After his challenger left the field, Eldrinson stood in the center of the clearing, sweat pouring down his face and soaking his clothes, his chest heaving with his strained breaths. When boots scuffed on the ground, he tiredly raised his head, knowing who he would see, but looking anyway with a morbid fascination.
The Aristo stopped several paces away. “You smell unpleasant.”
“Tie a man up for two days without a bath,” Eldrinson said, “then work him this hard, and yes, he will stink.”
An unpleasant smile spread across Vitarex’s face. “I have more challengers for you.”
Eldrinson pulled himself up straight. He doubted he could win another match; he had reached his limit. But driving himself to exhaustion was better than being tied up. The longer he stayed out here, the better the chance Roca and Brad would locate him.
Vitarex left the field, idly motioning to a man among the audience. Most everyone in camp had gathered around the clearing by now, about fifty men, Eldrinson estimated. In octal. Forty, in decimal. He wondered at his mental state, that he was doing numbers in his head when he should be readying himself to fight. His opponent walked into the field—and Eldrinson froze.
He knew the man.
Eldrinson had ridden into battle with him, laughed with him, drunk ale with him, fought at his side. His name was Tarlin and he had long served as a warrior in the army of the Rillian Bard.
Tarlin raised his sword in a salute. “Ho!” With a grin, he added, “So we meet as competitors, eh?”
Gods no. Tarlin was about to give away his identity. Eldrinson stared hard at him. Don’t reveal me. Tarlin was no psion, but if Eldrinson concentrated enough, he might send an impression to the other man. Don’t give me away.
Tarlin hesitated and his forehead furrowed. Eldrinson continued to stare, his posture and expression implacable so Vitarex wouldn’t suspect. Tarlin’s smile faded, but into anger rather than comprehension. He apparently took the intense silence as a rebuff.
Eldrinson tiredly lifted his sword, then lowered it again. He couldn’t best Tarlin. He had managed a few times in the past when he had trained with Lord Rillia’s men, but he was too exhausted now. Tarlin was ten years younger. Physically, they were evenly matched, or would have been had Eldrinson been in his top form. The “cell repair nanomeds” Roca’s people had put in his body delayed his aging and kept him fit, making him a tough opponent even for a younger man. But today Skolian tech wouldn’t be enough.
They approached each other and halted a few paces apart, each in a half crouch. They lunged forward in almost the same instant. As soon as they began to fight, Eldrinson knew Tarlin was restraining his attacks. His friend might not understand the situation, but he seemed to realize something was wrong. They parried around the clearing, engaging and disengaging, metal vibrating when the blades met. Eldrinson’s fingers throbbed as he clutched the hilt of his increasingly heavy sword. Even the hinge in his hand hurt.
Tarlin stepped in fast, right up to him, and Eldrinson barely had time to bring up his weapon. His blade caught Tarlin’s, both swords pointing up to the sky, Eldrinson and Tarlin pressing in on each other, their faces only a few finger spans apart. They strained, each trying to break the impasse, to free his sword, neither able to wrest free.
Eldrinson whispered, “Help me.”
They broke apart and stumbled backward. Eldrinson staggered, then lost his balance and sank to his knees, his sword hitting the ground in front of him. He tried to lift it, but he had lost even the strength to pull it up out of the glitter they had trampled into a dirty powder.
Tarlin stood a few paces away, his sword lowered, his chest heaving. Eldrinson stared dully at him, then he raised his hand, palm outward, accepting defeat. Tarlin inclined his head and Eldrinson did the same. With relief, he let his aching arm drop to his side again. Then it was over.
“Well, well.” Vitarex’s voice oozed. “You put on a better show than I expected.”
He looked up. Vitarex stood a few paces away, obviously pleased to see his pet empath humbled. Eldrinson wanted to punch that smirk off his arrogant face. The Aristo’s only saving grace was that he had no empathic ability; otherwise, he might have picked up the added tension between Tarlin and his captive. Eldrinson knew he should stand, if only to save his pride, but he was so very, very tired. As his adrenaline abated, he became more aware of the pain in his body. Every lunge, parry, blow, and counterblow had exacerbated the aches. His muscles were on fire.
