The Ring of Five Dragons, page 60
part #1 of The Pearl Series
“Oh, Müna preserve us!” Thigpen rolled her eyes. “Well, you can just forget about that. You are not Annon anymore. You are the Dar Sala-at. Your fate is to remain apart from all mortal concerns.”
“Says who?”
“So it is written; so it will be.”
“You mean I cannot love?”
“Your love is for all the races of Kundala, little dumpling, not for one solitary individual.”
“To be solitary. That is the Dar Sala-at’s fate?”
Thigpen made a disapproving sound low in her throat.
“Thigpen, please tell me, how does a female love another female?”
“Why am I always asked impossible questions? I am a Rappa. What do you want from me?” she said with uncharacteristic asperity. “Let us please return to the Ring. How long ago, pray tell, was it buried, and by whom?”
With difficulty, Riane turned her mind away from her confused thoughts of Eleana. “A female planted it there.”
Thigpen’s whiskers were twitching more than ever. “What do you mean, ‘planted.’”
“Just that. A Kundalan sorceress was at the dig not more than a day before Sornnn SaTrryn was taken there. I can still feel the slight emanations of Kyofu trailing from her.”
“Oh dear, that cannot be good,” Thigpen said. “How came the Dark sorceress by the Ring?”
“The Spell of Forever did not reveal that—after the sorceress the images dissolved into a kind of milky fog.”
“Even worse,” Thigpen said fretfully “Someone has blocked the spell. Someone very powerful, indeed.”
“The sorceress?”
“No, else you would not have been able to detect her.”
“Who, then?”
“I do not engage in speculation. In any event, the sole possibility that springs to mind is unthinkable, not to mention impossible.” She shook herself. “Never mind. Let us return to our most pressing problem. You must reach the Ring within the next three days.”
“But it’s simple now,” Riane said. “We will Thrip into the caverns below Middle Palace and—“
“It is anything but simple,” Thigpen said. “You cannot Thrip into Middle Palace. Like the device that the V’ornn stupidly activated, sor-cerous safeguards were established long ago to make sure no one could Thrip into the Storehouse or anywhere in Middle Palace.”
“Then we will Thrip into Axis Tyr and from there go by foot to—“
“Try to Thrip, little dumpling. Go on. Try.”
With a dark foreboding, Riane settled herself and tried to spin. Nothing. She tried again, and again failed. She licked her lips nervously. “What is happening?”
“The Tymnos device is at its last stage. It has closed the Portals to all realms.”
“But without being able to Thrip, how will I be able to get to Axis Tyr in time?”
“You have friends,” Thigpen said, “and along the way we shall encounter others.”
“Friends? What friends do I have besides you?”
“The Druuge, for one, the nomads of the Great Voorg.”
“Mother told me of them. I can speak Venca, their language.”
“Well, now, that is interesting.” Thigpen’s whiskers twitched. “Did you know that their technology is language? They manipulate words the way the V’ornn manipulate ions and gravitons.”
Riane nodded. “Like mathematics.”
“Just like mathematics.” Thigpen appeared very pleased. “The Gyrgon manipulate charged ions in ten million different ways, right? The Druuge do the same with the seven hundred and seventy-seven letters of their alphabet. They like to explain it this way: One letter, alone, is as meaningless as a single grain of sand. It is in combining the letters that the technology manifests itself, becoming like the living ecosystem of the desert, a system that is ever-changing, always in flux.”
Riane nodded. “All right. But, still, why would the Druuge even be aware of me?”
“Because, little dumpling, you are the Dar Sala-at. You are in Prophesy. They have been waiting for your coming for a thousand years.”
Riane stopped abruptly. Her nostrils flared as with a significant change of the wind.
“What is it?” Thigpen whispered. “What have you sensed?”
“An opal. A sorcerous opal.”
“Yes.” Thigpen kissed Riane oifthe cheeks. “Come, little dumpling. She is ready to find you, at last.”
“Who?”
“The Lady. The one who is destined to stand forever by your side.”
