Tom Williams, page 13
A man in black robes sprinted past the travelers. A squad of city guards rounded a corner in his line of flight. With a snarl, he leapt on one of the guards and lunged for the throat. In horror, Wilfen watched as a soldier shot the Robed One with a crossbow. But it took a second bolt to make the cultist release his grip.
As he found his feet, the attacked guard rubbed his neck. He looked supremely relieved, amazed at his good fortune at remaining among the living.
Wilfen witnessed these incidents with misgivings. He thought back on his encounter with the cultists, wondering if the current events were somehow connected.
Twenty men guarded the eastern gate. The guards’ fingers were near the triggers of their crossbows, and for the second time Wilfen spent a long minute in a nervous state, gazing at the tips of steel bolts, as at least a dozen men came to search the travelers. Shondal showed the Paladin Mark, but it was quite some time before the gate commander chose to permit them to leave the city. He unbarred the gate, counseling them to “Beware those you meet on the road out of Glam.”
The gate swung closed behind them, sealing Glam and its troubles. Wilfen possessed a guilt that the killing and chaos were the result of his visit to the robed cultists.
CHAPTER 9: NIGHT FLIGHT
On the day they departed Glam clouds started to darken the sky. Light drizzle tumbled down, moistening their clothes and dampening their spirits. The rain continued in short bursts for some time, and conversation decreased to a minimum.
Dotted with the occasional tree, the grassy countryside rose marginally on his right and to his left sloped down to Kenderlan Sea, but Wilfen had no time for what was around him. Depressed by the irritating showers, he spent the morning trudging along, mostly staring at the ground before him.
After a long period of introspective thought, he raised his head and glanced to his immediate left.
Alvonne, face hooded to keep out the rain, plodded forward one laborious step at a time.
“It’s destined to be a long, long walk today,” Wilfen remarked, breaking a silence.
“That it will seem a lengthy trek I have no doubt,” Alvonne agreed ruefully. “I will be glad of a hot bath in some village tonight.”
Wilfen chuckled, thinking of how many hours it was to nightfall with noon just gone.
It was quiet then: quiet, that is, aside from the continual soft patter of rain striking Shondal’s armor and the road.
The saturated travelers arrived that evening in a village through which the road passed, stopping at a cozy inn set right on the Holmish highway, where they were provided with a welcome hot meal and bath.
Afterwards they retired to warm, comfortable beds and strove to remove the chill constant rain had caused to settle in their bones.
The next day, to their relief, proved drier. Though the clouds in the sky were gray and ominous, they were widely dispersed. As a consequence, the sun shone brightly for much of the day, generating pleasant warmth.
The Central Kenderlan Road led to the shore of Kenderlan Sea on the third day out from Glam.
Appearing to stretch forever, steel gray under the overcast sky, the inland sea dominated the scene to the north, the surface unbroken by even a single island. Unlike the Warldife Sea, the water was largely at rest, hardly a ripple to be seen. The beach was a thin, reddish strip, more mud than sand. Above, gulls, shags, and even a pelican or two wheeled in the wind, scanning the water for fish.
“Ahh,” sighed Wilfen in delight. “The sea!”
“All we need is a forest, and it would be just like home,” Alvonne said.
For the next few days they continued along the Central Kenderlan Road, which still skirted the vast Kenderlan Sea. In the afternoon of the sixth day out of Glam, they forded the Hine River close to where it discharged its icy waters into the sea. That night the four halted in a village located at the intersection of the Central Kenderlan and Western Roads.
At a table in the dingy, smoke-filled Sun and Moon Inn they chatted quietly among themselves, ignoring the babble of the other patrons. Shondal faced Wilfen. The Paladin’s eyes examined the taproom beyond the Nevander even as they conversed. He stiffened suddenly, expression hardening.
“Call no attention to yourselves,” the soldier instructed them softly.
“What’s the matter?” Wilfen inquired, not turning his head.
“Several Nulls have just entered.”
