“Indeed he might. But, as I said to him, I need proof of the change in him. Tangible proof.” He shrugged. “Until then he is Kinnnus Mor-cha’s responsibility.”

  “Listen to me—“

  He struck her without warning, snapping her head back. “Enough! You presume too much. You have an annoying habit of forgetting who and where you are. I will not warn you again. You serve at my pleasure. If you think otherwise, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “I am most apologetic.” Malistra’s lowered face was hidden by shadow and the sheaf of her platinum hair. “I assure you, Lord, it is only my zeal to assist you in all ways that makes me—“

  “And therein lies the problem. Pray enlighten me as to how a Kun­dalan female is equipped to, as you so naively say, ‘assist me in all ways’?”

  “Perhaps I used the wrong—“

  “First Kurgan, then Dalma, and now you.” He sat up, his face sud­denly flushed with blood. “N’Luuura, will no one give me the respect I deserve? Must I always live in the shadow of the accursed Eleusis Ashera? Even from the grave he haunts me!”

  “Ten thousand pardons, Lord,” she whispered. “I did not mean to offend.”

  His continued wrath was stayed at the last moment by a pounding on the door.

  “What is it!” he shouted. “Who dares disturb the regent’s rest?”

  “Sir! The Star-Admiral is here! And he is not alone!”

  Stogggul recognized the voice of Wing-General Nefff, one of the two commandants of his Haaar-kyut. One or the other was always nearby. Wrapping himself in a black-and-brown robe, he said, “Enter.”

  Wing-General Nefff strode into the room. As usual, his gyreagle eyes instantly took in everything before focusing on his regent. “The Star-Admiral apologizes for the lateness of the hour, but he felt his news was most urgent.”

  “Indeed.” Stogggul’s blood was up, and he was in no mood for intru­sions. “You said he is not alone. Who is with him?”

  “Pack-Commander Olnnn Rydddlin, sir.”

  At Rydddlin’s name, Malistra’s head turned like an animal scenting her young.

  “Already?” The regent rubbed his hands together. “Then they bring news of our enemies’ demise!”

  “I am afraid not, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Wing-Commander Nefff’s expression was pained. “I think you should see for yourself, sir.”

  Despite Stogggul’s orders, Malistra rose. She appeared unconcerned by her nudity. “Olnnn Rydddlin is protected,” she said. “No evil can befall him.”

  Wing-General NefrT’s gaze remained squarely on his regent. For him, she did not exist. “They are in the regent’s salon, sir.”

  Stogggul sighed and nodded. “Tell the Star-Admiral I will be with him in a moment.”

  “Very good, sir.” There was absolutely no inflection in Wing-General Nefff’s voice.

  When he had withdrawn, Stogggul said curtly to her, “Put on some­thing appropriate.”

  She had sense enough to keep two paces behind him as they went down the darkened hallway and into the regent’s private salon. It was here that he had brandished the severed heads of all the Ashera, here that he had drunk himself into oblivion on the night of his coup, his greatest triumph. Now the room was dominated by the portable litter borne by four of the Star-Admiral’s own Khagggun wing. On it lay Olnnn Rydddlin—or, more accurately, what used to be Olnnn Ry­dddlin.

  “Where are the members of his pack?” Stogggul barked. “They are duty-bound to carry their commander.”

  “None are left,” Kinnnus Morcha said.

  “What?” The regent blinked. “What did you say?”

  “Dead. To a Khagggun. And, as you can see, Olnnn Ryddlin is in a coma.” Kinnnus Morcha looked from the regent to Malistra. “You swore this would work, but it has ended in complete disaster. Twenty of my elite pack gone, their lives winked out as if they had never existed.”

  “Calm yourself, Star-Admiral. Casualties are bound to occur when one engages the enemy.”

  Kinnnus Morcha was livid. Imagine a Bashkir telling a Khagggun about the consequences of war! With an effort, he controlled his rage. “Unlike you, regent, I take the deaths of my own seriously. I knew them all personally. One hundred percent casualty rate is utterly unaccept­able.”

  “Olnnn Rydddlin still lives,” Stogggul observed.

  “Is that a joke? It is not a life you or I could tolerate.” Kinnnus Morcha watched the Kundalan sorceress stalk the litter as if she were some rough predator.

