"Our war?" It was Romano Liao's voice. "Of course! I knew it all along!" She laughed triumphantly and turned to lord it over the others. "You've just been waiting for our troops to take stock of these invaders. Now Wolf's Dragoons will stalk from their den and into the battle."
She looked up at Jaime Wolf. "Yours are the fiercest mercenaries in the Inner Sphere. With your help, we shall send these rimworld renegades running."
Wolf cut her off with a hard stare. "I'm afraid you have it all wrong, Madam Chancellor. The enemy we face is not composed of either renegades or bandits. The invaders will be back, probably in less than a year. We will have to be ready to meet them with everything we've got because we've seen only a small sample of their strength."
Wolf's voice and expression became grim. "After Radstadt and after the death of their war leader, they'll come at us at full strength. They'll ask no quarter and grant none. Ladies and gendemen, now begins what could easily be the last days of the Inner Sphere."
Epilogue:
Name of the Beast
JumpShip Dire Wolf, Transfer Orbit
Rasalhague, Wolf Clan Occupation Zone
12 January 3051
Phelan Kell entered the Dire Wolfs small shuttlecraft bay and easily picked out the Precentor Martial from the milling crowd of yellow-robed ComStar Acolytes helping with his baggage. He threaded his way through them and extended his hand to the one-eyed man. "I only just heard you were leaving."
Anastasius Focht shook Phelan's hand warmly. "Yes. Ulric felt it would be for the best. He said I would not be welcome where the Clan is going." The older man released the mercenary's hand, then smiled quizzically at him. "What is going to happen with you? Any news of the inquiry into your behavior during the attack?"
The Kell Hound shook his head slowly. "No. They've kept me virtually incommunicado since the battle at Radstadt, but more pressing matters may have taken precedence over my fate. It's my impression that the Smoke Jaguars wanted to raze Radstadt because survivors from the Rasalhague fleet were likely to take refuge there."
Focht nodded in agreement, then walked Phelan away from the other ComStar personnel. "Ulric said that losing the ilKhan's body to the vacuum of space drove the Jaguars into a frenzy. He was from their Clan, you know. They were upset that you saved Ulric but not the ilKhan."
"If I'd seen him, I'd have done what I could. Don't forget ... I pulled Vlad from the bridge, too."
The Precentor Martial nodded. "I know, Phelan."
The young man touched Focht's sleeve. "I realize Ulric may have placed restrictions on the information to be passed on to ComStar. But if there's any way you can get word to my family ..."
The Precentor Martial touched his right palm to Phelan's forehead. "The Peace of Blake be with you, Phelan Kell. I don't know what the Primus will approve concerning the Clans. As we are to implement some of the occupation policies for the Clans during their absence, ComStar is in a delicate position. If nothing else, perhaps I can let them know their son made them proud."
The mercenary nodded, then smiled weakly. "Thank you. I feel we've become friends and I'll miss talking with you. And I can't thank you enough for your help during the whole business about Ranna and Vlad. I'm still not fully at ease about that situation, but maybe I've learned from my mistakes."
"Remember," Focht said, almost fondly, "that's why the body forms scars."
Phelan threw the Precentor Martial a salute, then turned and left the bay. Watching from a window in the airlock near the door, he saw Focht board the blocky shuttle and seal the hatch. The viewport frosted over as Launch Control drained the bay of atmosphere and opened the external hatch.
Phelan had no chance to watch the ship depart. Two Elementals in full armor, with red sashes slung across their chests, entered the viewing room. The mottled gray and black camouflage pattern identified them as belonging to the Smoke Jaguar clan. "Phelan Patrick Kell?"
"Yes," Phelan answered, wondering about the seriousness of the man's tone. "I am he."
The one on his right pointed down the corridor. "You will come with us." The first Elemental started off toward the core of the ship and the second followed closely behind, with Phelan sandwiched between.
Full of apprehension, Phelan tugged at the braided cord surrounding his right wrist. Bondsmen may not be slaves and might get better treatment than bandits and other social misfits, but the word "civil" is not a word that fits the rights or relations between warriors and any other caste in this culture. Then another sudden thought brought a smile. Well, at least I know they're a bit leery of me. The Elementals are in armor this time.