“Ah.” Vitarex let out a long breath. “That is better.”
His nausea surged. It surely had to rank among the most heinous mistakes of the universe, that monsters such as Vitarex had built the greatest empire known in human history. The only advantage Roca’s people had against the Traders—the reason they hadn’t fallen to that massive empire—was the Kyle web, a mesh outside of spacetime where the speed of light was irrelevant. He had never understood why that mattered so much, but right now, staring at Vitarex, he was immensely grateful for that advantage. He had no intention of giving this Aristo a Rhon psion who could make a Kyle web for the Traders. He would rather die.
Vitarex waved his hand at Tarlin. The Rillian warrior bowed stiffly, with a glance at Eldrinson. Then he left the combat field.
“Get up,” Vitarex said.
Clenching his teeth, Eldrinson struggled to his feet. Even at his full height, he was a head shorter than Vitarex. The Aristo studied his face as if searching for answers to the mysteries of empaths. He motioned to three men, members of the octet that had captured Eldrinson, and they took up positions around their prisoner, for all appearances an honor guard. Their tension radiated to Eldrinson’s mind. He gritted his teeth and hoped they saw his hatred. He would never forget they had murdered his men. Ah gods, Jannor, my friend.
Tarlin stood on the sidelines, watching them. Perhaps he sensed trouble. If he rode with Vitarex, however, he couldn’t still be a member of Lord Rillia’s army. Eldrinson had no idea where Tarlin’s loyalties lay, whom he would protect first, his new master or his old friend. That he hadn’t yet revealed Eldrinson might be promising, but it could also mean he preferred to speak to Vitarex in private.
The Aristo spoke to his men in a low voice. “Take him to the tent.”
“As he was?” one of the man asked. “Bound?”
“Yes.” Vitarex’s eyes glinted. “Exactly.”
“No.” Eldrinson rasped the words as one of the warriors reached for his sword. He pulled the blade back and lifted it at his side. He couldn’t bear to be bound to that pole again.
Vitarex spoke with no trace of sympathy. “Recall an oath you made to me, empath, when I agreed to this competition. Remember the consequences.”
Sweat trickled down Eldrinson’s neck. He had no doubt Vitarex was capable of quartering him alive. The only way to ensure the Aristo didn’t kill him would be to reveal he was a member of the Ruby Dynasty. Which he would never do. He walked a narrow path now, with death on each side. He didn’t want to die. He wasn’t that desperate. Yet.
With an exhale, he relinquished his blade. The Tyroll warrior took it with no expression. As Vitarex and the three men escorted Eldrinson to the tent, his nausea increased. He couldn’t go back to that agony, bound day and night, especially not after the beating he had taken in the competition. He had bought himself a few hours of respite, but he had ended up in worse condition than when he started. He also felt that strange sense of dislocation that presaged his seizures. He needed his medicine, and if they put him back in that tent, tied to a pole, he wouldn’t get it. In his youth, before Roca’s people had treated him, he had suffered bouts of status elepticus, or continual seizures coming back to back, one after another. If that happened now, it could kill him.
To the east, the Backbone Mountains were visible through the trees and drifting spheres. Would Vitarex kill him if he ran? Perhaps. But if he let Vitarex tie him up again, he might lose his last chance to escape. Although they were only ten paces from the tent, the
y had gone beyond the reach of the other warriors in the camp. Only Vitarex and these three men guarded him.
Eldrinson quit analyzing—and ran.
He sprinted between the two warriors. One reacted faster than the other and almost caught his arm, but Eldrinson jerked away in time. He raced through the forest, his hair whipping back as he dodged through the trees. His adrenaline had to be pumping again, because he no longer felt pain. Feet pounded after him, but no one called for help. It didn’t surprise him; an alert would reveal he was a prisoner rather than a guest. Whether that would hurt or help him, he had no idea. He thought of shouting, but he knew a good chance existed that it would only make his situation worse.
He broke out of the forest into a meadow of bubble-tipped reeds that he trampled as he ran. If only Roca or ISC would fly overhead! They couldn’t miss the clouds of sparkling dust or airborne spheres. He didn’t dare waste the time to look back at his pursuers, but he felt their anger. Vitarex need have no doubts about these two warriors; their loyalty to him was strong.