  “This is impossible,” she murmured. “Impossible!”

  For the first time, Stogggul took a close look at the damage that had been inflicted on Olnnn Rydddlin.

  “I warned you,” the Star-Admiral said. “This is what comes of putting your faith in alien sorcery.”

  Since he had no immediate rebuttal, Stogggul ignored him. “N’Luuura, what has happened to his leg? There is nothing but bone. No skin, no flesh, muscle, tendon, vein, or artery.”

  “I do not know,” Malistra said. She was standing over Rydddlin, mak­ing peculiar motions with her hands.

  “By the looks of him he ought to be dead,” Stogggul said.

  Kinnnus Morcha glared at him. “He lives, though by what strange grace I cannot say. Even our Genomatekks are mystified.”

  “Rekkk Hacilar did this,” the regent growled,

  “No.” Malistra was bending over the body. “This is sorcerous work.”

  Kinnnus Morcha stirred. “Sorcery breeds sorcery! I tell you no good can come of this, regent.”

  Oh, shut up, you old fool, Stogggul thought. “Can you undo it?” he asked Malistra.

  “You misunderstand sorcery, Lord. It can undo nothing.” She was sniffing the air around Rydddlin. “But I believe I can heal him.” She turned to look at Stogggul. “After a fashion.”

  He waved a hand. “By all means.”

  “What do you mean, ‘after a fashion’?” Kinnnus Morcha said uneasily.

  By way of a warning, Malistra produced a frosty smile. The witch actually seemed to be savoring this, he thought. He despised himself for fearing her.

  “The sorcerous necrosis is self-limiting. That is why he still lives. But it is irreversible. I can heal the rest of his body which has undergone first-degree trauma and shock. But I cannot return flesh and blood to the area.”

  The Star-Admiral felt his flesh crawling. “Meaning?”

  “I can ensure he does not die, though I very much doubt he will be grateful. He will walk again, if you give me permission to do what may be done.”

  “The outcome!” Kinnnus Morcha shouted, thoroughly agitated. “Though I can strengthen and protect it, his leg will look precisely as it does now.”

  “You’re not serious.” Kinnnus Morcha stared at her. “This leg will be… entirely skeletal?”

  “It will be as you see it now.”

  “Absolutely not! I forbid it!”

  “On the contrary,” Stogggul said. “I order you to proceed.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Star-Admiral.”

  “Regent, lest you forget, Pack-Commander Rydddlin is one of my Khagggun. He is my responsibility.”

  Wennn Stogggul smiled sweetly. “This situation comes under the heading of V’omn security. He may possess vital information about our enemies.”

  The Star-Admiral’s face darkened in fury. “Clearly, it was a mistake to allow him to be tainted by Kundalan sorcery. If you think I will let him become some kind of freak—“

  “If, as you say, he is a loyal Khagggun, then he will do his duty. I say he will be restored, and he will be.” Stogggul nodded to Malistra. “Pro­ceed.” ryoceed, almost-champion!” Courion cried.

  I There were twelve large beakers of mead lined up on the scarred wooden table at which they sat.

  “You must drink all within five minutes, or I will lose even more coins on you than I already have.”

  Their table was in a corner in the smoke-and alcohol-laden confines of Blood Tide, a raucous and roguish tavern on the Harborside Prom­enade favored by the Sarakkon. The low-ceilinged tavern was filled to overflowing with the spectators and participants of the Kalllistotos. Many of them had already approached, clapping Kurgan on the back, offering their congratulations even though he had lost. A fifteen-year-old boy taking on the champion! It did not seem to matter to them that he had lost. Kurgan was dizzy with confusion and pain, but he would not give up playing Courion’s curious game. He only wished the Old V’ornn had been here tonight to see him in the finals of the Kal­llistotos.

  His aching, swollen hand curled around the first beaker, brought it to his lips. He began to drink, downing the contents of each beaker in one long swallow. It was not until he had drained the seventh that he vomited. The thick, sweet mead exploded out of his mouth, then out of his stomachs. As if anticipating this display, Courion had inched backward. Now he laughed uproariously as Kurgan doubled over, puk­ing his guts up.

  “Seven!” he cried with the same enthusiasm with which he had her­alded Kurgan’s entrance into the Kalllistotos. The patrons of Blood Tide burst into a round of applause.