Desire
Dalma sat alone in a park in central Axis Tyr. Double rows of sheared ammonwood trees surrounded her in a graceful oval. Crushed marble pathways, neatly raked, radiated out from the center where two opposing crescents of fluted heartwood benches were set. The serenity of the formal geometry appealed to her. It provided a measure of order and balance in her otherwise tumultuous life.
The rainstorm that now rumbled in the north had swept through the city hours ago, leaving the streets freshly washed and glittering in the Lonon moonslight. She had a particular fondness for this park. It was here she had first plied her trade, partnered in sweaty assignations beneath the dense nighttime shadows of the ammonwood. Ever since she could remember, she had had a taste for the daring. Stripping naked for bouts of strenuous sex with a necklace of powerful clients gave her pleasure over and above the act itself. No beds for her! Splinters in her buttocks were proof of the audacity of her intimate encounters.
It was in this very park that she had first met Bach Ourrros, recognizing in his reckless desire for her an opportunity to ascend from simple street Looorm to something better. If she had a keen taste for sex, it was matched by her own desire for power. Not that she had any illusions about her role in society. She was Tuskugggun, and a Looorm at that! She would never be accepted in a visible position of power; but if she was clever and lucky enough, she knew that she could remain near those who did hold power, whispering from time to time in their ear, snatching the crumbs from their tables. Thus she had risen from Bach Ourrros’ side to the regent Stogggul’s palace. Not that it had been a pleasant climb. She regretted hurting Bach Ourrros, of whom she had grown fond, and being with Stogggul was unsatisfying in almost every way. She contented herself with each secret betrayal of him to Kinnnus Morcha.
She had met Morcha at almost the same time that she and Bach Ourrros had been introduced. Kinnnus Morcha was clearly superior in both intelligence and sexual prowess. The problem was that though he was a high-ranking Khagggun with plenty of influence, he was Lesser Caste. He simply would not do as a rung in her private power ladder. But she knew he could be a useful liaison, and so she used him as assiduously as he used her. The fact is, she liked spying for him. When, at his connivance, she had allowed Wennn Stogggul to seduce her away from Bach Ourrros, she liked it even more.
She rose now, slowly wending her way through the ammonwood grove until she found the very tree against which she and Bach Ourrros had first made love. She knew each tree in this grove individually. All of them had stories to tell her, lessons to teach her, memory as history of the V’omn Empire on Kundala. She was blessed with the kind of memory that never forgot a single client. She could see them now, ghostly forms, the residue of their power still inhabiting the grove. This was as close as she would ever come to wielding real power. If it had been her misfortune to be born a Tuskugggun, then she had done everything she could to control her own destiny. Bu’t now, at this moment, wandering through the safety of her trees, she wondered whether it was all an illusion. After all, she was still alone. She would always be that way. She was denied the friendship of other Tuskugggun, which she might have had if she had chosen another profession, if she had entered the communal world of hingatta, where Tuskugggun raised children and practiced their arts. There was no- room for her in such quarters. Neither did she have the protection of a V’ornn mate. Kinn-nus Morcha would never marry her, and as for Wennn Stogggul…
“Dalma.”
Ah, she heard his unlovely growl now. Slipping from the shadows of the ammonwood grove, she walked over the crushed white marble to where he stood in the center of the garden. It was late. There was no one else about, which was why they had agreed upon this assignation point.
She felt his coolness as she threw herself into his arms. Now they were both playing roles, which was fine with her. If she never again had to fondle his tender parts, she would count herself lucky.
“What news do you bring me?” he asked, pushing off, maintaining a discreet distance.
She told him what Kinnnus Morcha had instructed her to say. “The Star-Admiral is besotted with me, but it is taking time for him to trust me. He is somewhat paranoid.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Stogggul muttered. “I thought he was going to take Malistra’s head off when he saw Olnnn Rydddlin. Does he harbor any ill will toward me?”
“I think he did in the beginning. But since he has debriefed Rydddlin his demeanor has changed. He is grateful Malistra was able to save Rydddlin’s life.” This was, of course, an outright lie. The fact was, Kinnnus Morcha seethed with rage at what he considered the mutilation—both physical and emotional—of one of his top officers. Privately, he told her that he was quite concerned about Olnnn Rydddlin’s frame of mind. He was growing convinced that Rydddlin was quite mad.