“What of them? Holmis is not at war with Null!” Wilfen was puzzled by his uncle’s dismay.
“The Empire is not an ally of ours,” said the Paladin. “These men are probably spies.”
“Spies!”
Shondal nodded firmly to Wilfen’s whispered exclamation. “Holmis has its own spies in the Empire. Who knows when war will come? We need that inside information. And so do they.”
“How are we going to avoid their attention?” Alvonne asked. “You’re a legionnaire, and Mikael Svensson looks like a Memm. There aren’t that many Memm hereabouts.”
Shondal appeared uncomfortable at Alvonne’s words. “I know. I know!” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Right,” he said decisively. “We’ll sneak out the back way. We must keep the Skylord safe. His knowledge is invaluable, and I’d sooner see him in our hands than the Nulls’.”
“Act naturally,” the legionnaire added in a terse whisper. “They’ve seen us. Make them believe we haven’t noticed them. They’re not suspicious yet. Wait five minutes, and we’ll retire to our rooms at the back of the inn. I just hope they don’t try to talk to us.”
It was exceptionally difficult to act naturally, when every instinct urged the age-old options of fight or flight. Wilfen made several unsuccessful attempts to initiate conversation but eventually gave up: the others would utter nothing, even Svensson. Alvonne stared at the back of his hands. The Skylord was at ease: he sat quietly in his chair, drinking the sundew Shondal had given him, casually glancing about the taproom. The soldier only occasionally dared look at the Nulls. The Paladin remained stone-faced, so Wilfen could not use his uncle’s expression as a guide to the Westlanders’ actions. Not knowing what transpired behind him made him edgy, and it took an effort of will not to turn and sneak a glimpse of the Nulls.
“All right,” said Shondal finally. “Time we left.”
Avoiding looking at the Nulls and striving to walk casually, the others trailed the legionnaire through the crowded taproom and up squeaky stairs. Shondal’s size served to open a path through the raucous, milling villagers and traveling merchants, though Wilfen was uncertain whether or not this was a boon: surely, he reasoned, the Nulls would notice the ease of their passage and pay greater attention to them.
Without being accosted, the travelers reached the back rooms on the second story of the inn, and Shondal moved them quickly. After closing the doors of their other rooms, the Paladin had announced that they would climb out of the window of Wilfen’s room, then down a vine-covered trellis into a dark lane at the rear of the Sun and Moon.
The solidly built Alvonne made the first descent. He jumped the last few feet onto mossy cobblestones in the alley below, slipping but quickly righting himself. He peered around, found the lane to be clear, and beckoned the others.
They came down in increasing order of size. Expression bemused, Svensson was first, clambering awkwardly. Wilfen followed the Skylord, agitatedly pacing about on the ground as Shondal descended the creaky trellis. There was a sharp crack of breaking wood, and the soldier quickly dropped the last sword to the ground. He waved away the others’ concern. “I’m all right,” he muttered, picking trails of vine from his long hair. “But I suppose I’m too heavy for climbing.”
“Run,” said Svensson with a smile.
The Argindells jumped.
“He’s learning,” Shondal remarked. “Yes, Skylord, we’re on the run from all of Null and probably Tharm as well.”
“Let’s go!” Wilfen whispered anxiously, shifting his balance from foot to foot.
“Right,” said Shondal, and he led them into the night.
CHAPTER 10: REFLECTION
Having sneaked away from the Sun and Moon Inn, with its attendant overspilt light and noise, the travelers discovered a quiet, moonless night. Shondal guided them through the darkness, past piles of empty bottles and reeking garbage, to the crossroads at the heart of the village, where a pair of unshaven, rather fat and scruffy-looking guards paced listlessly around a small fire. The Paladin deliberately kicked at a stone to catch their attention, but one had already turned in the quartet’s direction.
“Good evening, gentleman,” greeted Shondal.
“It’s evening, sure enough,” replied the shorter of the guards, eyeing the somewhat furtive-looking group with disfavor. “I’m not certain it’s all that good.”