  “N’Luuura!” Kurgan wiped his lips. “N’Luuura take it!”

  Courion was laughing so hard he shook all over. The applause con­tinued.

  “What is happening?” Kurgan asked.

  “You made us back all the coins we had lost, and more! You did well, Stogggul! Very well! The current record is nine! Most did not believe you would manage even four!”

  Courion clapped him on the back, then hauled him to his feet. “Time for some fresh air, eh?” He laughed again, presenting Kurgan for another round of applause and obscene catcalls as he collected his winnings.

  The night was thick with salt and phosphorous. The restless sea, all but invisible in the starless darkness, broke and sucked at the pilings. Courion arched his back and breathed deeply.

  “You are a good fighter, Stogggul, brave and clever. You are also a good sport.”

  Kurgan held his throbbing head as he leaned against the Promenade’s railing. He felt like vomiting all over again, but he hurt too much. The endorphins that had protected him were fading along with the adren­aline, leaving him feeling spent as a rotting piece of flotsam.

  “Here,” Courion said, handing him a lighted laaga stick. “This one is on us.”

  Nodding his thanks, Kurgan drew the smoke deep into his lung, absorbing it all. The throbbing in his head receded, and the pains in his body became vaguely tolerable. A fist of youths passed, talking an­imatedly of the blood and violence of the Kalllistotos. A couple, not much older, followed arm in arm, laughing at something so intimate no one else would understand. The vendors were packing up for the night. Not an elderly soul around.

  “We thought you were going to cost us a great deal of coinage to­night, Stogggul.”

  “Sorry about that. I should not have bet what I couldn’t afford to lose. I must have been crazy.”

  “But you have courage to spare, eh?” Courion, standing beside him, was staring out over the Sea of Blood. Pelagic birds with soot-black wings and yellow beaks dipped and swooped, sweeping low across the waves, then rising, looping around as they called into the darkness. “To us it is not surprising, this madness. Cities makes us a little crazy. We feel hemmed in by streets, buildings, crowds. We prefer desolate wastes, clean air, hot sun, and a following wind. We have always equated the trappings of civilization with weakness, illness, decay.”

  Kurgan was high on leeesta and the knowledge that Courion was speaking to him as an equal.

  “I am curious. What is it you love about the Sea of Blood?”

  “Oh, it is not just the Sea of Blood, Stogggul. It is all oceans. And not only oceans. The deserts, as well.”

  “These are dangerous places, so I have heard.”

  Courion chuckled. “As is the Kalllistotos!”

  “At least the Kalllistotos isn’t boring.”

  “Is that your opinion? That the oceans and the deserts of this world are boring?”

  “It is.”

  Courion frowned. “But you have never been to either. From what knowledge have you formed this opinion?”

  Kurgan bit his lip. How was it this primitive could make him feel the fool? “Of course you are correct. I have been relying on the opinions of others.”

  “No, Stogggul. Not opinion. Bias. This is an important distinction. Your race sees no intrinsic value in deep water or shifting dunes, so they disdain both.” Courion put his hands together, lacing the tattooed fingers as he leaned easily against the railing. The swell beat against the pilings in hypnotic fashion, as if directed to do so by a great ocean beast. “It is V’ornn hubris. A serious flaw in your makeup that happily works to our advantage.”

  Kurgan shrugged- “If the Sarakkon want the Sea of Blood and the Great Voorg, I could not care less.”

  Courion gave him an enormous leer.

  “What?” Kurgan said, immediately alert. “What am I missing?”

  What am I missing?” Dalma watched Kinnnus Morcha as he paced back and forth inside the tented bedroom, not liking what she saw. She willed herself to be patient, knowing that he would tell her everything in his own time and in his own way.

  “This accursed Kundalan sorcery has been wedded to the V’ornn power nexus.” He was still in the full battle armor he had donned for his late-night meeting with the regent. “Wennn Stogggul is clearly under the spell of this sorceress. He is relying more and more on her evil spells.” His face was white and strained. “N’Luuura, you should have seen Olnnn Rydddlin. You would not believe that anyone could live with…” He shook his head. “His leg is bone—bare bone! N’Luuura take it, how does one live with such a horror?” He licked his lips. “Malistra did something to those bones. They can flex but cannot be shattered. They glisten, oiled by her sorcery. They bow and bend as Olnnn Rydddlin walks.”