“Excellent,” the regent said. He passed her a small box, which she opened with a little gasp.
“The bracelet to match the ring you gave me!”
“And you will get the necklace that completes the set if you keep up your good work. Remember, Dalma. You are in the Star-Admiral’s bed for one reason: to alert me should he contemplate moving against me.”
And that was the lesson the assignations within the ammonwood had long ago taught her. Power bred paranoia. The loneliness of her life was nothing as compared to the isolation of these males. Poor Morcha! He was like all the rest, made half-dead by the fierce struggle for power. She felt a brief moment of self-pity and bit her lip in order not to cry.
Instead, she smiled into the regent’s face, and he kissed her briefly, coldly, his thoughts already elsewhere even before he turned and left the park. Alone again, she took herself to a bench, where she sat, breathing in the perfume of her trees. Their leaves rustled, speaking to her in tongues, and she sighed, closing her eyes.
Kurgan drew his knife, the knife given to him as a prize by the Old V’ornn, Nith Batoxxx. I will kill her now, he thought as he watched Dalma on the bench. His father had just departed, having received the disinformation Kinnnus Morcha had doubtless concocted to stir his ear and his ego. Kurgan laughed silently. In a way, it would be a pity to end her life, for it would surely shorten his father’s eventual agony when he discovered how his ally had led him astray. But just as the Star-Admiral had plans for the regent Stogggul, Kurgan had plans for the two of them. Because of Kinnnus Morcha’s fondness for Dalma, her death would serve as a flash point for his simmering wrath.
He wondered now how he should do the deed. Should it be a quick slice across her throat, a neat and bloody death? Or should it be slow, rilled with terror as a stream is stocked with fish? Should she know the identity of her killer, the reason for her death? Did he want to hear her plead for her life, in the middle of that plea, end it? So many choices, so little time!
He fantasized about killing her quickly, with one gout of blood, her eyes rolling up as he cupped her chin, offering up her neck to his knife blade. Perhaps the act of recognizing him would be her last. But the thought of raping her, here, in this serene, secluded spot where she was most vulnerable, where his father had so recently been with her, was so appealing that, like a lover in the act, he felt impelled toward its delicious promise.
As he moved through the shadows in which he had been hiding, he became aware that he and Dalma were not alone in the park. Another watched and waited.
Despite his growing sexual excitement, his curiosity was piqued. He wondered whether the watcher might be a security guard the Star-Admiral had attached to his precious skcettta of a spy. That possibility presented an inconvenience but nothing more. He switched direction, moving silently within the perimeter of the grove of ammonwood, one eye on Dalma while the other searched ahead for the watcher.
The ammonwood trees rustled all around him. He felt like an actor upon the stage, an understudy perhaps who had been unexpectedly thrust into the piercing light of prominence. There was about this place, on this night, at this lonely hour the unmistakable tang of history in the making. Kurgan loved nothing so much as subversion. He was interested in the machinations of power simply because he was out to undermine them. Someone who knew him incompletely might mistake him for a nihilist, for he possessed the nihilist’s obsession with tearing down authority in any form. The crucial difference was that, even at the age of fifteen, he had a clear idea of the new order with which he would replace the old. He was, at core, a student of K’yonnno, the Gyrgon Theory of Chaos and Order.
Kurgan saw himself as a Lord of Chaos.
His thoughts were abruptly cut short by the sight of the watcher breaking from his cover. Sure enough, he was a Khagggun, but Kurgan noticed that he moved with a curious gait, an awkward lope. A little shiver ran up his spine as he saw that one leg was nothing more than fleshless bone. Moonslight flashed on the Khagggun’s face, and Kurgan recognized him as Olnnn Rydddlin. Hadn’t he and his pack been dispatched to bring back the Ashera skcettta and the traitorous Rhynnnon, Rekkk Hacilar? What the N’Luuura happened to him?