A bluff rose up ahead with stubby reeds sticking out from its stone faces. He wasn’t certain he could outrun his pursuers, but he could outclimb almost anyone. He veered toward the ridge, sprinting hard, hoping his surge of energy lasted long enough for him to make it to the top.
When Eldrinson reached the small cliff, he leapt up and grabbed a jutting rock, bearing his weight on his good arm. As he scaled the bluff, he risked a backward glance, in time to see the warriors reach the bottom of the ridge. Vitarex had stopped a short distance back—
And was raising an EM pulse gun.
Panic sparked in Eldrinson. He wasn’t used to thinking in terms of guns, not even after his son Althor had slaughtered over three hundred men with a carbine above the fields of Tyroll. Eldrinson had suppressed his thoughts of Althor and Soz, knowing his children would face worse than this if the Aristos captured them. But in blocking that portion of his mind, he stopped thinking in terms of interstellar weaponry. The men below couldn’t strike him with a sword up here and the wind blew up here enough to deflect an arrow, but none of that mattered to a laser or projectile gun.
No matter. This remained his best choice. He kept climbing, praying death didn’t tear him apart.
Except Vitarex didn’t shoot him—he shot the bluff.
The entire cliff face exploded. Eldrinson flew backward amid a shower of debris and torn reeds. He had one curious moment where he soared peacefully through the air.
Then he hit the ground.
The world collapsed on him, rocks pounding his head and shoulders. A long stone slammed against his eyes and he screamed as the world went dark. Boulders crashed on his legs. He was lost in a swirl of noise, tumult, and pain.
Gradually the noise lessened. Pebbles showered over him, then nothing. Everything remained dark. He could hear nothing, feel nothing, move nothing. He floated. His mind rose into the sky. Looking down, he saw himself crumpled beneath the broken remains of the cliff. Large boulders covered his legs, and his body lay twisted at an odd angle relative to them. Other rocks had hit his face. He felt sympathy for the dying man below, but he didn’t want to stay here. He drifted up …
A tall man knelt next to the body. Unease stirred in Eldrinson. That man—who was he? Vitarex. The Aristo pushed back his sleeve, revealing some sort of offworld gauntlet. He removed a slender tube and pressed it against the neck of the dying man …
“ … come on, breathe.” Vitarex’s voice came through the fog in Eldrinson’s mind. “I order you to stay alive.”
Eldrinson would have laughed at the absurdity if he hadn’t been in such agony. It crashed in on him, all that pain in his legs and back. Unbearable, it was unbearable.
“Gods,” Vitarex whispered. “Just how strong a psion are you?”
Other voices came to him, faint, hard to decipher. Someone pressed a cool object against his neck. It hissed like a syringe. He wanted to float back into the air, to escape this terrible pain, not only in his body, but also knowing that if his children were ever captured by Aristos, they could suffer this way. That knowledge was far worse than the agony in his legs.
Another hiss from the syringe. His thoughts grew hazy.
He slipped into oblivion.
13
First Echo
An invisible fist punched Soz. She had been jogging with Jazar in an easy, steady rhythm. Now, suddenly, her legs buckled and she collapsed on the mountain trail. She felt as if someone had socked her in the stomach, on her legs, even in her eyes. The world went dark.
“What the hell?” Jazar dropped down next to her. “Soz! Are you all right? What happened?”
Her sight slowly cleared. Bewildered, she sat up. Her legs hurt far more than they should have even if she had run for hours instead of just the thirty minutes she and Jazar had gone today. The pain receded, but she couldn’t rid herself of a terrible foreboding.
“Something is wrong.” She climbed to her feet and took off again, gritting her teeth against the ghosts of pain in her legs.
Jazar caught up with her. “Did you hurt yourself?”
Soz glowered at him. “Pah.” She was hardly likely to hurt herself with the easy physical regime here.
He blinked. “Pah?”
Relenting, Soz said, “I’m fine.” Now that she was getting the hang of running in this low gravity, it hardly strained her at all. So why had she fallen?