One of the lift doors already stood open, with another Elemental standing there keeping the cage clear. I've never seen them do that before. The Elemental behind Phelan nudged him forward into the cage, where the mercenary squeezed back into a corner as the Elemental trio filled the elevator.
Though he could not see the panel showing the deck numbers flashing by, he knew they were headed forward toward the bridge level. When the ride ended somewhat prematurely, Phelan realized they'd stopped on one of the forbidden decks—decks where only warriors were allowed. His mouth went dry, then tasted sour.
The Elementals ushered him along a short corridor, then stopped at a door that bore no identifying icon. One Elemental rapped on the door with a metal fist and it slid noiselessly upward. Suddenly, the Elemental behind Phelan shoved hard, spilling him into the room. The door slid shut again, leaving the mercenary alone in utter darkness.
Blinded, Phelan held his hands out in front of his face, then stepped forward until he felt a wall. Moving to the right, he completed a cautious circuit of the room. Two meters by two meters, with no furnishings. This is a less hospitable berth than I had when originally captured. The Elementals who brought me here were Smoke Jaguars. Are they going to take revenge upon me for the death of the ilKhan?
Phelan whirled as a door at his back whisked open. Standing back two meters from the doorway and illuminated by a spotlight from above, a woman beckoned him forward. Is that you, Ranna? By her elaborate dress and gestures, he sensed that her silence held special significance.
Dressed in a tight-fitting body suit of white leather that left her arms and legs bare, she might have been an apparition. Silver studded the costume, and long leather thongs hung down like a loincloth. Knee-length Mech Warrior boots of polished silver encased her lower legs, and gauntlets of fine steel mesh covered her hands and arms to the elbow. A short cloak of white wolf-fur fell from her shoulders to midback. A silver wolf's-head clasp with ruby eyes fastened the cloak at her throat.
Though Phelan thought he recognized her form and stance, he could not be certain because the woman wore a mask. It reminded him of nothing so much as the fierce visage of his Wolfhound BattleMech. Worked with the greatest of skill, the white enameled mask took the form of a wolf's head. The beast's mouth hung open, its lips pulled back in a snarl, but Ranna's blue eyes shining through the mask's eyeslits took away some of the threat.
He took one step forward and she vanished. The light from above winked out, then another light flashed on, and she appeared further on. She invited him forward with a languid gesture, then abruptly shot both her hands up and out above her shoulders. Silver flashed and a metallic ring filled the darkness as her hands stopped twin swords from flashing down.
Phelan rushed forward and passed beneath her right arm. Blackness swept in again as Ranna released the blades and they whistled down to complete their arcs. In the darkness, the Kell Hound felt all his senses come alive and his heart begin pumping. This must be some strange justice ritual of the Clans. The Smoke Jaguars desire my death, but Ulric has sent a representative of the Wolf Clan to ward me and assist me.
He felt Ranna move past him, but he concentrated instead on identifying other perceptions. On his left, he heard the dry whisper of boot against deck. Instantly, he dropped to his hands and knees, letting the sword slice air where, a moment or two before, it would have met his s
pine. He stabbed out with his left foot and hit something. His target did not cry out, but the thump of a body hitting the floor and the clatter of a dropped sword made Phelan smile.
Ahead of him Ranna appeared again within a circle of light. As he trotted toward her, she squatted down, then leaped up. Responding immediately, the Kell Hound drove up and forward. Two swords sparked as they collided, passing centimeters below his belly. Phelan tucked and rolled forward, but as he came up, sensed a motion on his right.
Too late. He twisted away from it, but felt the burning sting as the blade slashed through the flesh on his right thigh. He allowed his pirouette to carry him closer to Ranna, then dropped to one knee and probed the wound with his right hand. Reaching through the cut in his jumpsuit leg, his hand came away warm, wet, and sticky. That's a good five centimeter cut, but it seems to be shallow. Hurts like a son of a bitch, but it won't slow me down.
He reached Ranna's side, fully expecting her to vanish when the light above her died, but it did not. Instead, another spotlight pinned a figure to the black floor. Tall and strong, Ulric stood shrouded in a floor-length cloak of black and gray wolf-fur. The light from above burned brightly from his white hair, but hid his eyes in impenetrable pockets of shadow.