Dalma had seen Rydddlin. She jumped up, backing away from the bench, pushing away from him. Clearly, he was not her bodyguard. Then why was he here? What did he want from her?
A shock-sword flashed in Olnnn Rydddlin’s hand, and Dalma turned and fled, right into Kurgan’s arms.
“Kurgan Stogggul,” she cried, startled. “Please help me. I am being attacked by—“
“Step away from her.” Olnnn Rydddlin waggled the point of his shock-sword at Kurgan. “Step away, I say, or you risk being killed along with her.”
“No!” Dalma cried. “What do you want from me?”
“You are the Star-Admiral’s spy,” Rydddlin said.
“You have mistaken me for someone else. I am a simple Looorm.” Dalma was squirming in Kurgan’s grip, frightened not only for her own life but that he would reveal the depths of her treachery.
“I know what you are. Through you I will get to him. If I cannot kill him outright, then I will diminish his power, I will make him suffer.”
Now she was truly terrified. “You are mistaken, I tell you.”
Clearly, Olnnn Rydddlin wasn’t listening. “He is about to take my life away from me. He has ordered me to report to Receiving Spirit tomorrow morning to undergo psychological tests. He says this is the only way I will regain my command. But I know better. Having gotten what he wants from me, he will throw me away. I will check into the hospice, but I won’t check out. I will be held there against my will. No one wants to see me like this, let alone the Star-Admiral.”
Her voice turned liquid, pleading. “I will go to the regent, now, this moment. He is your ally; he fought to have Mah’stra heal you over the Star-Admiral’s objections.” She turned her head. “Kurgan Stogggul, quickly, take me to your father.”
“If you try to take her anywhere,” Olnnn Rydddlin warned, “I swear to N’Luuura I will run you through along with her.”
“Relax, Pack-Commander.” Kurgan swung Dalma around to face him. “I have no intention of letting her leave this park alive.”
The blood drained from Dalma’s face. “Kurgan Stogggul, what are you saying?”
He hit her then, a powerful blow to the face that felled her. As she lay prone and stunned, he kicked aside her robe. “But first youth must have its pleasures, eh, Looorm?”
He fell upon her, already rampant.”‘Informers must be rooted out and interdicted in the harshest manner possible as a visible means of deterrence,”’” he quoted as he slapped down her feeble attempts at defense.
“The Khagggun counterinsurgency manual,” Olnnn Rydddlin said. He appeared impressed.
“She spied on me—reported back to the Star-Admiral on my personal life.”
“No one can be trusted,” Olnnn Rydddlin said with a peculiar kind of sadness. “Least of all the Looorm of powerful V’ornn.”
Dalma was weeping. She pleaded with him to no avail. Finally, she said, “I have something you will find of value. If I tell you, will you let me go?”
Kurgan paused. “That depends,” he said, “on how valuable I find the information.”
“There is much I know about your father—“
He laughed in her face. “What could you possibly tell me? I know all there is to know about Wennn Stogggul.”
“You know he’s controlled by Malistra?”
“I have heard that, yes.”
Dalma licked her lips. “I have information that concerns Malistra.”
He nodded. “That might fit the bill.”
She shook her head. “How do I know I can trust you?”
He seized her by the throat and squeezed until her face was blue with blood. “Tell me now.”
Dalma, gasping and choking, nodded. He let go. She took several jagged breaths. “Malistra lives on mesembrythem.”
“What the N’Luuura is that?”
“It’s some kind of sorcerous root.”
“So she’s got a strange diet. She’s a sorceress, isn’t she?” His fingers curled around her throat again.
“Wait! Wait! You don’t understand. She needs this root. Without it she cannot live.”
“Thank you,” Kurgan said, and parted his robes.
“What are you doing? We had a deal!”
“I never agreed to anything,” he said. “And if I did, I don’t care. You’re a Tuskugggun, a Looorm, a spy.”
With a moan of despair, Dalma raked her nails down his chest, drawing blood. He hit her hard enough to stun her, but not hard enough to knock her out. He wanted her to be very much aware of what he was doing to her. He used his rampant member like a shock-sword, and she cried out. He wiped the smear of blood that had appeared under her nose and tasted it. He grunted heavily. His grunting became rhythmic, picking up speed and intensity.