“Remind me never to make you angry,” Jazar said.
“Why not?”
“When you glare at me like that, I think you’ll flay me alive.” Mischief flashed in his eyes. “Might be fun.”
Soz smiled. “You’ll never know.” She wasn’t up to bantering with him, though. Someone who mattered a great deal to her had just suffered. The strongest empath couldn’t pick up emotions farther than a few kilometers away, and even that was rare; the fields produced by the brain fell off too rapidly from the body to detect much beyond a few hundred meters, and then only if the sender was a strong psion. As far as she knew, that narrowed the candidates for what she had sensed to Althor. Had he been hurt?
As they jogged, Soz spoke into her wrist comm. “Althor Valdoria.” Jazar glanced at her, but said nothing.
After a few moments, the comm buzzed. Soz toggled receive.
Althor’s voice came out of the mesh. “Heya, Soz.”
“Heya. You okay?”
A pause. Then he said, “Sure. Why?”
She noticed his hesitation. “I just wondered.”
“You sound out of breath.”
“I am not,” she answered, indignant. Jazar laughed.
“You running?” Althor said.
“That’s right. Are you sure you didn’t hurt your legs?”
Another pause. “How did you know they were bothering me?”
“I felt it.”
“I guess I ran too hard yesterday. I had some muscle spasms.” His voice lightened. “You going to feel sympathetic pangs for all my aches and twinges, sister dear?”
“I hope not,” Soz grumbled. He sounded all right, tired certainly, but otherwise fine. “Take care of yourself.”
He laughed amiably. “I will. See you at dinner.”
“See you.” Soz toggled off receive.
“What was that all about?” Jazar asked.
Soz shook her head. “Nothing, I guess.” She didn’t feel reassured but she didn’t know why.
She and Jazar were running through the mountains above DMA, following a rocky trail packed hard from all the cadets who had run here. They came around a loop and headed down to the training fields. Other cadets were returning from their morning run and gathering on a quadrangle below. Soz and Jazar came down the last of the trail and sprinted across the fields to the quadrangle. They joined the other cadets, falling into formation, four lines of eight each, a total of thirty-two novices. The spelling of their names in Iotic glyphs determined their place in the pattern. Soz thought it anachronistic that the academy used Iotic when ev
eryone spoke Flag, but it had always been that way here and you never argued with tradition at DMA.
She took her place in the third line, next to Jazar. Grell stood a few places farther down, watching them. She winked and lifted her hand in greeting, then turned her attention forward before their instructors could catch them goofing off during formation.
So they waited, the entire incoming class, every one of them a psion, their group winnowed down to thirty-two out of several thousand applicants. No one spoke; being caught talking during roll call earned demerits, which could land you webtech duty or cleaning up spamoozala, the onerous holo-junk messages that flooded the meshes.
Pale blue sky arched overhead and hot wind blew across them. The spacious grounds extended all around, training fields with synthetic surfaces that mimicked various types of terrain, and obstacle courses that went on for kilometers. Here in the center, they stood in a plaza tiled with large squares of white stone and the ubiquitous insignia of the J-Force. Two of their instructors, Jagernaut Secondary Foxer and Lieutenant Colonel Stone, were at the front of the formation, but Soz couldn’t tell what they were doing. It looked as if they were waiting for someone. She tried not to gawk. The moods of the novices washed over her like an ocean, their minds too well guarded for her to pick up anything specific, just a general sense of anticipation and intelligence.
They remained that way for a while, longer than usual, enough that Soz grew restless. Why the holdup? She looked to the side and saw the anomaly: someone was going down the first line, hands clasped behind his back, his tan uniform bright in the sunlight. A gold someone. A gold giant. The blood drained from Soz’s face. Hell. It was Kurj. He had come to see the new crop of novices.
He went along each line, pausing often to speak with cadets. When he reached the third line, he walked slowly along it, nodding to the novices as he passed. He towered over them, seven feet tall, a massive figure with metallic skin, hair, and eyes. He had lowered his inner eyelids, shielding his eyes with a gold barrier that appeared opaque, but which he could apparently see through just fine.