“I hear some Nulls have just come into town,” said Shondal.
The guard spat into the fire. “Bastards. I don’t like Nulls, my friend. Or Nullish sympathizers.” He stared at Shondal meaningfully.
Shondal withheld a grin at the fellow’s posturing. He was probably a miller or a baker when it was not his turn to play at guard duty. “I’m not all that keen on Nulls, either. In fact, I choose to avoid them.”
“I know what you mean. Me and Terl here, we don’t like ‘em. Do we, Terl?”
Terl grunted.
“Terl doesn’t talk much, but he hates ‘em, too.”
‘Ahh,’ thought Shondal. ‘Loyal subjects of the Confederation, hating the enemy without really knowing him.’
“Well, I can tell you,” the short guard continued in a conspiratorial tone, “there’s been a lot of them around here of late.”
“Oh?” inquired Shondal, eyebrows raised.
“Yes. Merchants — real Holmish ones — tell us they’ve seen them all along the Central Kenderlan Road towards Balt. There are also a few on the Western Road south to Bodertun.”
“Really? Well, thank you for your information. I might have to take the Western Road south.”
“Good idea, my friend. There are not so many of them that way I’m told.”
Shondal fished in his money pouch and withdrew a couple of silver crowns. The Paladin threw one to each of the guardsmen, who caught the coins with practiced proficiency. “Have yourselves a drink on…on Shondal.”
“Thank you, Shondal,” said the talkative guard, and even Terl mumbled his gratitude.
Shondal led the travelers away from the guards’ bonfire, southward down the Western Road.
“Why did you tell them whom you are and where you are going?” Alvonne asked when the company had gone out of earshot of the two villagers.
“If they’re loyal to Holmis, then it doesn’t matter if I tell them whom I am.”
“And if they’re not?” Wilfen queried. “What if they’re open to bribes?”
“Then they’ll tell the Nulls we’re going south, when in fact, very shortly we’re going to circle the village and head north. I wasn’t lying: I do want to elude the Nulls. We’ll go to Kenderlan City and take a riverboat from there down the Milwarn to the Forest Road Bridge. The Forest Road will lead us south to Himberon.”
< ‘Why don’t we go cross-country?’ > asked Svensson.
Shondal nodded. “I considered that. But I believe it would take longer crossing farms and hills and swamps. I’d rather stick to the well-worn routes.”
The others accepted the plan without further dissension, though Shondal noticed Svensson’s quizzical expression.
‘Yes, you’re right, Skylord,’ Shondal thought. ‘It doesn’t make sense. It’s almost as if they know, as if someone is telling them…’ How were his earthly rivals managing to dog his footsteps so easily these days? It was irritating enough that the Tharm, Waghel, showed up everywhere, but now Nulls swarmed over Holmis. In Glam Darrabin had warned him of the Nulls’ interest. He hoped there were no Nulls in Kenderlan City, but though aware Nulls were unwelcome in the Kender capital, he was sure the Westlanders would be represented in some way or other.
Svensson was lost in thought as he walked, thinking about the long, arduous journey he had made to find himself in this predicament, pursued by half the barbarians on a backward world. He brooded on his past, two thousand years and more than a thousand light years beyond his grasp.
*
Thermos was hot and dry all year round, but mid-summer equatorial temperatures regularly peaked at more than 330 K. After spending mornings being tutored by computer, young Mikael Svensson was free to occupy sunny afternoons partaking in games with his friends.
Mikael was not a natural athlete. The strict Human Integrity Acts meant — though his family’s genetic code had been legally altered to suit Thermos’ harsh climate (his black, melanin-enhanced skin would have made him appear outlandish to his blond, blue-eyed Earthly ancestors) — he was small and slightly built. Dogged hard work had enabled him to gain reasonable proficiency in several sports. He occupied hours practicing skills some of his peers mastered in far less time. Sometimes Mikael would become depressed by his lack of sporting expertise, but he always recalled something his father, Jan, had once said: “No matter how good you are, there will always be someone who is better. Do your best, and above all, enjoy yourself.”