“Says who?”
“So it is written; so it will be.”
“You mean I cannot love?”
“Your love is for all the races of Kundala, little dumpling, not for one solitary individual.”
“To be solitary. That is the Dar Sala-at’s fate?”
Thigpen made a disapproving sound low in her throat.
“Thigpen, please tell me, how does a female love another female?”
“Why am I always asked impossible questions? I am a Rappa. What do you want from me?” she said with uncharacteristic asperity. “Let us please return to the Ring. How long ago, pray tell, was it buried, and by whom?”
With difficulty, Riane turned her mind away from her confused thoughts of Eleana. “A female planted it there.”
Thigpen’s whiskers were twitching more than ever. “What do you mean, ‘planted.’”
“Just that. A Kundalan sorceress was at the dig not more than a day before Sornnn SaTrryn was taken there. I can still feel the slight emanations of Kyofu trailing from her.”
“Oh dear, that cannot be good,” Thigpen said. “How came the Dark sorceress by the Ring?”
“The Spell of Forever did not reveal that—after the sorceress the images dissolved into a kind of milky fog.”
“Even worse,” Thigpen said fretfully “Someone has blocked the spell. Someone very powerful, indeed.”
“The sorceress?”
“No, else you would not have been able to detect her.”
“Who, then?”
“I do not engage in speculation. In any event, the sole possibility that springs to mind is unthinkable, not to mention impossible.” She shook herself. “Never mind. Let us return to our most pressing problem. You must reach the Ring within the next three days.”
“But it’s simple now,” Riane said. “We will Thrip into the caverns below Middle Palace and—“
“It is anything but simple,” Thigpen said. “You cannot Thrip into Middle Palace. Like the device that the V’ornn stupidly activated, sor-cerous safeguards were established long ago to make sure no one could Thrip into the Storehouse or anywhere in Middle Palace.”
“Then we will Thrip into Axis Tyr and from there go by foot to—“
“Try to Thrip, little dumpling. Go on. Try.”
With a dark foreboding, Riane settled herself and tried to spin. Nothing. She tried again, and again failed. She licked her lips nervously. “What is happening?”
“The Tymnos device is at its last stage. It has closed the Portals to all realms.”
“But without being able to Thrip, how will I be able to get to Axis Tyr in time?”
“You have friends,” Thigpen said, “and along the way we shall encounter others.”
“Friends? What friends do I have besides you?”
“The Druuge, for one, the nomads of the Great Voorg.”
“Mother told me of them. I can speak Venca, their language.”
“Well, now, that is interesting.” Thigpen’s whiskers twitched. “Did you know that their technology is language? They manipulate words the way the V’ornn manipulate ions and gravitons.”
Riane nodded. “Like mathematics.”
“Just like mathematics.” Thigpen appeared very pleased. “The Gyrgon manipulate charged ions in ten million different ways, right? The Druuge do the same with the seven hundred and seventy-seven letters of their alphabet. They like to explain it this way: One letter, alone, is as meaningless as a single grain of sand. It is in combining the letters that the technology manifests itself, becoming like the living ecosystem of the desert, a system that is ever-changing, always in flux.”
Riane nodded. “All right. But, still, why would the Druuge even be aware of me?”
“Because, little dumpling, you are the Dar Sala-at. You are in Prophesy. They have been waiting for your coming for a thousand years.”
Riane stopped abruptly. Her nostrils flared as with a significant change of the wind.
“What is it?” Thigpen whispered. “What have you sensed?”
“An opal. A sorcerous opal.”
“Yes.” Thigpen kissed Riane oifthe cheeks. “Come, little dumpling. She is ready to find you, at last.”
“Who?”
“The Lady. The one who is destined to stand forever by your side.”
Desire
Dalma sat alone in a park in central Axis Tyr. Double rows of sheared ammonwood trees surrounded her in a graceful oval. Crushed marble pathways, neatly raked, radiated out from the center where two opposing crescents of fluted heartwood benches were set. The serenity of the formal geometry appealed to her. It provided a measure of order and balance in her otherwise tumultuous life.
