wider now and roughly paved. He knew the harbor fort was
above them, hidden by the trees. The sun was well out of the north, rising
into the eastern sky. Flowers were everywhere, white and red and violet,
their tufts floating thick on the breeze -- the arctic plant life taking
advantage of its long day of summer. Walking on sun-dappled cobblestones,
you might almost forget the ambush on the hilltops.
Very soon, they'd hit a sentry line. Lines and rings are interesting
people; not great minds, but about the largest effective pack you'd find
outside the tropics. There were stories of lines ten miles long, with
thousands of members. The largest Peregrine had ever seen had less than one
hundred: Take a group of ordinary people and train them to string out, not
in packs but as individual members. If each member stayed just a few yards
from its nearest neighbors, they could maintain something like the mentality
of a trio. The group as a whole was scarcely brighter -- you can't have much
in the way of deep thoughts when it takes seconds for an idea to percolate
across your mind. Yet the line had an excellent grasp of what was happening
along itself. And if any members were attacked, the entire line would know
about it with the speed of sound. Peregrine had served on lines before; it
was a strung out existence, but not nearly as dull as ordinary sentry duty.
It's hard to be bored when you're as stupid as a line.
There! A lone member stuck its neck around a tree and challenged them.
Wickwrackscar knew the password of course, and they were past the outer
line. But that passage and their description was known to the entire line
now -- and surely to normal soldiers at the harbor fort.
Hell. There was no cure for it; he would go ahead with the crazy
scheme. He and Scriber and the alien member passed through the two inner
sentries. He could smell the sea now. They came out of the trees onto the
rock-walled harbor. Silver sparkled off the water in a million changing
flecks. A large multiboat bobbed between two piers. Its masts were like a
forest of tilting, leafless trees. Just a mile across the water they could
see Hidden Island. Part of him dismissed the sight as a commonplace; part of
him stumbled in awe. This was the center of it, the worldwide Flenser
movement. Up in those dour towers, the original Flenser had done his
experiments, written his essays ... and schemed to rule the world.
There were a few people on the piers. Most were doing maintenance:
sewing sails, relashing twinhulls. They watched the travois with sharp
curiosity, but none approached. So all we have to do is amble down to the
end of the pier, cut the lashings on an outside twinhull, and take off.
There were probably enough packs on the pier alone to prevent that -- and
their cries would surely draw the troops he saw by the harbor fort. In fact,
it was a little surprising that no one up there had taken serious notice of
them yet.
These boats were cruder than the Southseas version. Part of the
difference was superficial: Flenser doctrine forbade idle decoration on
boats. Part of it was functional: These craft were designed for both winter
and summer seasons, and for troop hauling. But he was sure he could sail
them given the chance. He walked to the end of the pier. Hmm. A bit of luck.
The bow-starboard twinhull, the one right next to him by the pier, looked
fast and well-provisioned. It was probably a long-range scout.
"Ssst. Something's going on up there." Scriber jerked a head toward the
fort.
The troops were closing ranks -- a mass salute? Five Servants swept by
the infantry, and bugles sounded from the fort's towers. Scar had seen
things like this, but Peregrine didn't trust the memory. How could --
A banner of red and yellow rose over the fort. On the piers, soldiers
and boatworkers dropped to their bellies. Peregrine dropped and hissed to
the other, "Get down!"
"Wha -- ?"
"That's Flenser's flag ... his personal presence banner!"
"That's impossible." Flenser had been assassinated in the Republic six
tendays earlier. The mob that tore him apart had killed dozens of his top
supporters at the same time.... But it was only the word of the Republican
Political Police that all Flenser's bodies had been recovered.
Up by the fort, a single pack pranced between the ranks of soldiers and
whitejackets. Silver and gold glinted on its shoulders. Scriber edged a
member behind a piling and surreptitiously brought out his eye-tool. After a
moment: "Soul's end ... it's Tyrathect."
"She's no more the Flenser than I am," said Peregrine. They had
traveled together from Eastgate all the way across the Icefangs. She was
obviously a newby, and not well-integrated. She had seemed reserved and
innerlooking, but there had been rages. Peregrine knew there was a deadly
streak in Tyrathect.... Now he guessed whence it came. At least some of
Flenser's members had escaped assassination, and he and Scriber had spent
three tendays in its presence; Peregrine shivered.
At the fort's gate, the pack called Tyrathect turned to face the troops
and Servants. She gestured, and bugles sounded again. The new Peregrine
understood that signal: an Incalling. He suppressed the sudden urge to
follow the others on the pier as they walked belly-low toward the fort, all
their eyes upon The Master. Scriber looked back at him, and Peregrine
nodded. They had needed a miracle, and here was one -- provided by the enemy
itself! Scriber moved slowly toward the end of the pier, pulling the travois
from shadow to shadow.