His deep voice filled the void. "Trothkin, seen and unseen, near and far, living and dead, rejoice as the Wolf has brought us a foundling." He let the words echo through the darkness, until silence reigned once more. "It was fortyseven years ago that the Womb of Steel whelped a pup such as this. That birthing is but a thing of legend, but none will deny the rede of it."
From the surrounding dark, Phelan heard a thousand voices whisper as one. "Seyla."
Ulric's voice dropped into a wolfish growl. "I am the Oathmaster! All will be bound by this Conclave, until they are dust and memories, and then beyond that time until the end of all that is."
"Seyla."
The sibilant murmuring raised goosebumps on Phelan's flesh. Tension built in him as his mind struggled frantically to pierce the mysteries of this terrible ceremony. They try to kill me, then make me the centerpiece of some bizarre ritual. I don't understand half the words or what Ulric is trying to say. I hope like hell I configure out what's going on, or as sure as this bondcord encircles my wrist, I'm going to be one dead little bondsman.
Ulric looked around as though his eyes could see those gathered beyond the circle of light. "The Wolf's wisdom is not in doubt, but there are those who believe the Wolf's generosity is too great. Who would deny this pup his life?"
The mercenary saw Ulric's head come up at a rustling sound behind him. Stepping forward into a white circle painted on the deck was a small, slender man of the largeheaded body type Phelan had come to associate with Clan aerojocks. His spectacular costume had been cut from green leather and patterned after an aeropilot's flightsuit. Instead of a short cloak of fur, he wore a brilliant gold and malachite pectoral with two stylized wings rising up on either side of his head. His hawk-head mask, also made of gold and malachite, was a masterwork of artistry.
As the man removed his mask, Ulric's voice boomed from behind Phelan. "I recognize thee, Cavell Malthus of the Jade Falcons."
"Oathmaster, I ken death from the skies for this pup." Cavell watched the bondsman with huge, hungry brown eyes. "Aye, it is death I see."
Ulric's voice rang out strongly. "Who among the Wolves would deny this vision?"
Moving to eclipse Phelan's view of Cavell, an aerofighter pilot stepped in. His costume paralleled Cavell's in shape, but was made from dark gray leather. Like Ranna's costume, his included a cloak of gray fur settled over his shoulder. As Cavell removed his helmet, the mercenary saw a flash of golden hair.
"I recognize thee, Carew of the Wolves."
"Oathmaster, it is my ken that this pup need fear nothing from the air." As Carew's voice trailed off, both he and Cavell again donned their masks. Neither moved from their places. Beside them, two more spotlights brought illumination to two more circles on the deck.
A titan stepped forward from the darkness. His costume of light gray leather had not been tailored to represent any Clan military garb that Phelan could recognize, but that mattered little. Instead, he marveled at how the material stretched taut to mold itself to the massive, powerfully built man. Though the garment covered him from throat to boot tops, a loincloth of Smoke Jaguar fur had been added to mark his Clan affiliation, as though his savage jaguar-mask could be mistaken for anything else. The Elemental solemnly removed his mask.
"I recognize thee, Lincoln Osis of the Smoke Jaguars."
The black man's voice sounded deeper than Ulric's and was an almost perfect impersonation of a jaguar's hoarse growl. "Oathmaster, I ken death by hand for this pup. Aye, it is death I see."
Again Ulric voiced a request to the assembly hidden in the shadows. "Who among the Wolves would deny this vision?"
Another Wolf moved to stand between Phelan and his challenger. Even if he had not seen the long red braid lying against her spine, he would have known Evantha from the way she stalked out to take her place.
"I recognize thee, Evantha Fetladral of the Wolves."
Phelan sensed the barest hint of challenge and scorn in Evantha's reply. "Oathmaster, it is my ken that this pup need fear nothing from the hand."
As Evantha and Lincoln again donned their masks, the final two circles on the deck blazed to life with reflected light. Almost immediately, a man moved into the challenger's circle. Phelan realized that his costume, like Ranna's, was a version of the abbreviated attire MechWarriors wore in their steamy cockpits. A thick cloak of white fur covered the man, fastened at his throat by knotting together the fur around a bear's forward paws. The intermediate paws were similarly tied together at his waist. The bear mask the man wore seemed to be inlaid with opal, which mirrored the shimmering pelt he wore.