When he was ten years of age, Mikael undertook the standard Psionic Proficiency Test. He was placed in a dark, soundproofed room and asked to perform a number of psionic techniques. His Communication talents were of average strength, but his Motion skills, especially teleportation, were phenomenal. The computer tester told the boy he was in the top one percent of teleports across the Empire.
Mikael was ecstatic. At last he had discovered something at which he was very adept. Abandoning his sporting pastimes, he instead devoted his spare hours to developing his teleportation talent, refining his control and improving his “mental stamina.”
His fifteenth birthday heralded the end of Mikael’s compulsory computer tutoring. He was now one of billions within the ranks of the Citizenry. As a Citizen of the Empire he was entitled to all the privileges that came with the status. He received a set amount of credit each day, a sum that would increase if he deigned to be employed (due to the almost limitless scope of modern technology — nourishing food, luxurious accommodation, and most leisure activities required negligible expenditure of power and resources — full employment for the Imperial Citizenry was not obligatory nor even possible).
Mikael enjoyed his Citizenship. It enabled him to live freely, using his credit as he saw fit. He could use his apartment’s in-built computer to “travel” in time and space throughout the Empire or entertain himself in any fashion he chose. And he chose, like most of the population, to lose himself in the alternative worlds offered by various drugs and stimulants, as well as pleasure simulators and other forms of virtual reality. Only his personal computer could remind him to eat or take some sort of artificial sustenance.
After a few years the young Citizen became disillusioned. His hedonistic life lacked something, some vital essence. He remembered his computer tutoring days with more affection than when he had endured them. Spending his waking hours in a virtual world seemed a purposeless existence. He started to venture from his apartment, undertaking real trips across Thermos, exploring its sights in the flesh, experiencing the planet with his true senses. He could, of course, have “seen” the same sights without abandoning the comfort of his quarters, but he felt the genuine event, difficulties notwithstanding, was a more rewarding thing. It made him feel tough, hardened.
But the challenge of existing in true reality ultimately proved as testing as avoiding plunging deeper into the void of synthetic existence. Even Mikael’s “corporeal tourism” lost its charm. The Citizen’s thoughts swirled along paths well worn by millions of people before him, asking the unanswerable questions of himself. What is the purpose of life? Why am I here, if only to die?
*
How naïve he had been! Svensson smiled to himself, but the expression soured. What was different now? He still did not know the answers to those questions. Why had humans evolved? For the Enemy to annihilate?
He snorted. Humanity was not done with yet. This planet still harbored a seed: a vigorous tree could yet flourish once more.
He despaired anew. He, Mikael Svensson, seemed to be Terra Nova’s only hope. And what a pathetic hope it was.
*
There were few cities on Thermos. The reasons that had originally drawn people together no longer had relevance. Most conveniences were available within easy reach in one’s home, and human acquaintances could be “visited” with a simple holovision projection. But the tradition of gathering in one place was a difficult habit to break, and cities such as New Cairo and Thermos Footfall still prospered.
On an October day in 2388, a suborbital spaceplane flight from Mikael’s home city landed at New Cairo on Thermos’ northern continent. He boarded a subtrain bound for Thermos Footfall. The slight sensation of motion he felt belied the subtrain’s velocity of four kilometers per second, as it sped through a vacuum-filled tunnel deep beneath the surface of the planet. Within half-an- hour Mikael had arrived at his destination, the first point of human settlement on Thermos.
Mikael took the unusual option of walking to his intended destination. Dressed in a neat suit —
charcoal-colored with glittering specks — he strolled along a largely deserted boulevard lined by windowless plastic facades (with holovision who needed a view or natural light?), while automatic aerocars zipped overhead. It took him a few minutes to locate the government building he sought. Within the smooth, iridescent plastic of the wall was a notice announcing that this was the “DEPARTMENT OF