The rainstorm that now rumbled in the north had swept through the city hours ago, leaving the streets freshly washed and glittering in the Lonon moonslight. She had a particular fondness for this park. It was here she had first plied her trade, partnered in sweaty assignations beneath the dense nighttime shadows of the ammonwood. Ever since she could remember, she had had a taste for the daring. Stripping naked for bouts of strenuous sex with a necklace of powerful clients gave her pleasure over and above the act itself. No beds for her! Splinters in her buttocks were proof of the audacity of her intimate encounters.
It was in this very park that she had first met Bach Ourrros, recognizing in his reckless desire for her an opportunity to ascend from simple street Looorm to something better. If she had a keen taste for sex, it was matched by her own desire for power. Not that she had any illusions about her role in society. She was Tuskugggun, and a Looorm at that! She would never be accepted in a visible position of power; but if she was clever and lucky enough, she knew that she could remain near those who did hold power, whispering from time to time in their ear, snatching the crumbs from their tables. Thus she had risen from Bach Ourrros’ side to the regent Stogggul’s palace. Not that it had been a pleasant climb. She regretted hurting Bach Ourrros, of whom she had grown fond, and being with Stogggul was unsatisfying in almost every way. She contented herself with each secret betrayal of him to Kinnnus Morcha.
She had met Morcha at almost the same time that she and Bach Ourrros had been introduced. Kinnnus Morcha was clearly superior in both intelligence and sexual prowess. The problem was that though he was a high-ranking Khagggun with plenty of influence, he was Lesser Caste. He simply would not do as a rung in her private power ladder. But she knew he could be a useful liaison, and so she used him as assiduously as he used her. The fact is, she liked spying for him. When, at his connivance, she had allowed Wennn Stogggul to seduce her away from Bach Ourrros, she liked it even more.
She rose now, slowly wending her way through the ammonwood grove until she found the very tree against which she and Bach Ourrros had first made love. She knew each tree in this grove individually. All of them had stories to tell her, lessons to teach her, memory as history of the V’omn Empire on Kundala. She was blessed with the kind of memory that never forgot a single client. She could see them now, ghostly forms, the residue of their power still inhabiting the grove. This was as close as she would ever come to wielding real power. If it had been her misfortune to be born a Tuskugggun, then she had done everything she could to control her own destiny. Bu’t now, at this moment, wandering through the safety of her trees, she wondered whether it was all an illusion. After all, she was still alone. She would always be that way. She was denied the friendship of other Tuskugggun, which she might have had if she had chosen another profession, if she had entered the communal world of hingatta, where Tuskugggun raised children and practiced their arts. There was no- room for her in such quarters. Neither did she have the protection of a V’ornn mate. Kinn-nus Morcha would never marry her, and as for Wennn Stogggul…
“Dalma.”
Ah, she heard his unlovely growl now. Slipping from the shadows of the ammonwood grove, she walked over the crushed white marble to where he stood in the center of the garden. It was late. There was no one else about, which was why they had agreed upon this assignation point.
She felt his coolness as she threw herself into his arms. Now they were both playing roles, which was fine with her. If she never again had to fondle his tender parts, she would count herself lucky.
“What news do you bring me?” he asked, pushing off, maintaining a discreet distance.
She told him what Kinnnus Morcha had instructed her to say. “The Star-Admiral is besotted with me, but it is taking time for him to trust me. He is somewhat paranoid.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Stogggul muttered. “I thought he was going to take Malistra’s head off when he saw Olnnn Rydddlin. Does he harbor any ill will toward me?”
“I think he did in the beginning. But since he has debriefed Rydddlin his demeanor has changed. He is grateful Malistra was able to save Rydddlin’s life.” This was, of course, an outright lie. The fact was, Kinnnus Morcha seethed with rage at what he considered the mutilation—both physical and emotional—of one of his top officers. Privately, he told her that he was quite concerned about Olnnn Rydddlin’s frame of mind. He was growing convinced that Rydddlin was quite mad.