  “What of Olnnn Rydddlin?” she asked softly.

  “I do not know.”

  She recognized the sorrow in his expression and felt compassion for him. Of all the lovers she had had, all the masters she had served, only he had wormed his way into her hearts. Some years ago, she had awak­ened early one morning with his powerful arm draped across her and, unaccountably, had started to shed silent tears. It had taken her some time to discover what his close presence evoked in her. She had felt both safe and content. Without waking him, she had put her hand on his forearm, had twisted her torso enough to kiss him on each eyelid. Then she had closed her eyes, falling almost immediately into a deep sleep.

  Her love for him she hoarded, keeping it deep within her core. She knew better than to allow anyone—especially him—access to this po­tential power over her. Better by far for him to be drawn to the musk of her tender parts, and leave it at that. Wasn’t it enough that he owned her with coins? The rest of her needed to remain free of entanglements.

  “I do not know,” he repeated.

  Seeing the sorrow on his face was like looking in a mirror.

  “But when I looked into his eyes, Dalma, I saw nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “You mean he did not know you?”

  “Not at all. He knew me; he knew the regent. He was perfectly cogent as he recounted the unutterable tragedy of what had befallen him and his pack. Perhaps too cogent. I cannot help but think that some essential part of him was consumed along with the flesh and sinew of his leg.”

  “But he, at least, has survived. He must be thankful for that.”

  I should be thankful I am alive, but I am not. Olnnn Rydddlin sat in the inky darkness of his quarters.

  Nothing looked the same; nothing felt the same. Food sickened him; water bloated him. A fierce fire had burned inside him, bright as a nova.

  Now, all the quarks had been drained from him, leaving nothing but dense black matter.

  The Genomatekks had prescribed medicines which he had thrown away, knowing they would be useless. They had counseled him to sleep, but he was no longer able to rest. So he sat in the darkness, alone with his thoughts.

  On Corpius Tertius, he had heard a legend of the living dead, ex­plorers unlucky enough to have been caught in the periodic radiation storms that raged across the planet. The radiation did not kill you, so the legend went. Rather, it transformed you into another form of crea­ture—devoid of feeling or emotion. It was as if the radiation destroyed everything that had been of importance inside you, leaving a hulk pow­ered by a radiation-hyped central nervous system. This eerie army of the living dead could not be killed, though Olnnn Rydddlin had often hypothesized that they must wanfto be.

  He had slept only fitfully the night he had “been told the legend. Corpius Tertius was infamous for its nights, fifty hours long, colder than N’Luuura. What the V’ornn had been doing there in the first place had never been properly explained to them. They only knew that the Gyr-gon were searching for someone or something, and the Khagggun were the grunts doing the heavy spadework. Afterward, a trio of Gyrgon spent less than an hour at the site they had been for months excavating before departing as mysteriously as they had arrived. Soon afterward, the off-world pack was told to gather its gear and strike camp. He had not once seen a member of the living dead, but he had witnessed any number of the radiation storms, spinning through the jagged mountains on the far horizon. He could not help wondering what would have happened if he had been caught in one. Ever since leaving Corpius Tertius, he had an unreasoning dread of those creatures.

  Now he had become one.

  He forced himself to keep his hands away from the bare bones of his leg. When he had first caught sight of them he had gagged. A terror such as he had never known before had imprisoned him in its icy grip.

  Now he had become one.

  The living dead. He ought to catch an off-world gravship back to Corpius Tertius so that he could be with his own kind. He started to laugh, but it quickly dissolved into a sob.

  Many times that night he considered ending his life—what was left of it. Once, he came very close, the muzzle of the ion cannon a sour taste in his mouth. He had failed the Khagggun under his command—his first and now surely his only pack command. They had trusted him, followed his orders to the letter, and now they were dead. All of them. He could hear them clamoring, the chorus of their voices raised across the gulf between them. Trapped in N’Luuura, they were calling to him to free them. The revenge they craved, the revenge they deserved was in his hands. He knew as long as Rekkk Hacilar and his Kundalan skcettta remained alive he could not take his own life. Making his de­cision to go on living, he vowed the remainder of his life would have one focus, one purpose: tracking down his mortal enemies and making them pay for what they had done to him.

 

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