"I recognize thee, Garald Winson of the Ghost Bears."
"Oathmaster, I ken death from his equals." His voice dropped to a rime-laden whisper. "Aye, it is death I see."
Phelan heard a change in Ulric's voice as he asked for a Wolf to refute Winson's vision of the future. The mercenary half-expected Ranna to leave his side, but she remained in place as another stepped forward. Obviously a woman, this one's costume matched Ranna's in all but color, yet flattered her figure equally. Where Ranna wore white, this MechWarrior wore black, including the abbreviated cloak of wolf-fur. Red hair cascaded onto her shoulders and Phelan saw a scarlet hourglass symbol on the abdomen of her leather clothing.
Phelan's jaw dropped as she removed her mask, and Ulric spoke. "I recognize thee, Natasha Kerensky of the Wolves."
The mercenary stared at her in disbelief, but she shot him a grin before facing her opposition. Natasha Kerensky! But she's Jaime Wolf's second in command. What is she doing here, and why is she recognized by the Clans? As quickly as that question formed itself in his head, the answer hit him with frightful clarity. Oh my God They're not Wolf's Dragoons, they're the Wolf Dragoons. They've been part of the Clans all along!
Phelan suddenly realized he was not alone in his shock. Garald Winson had paled visibly. From the darkness enclosing them, the mercenary heard hushed whispers. Still grinning, Natasha seemed to revel in the disturbance she caused.
"Oathmaster," Natasha said contemptuously, "I have known this pup for years. He has nothing to fear from his equals, or those who would style themselves his betters."
"Face me, pup." Ulric's voice brought Phelan around. The Khan regarded him with hollow eyes. "Thrice he has been challenged and three defenders have risen for him. Sponsored by the Wolf, warded by the Clan, all is in order."
From beneath his cloak, Ulric produced a silver dagger with a wolf's-head pommel. He moved forward. "Give me your right hand."
Phelan held up his hand, and Ulric slid the knife down between the mercenary's flesh and the bondcord. "This marked you as a bondsman, but yours is the heart, the mind, and the soul of a warrior. The Wolf has seen it and I, the Oathmaster, proclaim i
t."
Tugging the knife back toward himself, Ulric sliced the bondcord in half. With an expert flip, he reversed the knife, then pressed its pommel into Phelan's wrist and folded his fingers down over it. Triumphantly, he thrust the Kell Hound's hand into the air. "Let us rejoice and let pride sing out—the Wolves have a new warrior among their number."
A mild burst of respectful applause resounded from the shadows, then quickly died away as Ulric backed away from Phelan to his original position. Phelan lowered his hand, then heard something behind him. He turned slowly and saw another MechWarrior, this one clad in the Wolf clan costume, making his way from the shadows. He stopped in front of Phelan and removed his mask.
The mercenary narrowed his eyes. What now? He glanced at the sword in the Wolf's right hand and saw a dark stain on its tip. Yes. It had to be you, quiaff?
Vlad removed his mask and nestled it between his right elbow and ribs. Still livid, the scar left from his injury on the bridge ran down from his left eye to his jaw. Phelan shuddered at the sight. Why do all the MechWarriors who loathe me have Radstadt scars?
Vlad executed a crisp, formal bow. Coming up again, he locked eyes with Phelan in a stare that left no doubt that Vlad's hatred ran more than, as Griff had said, bone-deep. That hatred runs soul-deep, Phelan warned himself. There may well come a day when you regret having rescued him from the Dire Wolf's bridge.
Vlad swallowed hard before speaking. "Welcome, bloodkin, to the House of Ward." He extended his left hand to Phelan in greeting, but his right hand scraped the bell guard of the sword against the wolf's-head buckle Vlad wore.
Phelan did not miss the gesture. I'll remember you, Vlad, each and every time I see Tyra's belt buckle on you—just as you'll remember me whenever you look in a mirror. There will come a day when we settle our differences once and for all. Constrained by the formality of the gathering, Phelan merely met Vlad's grip with one matched in strength.