“Excellent,” the regent said. He passed her a small box, which she opened with a little gasp.
“The bracelet to match the ring you gave me!”
“And you will get the necklace that completes the set if you keep up your good work. Remember, Dalma. You are in the Star-Admiral’s bed for one reason: to alert me should he contemplate moving against me.”
And that was the lesson the assignations within the ammonwood had long ago taught her. Power bred paranoia. The loneliness of her life was nothing as compared to the isolation of these males. Poor Morcha! He was like all the rest, made half-dead by the fierce struggle for power. She felt a brief moment of self-pity and bit her lip in order not to cry.
Instead, she smiled into the regent’s face, and he kissed her briefly, coldly, his thoughts already elsewhere even before he turned and left the park. Alone again, she took herself to a bench, where she sat, breathing in the perfume of her trees. Their leaves rustled, speaking to her in tongues, and she sighed, closing her eyes.
Kurgan drew his knife, the knife given to him as a prize by the Old V’ornn, Nith Batoxxx. I will kill her now, he thought as he watched Dalma on the bench. His father had just departed, having received the disinformation Kinnnus Morcha had doubtless concocted to stir his ear and his ego. Kurgan laughed silently. In a way, it would be a pity to end her life, for it would surely shorten his father’s eventual agony when he discovered how his ally had led him astray. But just as the Star-Admiral had plans for the regent Stogggul, Kurgan had plans for the two of them. Because of Kinnnus Morcha’s fondness for Dalma, her death would serve as a flash point for his simmering wrath.
He wondered now how he should do the deed. Should it be a quick slice across her throat, a neat and bloody death? Or should it be slow, rilled with terror as a stream is stocked with fish? Should she know the identity of her killer, the reason for her death? Did he want to hear her plead for her life, in the middle of that plea, end it? So many choices, so little time!
He fantasized about killing her quickly, with one gout of blood, her eyes rolling up as he cupped her chin, offering up her neck to his knife blade. Perhaps the act of recognizing him would be her last. But the thought of raping her, here, in this serene, secluded spot where she was most vulnerable, where his father had so recently been with her, was so appealing that, like a lover in the act, he felt impelled toward its delicious promise.
As he moved through the shadows in which he had been hiding, he became aware that he and Dalma were not alone in the park. Another watched and waited.
Despite his growing sexual excitement, his curiosity was piqued. He wondered whether the watcher might be a security guard the Star-Admiral had attached to his precious skcettta of a spy. That possibility presented an inconvenience but nothing more. He switched direction, moving silently within the perimeter of the grove of ammonwood, one eye on Dalma while the other searched ahead for the watcher.
The ammonwood trees rustled all around him. He felt like an actor upon the stage, an understudy perhaps who had been unexpectedly thrust into the piercing light of prominence. There was about this place, on this night, at this lonely hour the unmistakable tang of history in the making. Kurgan loved nothing so much as subversion. He was interested in the machinations of power simply because he was out to undermine them. Someone who knew him incompletely might mistake him for a nihilist, for he possessed the nihilist’s obsession with tearing down authority in any form. The crucial difference was that, even at the age of fifteen, he had a clear idea of the new order with which he would replace the old. He was, at core, a student of K’yonnno, the Gyrgon Theory of Chaos and Order.
Kurgan saw himself as a Lord of Chaos.
His thoughts were abruptly cut short by the sight of the watcher breaking from his cover. Sure enough, he was a Khagggun, but Kurgan noticed that he moved with a curious gait, an awkward lope. A little shiver ran up his spine as he saw that one leg was nothing more than fleshless bone. Moonslight flashed on the Khagggun’s face, and Kurgan recognized him as Olnnn Rydddlin. Hadn’t he and his pack been dispatched to bring back the Ashera skcettta and the traitorous Rhynnnon, Rekkk Hacilar? What the N’Luuura happened to him?
Dalma had seen Rydddlin. She jumped up, backing away from the bench, pushing away from him. Clearly, he was not her bodyguard. Then why was he here? What did he want from her?