Still no one looked back. For good reason; Wickwrackscar remembered
what happened to those showing disrespect at an Incalling. "Pull the
creature on the bow-starboard boat," he said to Jaqueramaphan. He leaped off
the pier and scattered across the multiboat. It was great to be back on
swaying decks, each member drifting a different direction! He sniffed among
the bow catapults, listened to the hulls and the creak of the lashings.
But Scar was no sailor, and had no recollection of what might be the
most important thing.
"What are you looking for?" came Scriber's Hightalk hiss.
"Scuttle knockouts." If they were here, they looked nothing like the
Southseas version.
"Oh," said Scriber, "that's easy. These are Northern Skimmers. There
are swingout panels and a thin hull behind." Two of him dropped from sight
for a second and there was a banging sound. The heads reappeared, shaking
water off. He grinned surprise, taken aback by his own success. "Why, it's
just like in the books!" his expression seemed to say.
Wickwrackscar found them now; the panels had looked like crew rests,
but they were easily pulled out and the wood behind was easy to break with a
battle axe. He kept a head out, looking to see if he were attracting
attention, while at the same time he hacked at the knockouts. Peregrine and
Scriber worked their way across the bow ranks of the multiboat; if those
foundered, it would take a while to get the twinhulls behind them free.
Oops. One of the boat workers was looking back this way. Part of the
fellow continued up the hillside, part strained to return to the pier. The
bugles sounded their imperative once more, and the pack followed the call.
But his whining alarums were causing other heads to turn.
No time for stealth. Peregrine hotfooted it back to the bow-starboard
twinhull. Scriber was cutting the braid-bone fasteners that held the
twinhull to the rest of the ship. "You have any sailing experience?"
Peregrine said. Foolish question.
"Well, I've read about it -- "
"Fine!" Peregrine shooed him all into the twinhull's starboard pod.
"Keep the alien safe. Hunker down, and be as quiet as you can." He could
sail the twinhull by himself, but he'd have to be all over to do it; the
fewer confusing thought sounds, the better.
Peregrine poled their boat forward from the multiboat. The scuttling
wasn't obvious yet, but he could see water in the bow hulls. He reversed his
pole and used its hook to draw the nearest boat into the gap created by
their departure. Another five minutes and there'd be just a row of masts
sticking out of the water. Five minutes. No way they could make it ... if
not for Flenser's Incalling: up by the fort, troopers were turning and
pointing at the harbor. Yet still they must attend on Flenser/Tyrathect. How
long would it be before someone important decided that even an Incalling can
be overridden?
He hoisted canvas.
The wind caught the twinhull's sail and they pulled out from the pier.
Peregrine danced this way and that, the shrouds grasped tightly in his
mouths. Even without Rum, what memories the taste of salt and cordage
brought back! He could feel where tautness and slack meant that the wind was
giving all it could. The twin hulls were sleek and narrow, the mast of
ironwood creaking as the wind pulled on the sail.
The Flenserists were streaming down the hillside now. Archers stopped
and a haze of arrows rose. Peregrine jerked on the shrouds, tipping the boat
into a left turn on one hull. Scriber leaped to shield the alien. To
starboard ahead of them the water puckered, but only a couple of shafts
struck the boat. Peregrine twisted the shrouds again, and they jigged back
in the other direction. Another few seconds and they'd be out of bowshot.
Soldiers raced down to the piers, shrieking as they saw what was left of
their ship. The bow ranks were flooded; the whole front of the anchorage was
a wreck of sunken boats. And the catapults were in the bow.
Peregrine swept his boat back, racing straight south, out of the
harbor. To starboard, he could see they were passing the southern tip of
Hidden Island. The Castle towers hung tall and ominous. He knew there were
heavy catapults there, and some fast boats in the island harbor. A few more
minutes and even that wouldn't matter. He was gradually realizing just how
nimble their boat was. He should have guessed they'd put their best in a
corner bow position. It was probably used for scouting and overtaking.
Jaqueramaphan was piled up at the stern of his hull, staring across the
water at the mainland harbor. Soldiers, workers, whitejackets were crowded
in a mind-numbing jumble at the ends of the piers. Even from here, you could
see the place was a madhouse of rage and frustration. A silly grin spread
across Scriber as he realized they really were going to make it. He
clambered onto the rail and jumped into the air to flip a member at their
enemies. The obscene gesture nearly cast him overboard, but it was seen: the
distant rage brightened for a moment.
They were well south of Hidden Island; even its catapults could not
reach them now. The packs on the mainland shore were lost to view. Flenser's
personal banner still whipped cheerfully in the morning breeze, a dwindling
square of red and yellow against the forest's green.
All Peregrine looked at the narrows, where Whale Island kissed close to
the mainland. His Scar remembered that the choke point was heavily
fortified. Normally that would have been the end of them. But its archers
had been withdrawn to participate in the ambush, and its catapults were
under repair.