A shock-sword flashed in Olnnn Rydddlin’s hand, and Dalma turned and fled, right into Kurgan’s arms.
“Kurgan Stogggul,” she cried, startled. “Please help me. I am being attacked by—“
“Step away from her.” Olnnn Rydddlin waggled the point of his shock-sword at Kurgan. “Step away, I say, or you risk being killed along with her.”
“No!” Dalma cried. “What do you want from me?”
“You are the Star-Admiral’s spy,” Rydddlin said.
“You have mistaken me for someone else. I am a simple Looorm.” Dalma was squirming in Kurgan’s grip, frightened not only for her own life but that he would reveal the depths of her treachery.
“I know what you are. Through you I will get to him. If I cannot kill him outright, then I will diminish his power, I will make him suffer.”
Now she was truly terrified. “You are mistaken, I tell you.”
Clearly, Olnnn Rydddlin wasn’t listening. “He is about to take my life away from me. He has ordered me to report to Receiving Spirit tomorrow morning to undergo psychological tests. He says this is the only way I will regain my command. But I know better. Having gotten what he wants from me, he will throw me away. I will check into the hospice, but I won’t check out. I will be held there against my will. No one wants to see me like this, let alone the Star-Admiral.”
Her voice turned liquid, pleading. “I will go to the regent, now, this moment. He is your ally; he fought to have Mah’stra heal you over the Star-Admiral’s objections.” She turned her head. “Kurgan Stogggul, quickly, take me to your father.”
“If you try to take her anywhere,” Olnnn Rydddlin warned, “I swear to N’Luuura I will run you through along with her.”
“Relax, Pack-Commander.” Kurgan swung Dalma around to face him. “I have no intention of letting her leave this park alive.”
The blood drained from Dalma’s face. “Kurgan Stogggul, what are you saying?”
He hit her then, a powerful blow to the face that felled her. As she lay prone and stunned, he kicked aside her robe. “But first youth must have its pleasures, eh, Looorm?”
He fell upon her, already rampant.”‘Informers must be rooted out and interdicted in the harshest manner possible as a visible means of deterrence,”’” he quoted as he slapped down her feeble attempts at defense.
“The Khagggun counterinsurgency manual,” Olnnn Rydddlin said. He appeared impressed.
“She spied on me—reported back to the Star-Admiral on my personal life.”
“No one can be trusted,” Olnnn Rydddlin said with a peculiar kind of sadness. “Least of all the Looorm of powerful V’ornn.”
Dalma was weeping. She pleaded with him to no avail. Finally, she said, “I have something you will find of value. If I tell you, will you let me go?”
Kurgan paused. “That depends,” he said, “on how valuable I find the information.”
“There is much I know about your father—“
He laughed in her face. “What could you possibly tell me? I know all there is to know about Wennn Stogggul.”
“You know he’s controlled by Malistra?”
“I have heard that, yes.”
Dalma licked her lips. “I have information that concerns Malistra.”
He nodded. “That might fit the bill.”
She shook her head. “How do I know I can trust you?”
He seized her by the throat and squeezed until her face was blue with blood. “Tell me now.”
Dalma, gasping and choking, nodded. He let go. She took several jagged breaths. “Malistra lives on mesembrythem.”
“What the N’Luuura is that?”
“It’s some kind of sorcerous root.”
“So she’s got a strange diet. She’s a sorceress, isn’t she?” His fingers curled around her throat again.
“Wait! Wait! You don’t understand. She needs this root. Without it she cannot live.”
“Thank you,” Kurgan said, and parted his robes.
“What are you doing? We had a deal!”
“I never agreed to anything,” he said. “And if I did, I don’t care. You’re a Tuskugggun, a Looorm, a spy.”
With a moan of despair, Dalma raked her nails down his chest, drawing blood. He hit her hard enough to stun her, but not hard enough to knock her out. He wanted her to be very much aware of what he was doing to her. He used his rampant member like a shock-sword, and she cried out. He wiped the smear of blood that had appeared under her nose and tasted it. He grunted heavily. His grunting became rhythmic, picking up speed and intensity.