... so the miracle had happened. They were alive and free and they had
the greatest find of all his pilgrimage. He shouted joy so loud that
Jaqueramaphan cowered and the sound echoed back from the green and
snow-patched hills.
.Delete this paragraph to shift page flush
-=*=-
Jefri Olsndot had few clear memories of the ambush and saw none of the
violence. There had been the noises outside, and Mom's terrified voice,
screaming for him to stay inside. Then there had been lots of smoke. He
remembered choking, trying to crawl to clear air. He blacked out. When he
woke, he was strapped onto some sort of first-aid cot, with the big dog
creatures all around. They looked so funny with their white jackets and
braid. He remembered wondering where their owners were. They made the
strangest noises: gobbling, buzzing, hissing. Some of it was so high-pitched
he could barely hear it.
For while he was on a boat, then on a wheeled cart. Before this, he had
only seen pictures of castles, but the place they took him was the real
thing, its towers dark and overhanging, its big stone walls sharply angled.
They climbed through shadowed streets that went skumpety skumpety beneath
the cart's wheels. The long-necked dogs hadn't hurt him, but the straps were
awfully tight. He couldn't sit up; he couldn't see to the sides. He asked
about Mom and Dad and Johanna, and he cried a little. A long snout appeared
by his face, the soft nose pushing at his cheek. There was a buzzing sound
he felt all the way down to his bones. He couldn't tell if the gesture was
comfort or threat, but he gasped and tried to stop the tears. They didn't
befit a good Straumer, anyway.
More white-jacketed dogs, ones with silly shoulder patches of gold and
silver.
His cot was being dragged again, this time down a torch-lit tunnel.
They stopped by a double door, two meters wide but scarcely one high. A pair
of metal triangles was set in the blond wood. Later Jefri learned they
signified a number -- fifteen or thirty-three, depending on whether you
counted by legs or fore-claws. Much, much later he learned that his keeper
had counted by legs and the builder of the castle by fore-claws. Thus he
ended up in the wrong room. It was a mistake that would change the history
of worlds.
Somehow the dogs opened the doors and dragged Jefri in. They clustered
around the cot, their snouts tugging loose his restraints. He had a glimpse
of rows of needle-sharp teeth. The gobbling and buzzing was very loud. When
Jefri sat up, they backed off. Two of them held the doors as the other four
exited. The doors slammed shut and the circus act was gone.
Jefri stared at the doors for a long moment. He knew it was no circus
act; the dog things must be intelligent. Somehow they had surprised his
parents and sister. Where are they? He almost started to cry again. He
hadn't seen them by the spaceship. They must have been captured, too. They
were all being held prisoner in this castle, but in separate dungeons.
Somehow they must find each other!
He climbed to his feet, swayed dizzily for a moment. Everything still
smelled like smoke. It didn't matter; it was time to start working on
getting out. He walked around the room. It was huge, and not like any
dungeon he'd seen in stories. The ceiling was very high, an arching dome. It
was cut by twelve vertical slots. Sunlight fell in a dust-moted stream from
one of them, splashing off the padded wall. It was the room's only
illumination, but more than enough on this sunny day. Low-railed balconies
stuck out from the four corners of the room just below the dome. He could
see doors in the walls behind them. Heavy scrolls hung by the side of each
balcony. There was writing on them, really big print. He walked to the wall
and felt the stiff fabric. The letters were painted on. The only way you
could change the display was by rubbing it out. Wow. Just like olden times
on Nyjora, before Straumli Realm! The baseboard below the scrolls was black
stone, glossy. Someone had used scraps of chalk to draw on it. The
stick-figure dogs were crude; they reminded Jefri of pictures little kids
draw in kinderschool.
He stopped, remembering all the children they had left aboard the boat,
and on the ground around it. Just a few days ago, he'd been playing with
them at the High Lab school. The last year had been so strange -- boring and
adventurous at the same time. The barracks had been fun with all the
families together, but the grownups hardly ever had time to play. At night
the sky was so different from Straum's. "We're beyond the Beyond," Mom had
said, "making God." When she first said it, she laughed. Later when people
said it, they seemed more and more scared. The last hours had been crazy,
the coldsleep drills finally for real. All his friends were in those
boxes.... He wept into the awful silence. There was no one to hear, no one
to help him.
After a few moments he was thinking again. If the dogs didn't try to
open the boxes, his friends should be okay. If Mom and Dad could make the
dogs understand....
Strange furniture was scattered around the room: low tables and
cabinets, and racks like kids' jungle gyms -- all made from the same blond
wood as the doors. Black pillows lay around the widest table. That one was
littered with scrolls, all full of writing and still drawings. He walked the
length of one wall, ten meters or so. The stone flooring ended. There was a
two-by-two bed of gravel where the walls met. Something smelled even
stronger than smoke here. A bathroom smell. Jefri laughed: they really were
like dogs!
The padded walls soaked up his laughter, echoless. Something ... made
Jefri look up and across the room. He'd just assumed he was alone here; in