Flagship Victory Read online

  Only from here could one finally see over the hundred-meter-high wall. These people, apparently without high technology, could only guess at what the cityscape represented. Did they think it was some kind of paradise, a heaven where they went when they died?

  “That’s Glasgow,” he said, pointing.

  “Here is Urquala.”

  “This place? Here?” Straker waved at the ground around them.

  “Yes. Urquala. My land.”

  “And what’s that called over there?” He pointed at the distant line of lights.

  “Rennerog.”

  “Tell me of this place.”

  Roslyn stepped close, and Straker could feel the heat as her arm brushed his. He expected her skin to be rough, but actually it was smooth, like a bright yellow tame snake he’d once handled. “The magic men say it is an evil place of demons. Gorben says it is only a different place, with people good and bad, like here. What is it?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “I am asking.”

  Straker breathed deeply of the clean, chill air. “Gorben’s right.”

  “No demons?”

  He smiled. “A few.”

  “Enemies?”

  “More of those.”

  “Friends?”

  “Maybe one.”

  Roslyn slipped her arm into the crook of his. “Now two.”

  “Okay…” Straker said.

  “What’s that mean?” she asked.

  “What’s what?”

  “What’s okay?”

  “Okay… it means, yes, good, I agree.”

  “Okay okay. You speak strangely.”

  “Back at you, girl.”

  Roslyn turned to embrace him. It felt odd, to have a woman taller than himself take him in her arms and press herself to him. “I want you.”

  “Umm…”

  “For a mate. For a year and a day.”

  “Uhh…” Oh, hell. This was getting awkward, but he could hardly piss off his one ally in Urquala. “I’m already married.”

  “Married?”

  “Mated. I have a woman.”

  “In Rennerog?”

  “Yeah, kinda. It’s complicated.”

  “What’s that? Comp…”

  “It means: difficult to explain.”

  “Another woman claims you?” she asked.

  “Um, yeah.”

  Roslyn grinned. “I will fight her for you.”

  “You…”

  “I will take you from her, fairly and by right.”

  “You can try.” Straker chuckled, envisioning one hell of a battle.

  “I have no anger. I will not kill her.”

  “Good to hear.” Straker gently disentangled himself. “Tell you what. Let’s talk about all that later, when we’re safe. When we’re back with your people. You have people? A tribe, a village… something like that?” He knew little of low-tech societies, just some educational showvids he’d seen from time to time.

  “My people, yes. Our stronghold.”

  “Stronghold?” he asked.

  “It is a great place, large. High walls. Calaria.”

  “Calaria? We’re going there?”

  “Yes.”

  Straker took one more look at Glasgow, curious what had become of Myrmidon, thinking about the future, and wondering how he would get home. He admitted to himself he might have bitten off more than he could chew. At least, he’d been too cavalier, overconfident from his repeated victories and successes. Now he was stuck in a primitive enclave on an enemy world, with no way home.

  Had he been a fool? The stakes—knowledge of the Opters and the potential of making an alliance—had tempted him, lured him here. Now, though, the Liberation was without the Liberator. Was it hubris to think they needed him? If so, he’d been irresponsible to leave.

  Alternatively, his friends and allies would step up in his absence and continue to pursue his aims and goals. He thought of Carla. Could she do it? Would she do it?

  She was his rock, his partner, his other half.

  His wife.

  And she was a warrior. A different kind from Roslyn, sure, but a warrior nonetheless. Willing to fight, willing to do what had to be done, he felt sure.

  He held tight to that and buried his doubt. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Roslyn turned away from distant Glasgow, toward her Rennerog, and headed higher into the hills.

  Straker took one last look back, and followed.

  As false dawn darkened the land, Roslyn slowed and led Straker cautiously over a ridge. From atop it he could see an ocean of campfires in the valley below. Across and beyond loomed a massive castle, brooding atop a natural bluff. She pointed. “Calaria.”

  “Unknowable Creator, that’s a big place! I thought…”

  “You think I lie?”

  “No, of course not.” He had thought, though, that her idea of a “stronghold” might be less than impressive. He was glad to be wrong.

  Well, assuming they could make it to her home. Those fires worried him.

  “What are they?” he said, pointing.

  “Bortoks. An army of men, like you killed. Always they attack us in our mountains. They covet our riches and our wisdom.”

  “They’re besieging your castle?”

  Roslyn sounded out his words. “Yes. Be-siege. Surround. They throw great stones to break down our walls. We throw them back. It is war, in the season of war.”

  “What are your people called?”

  “People.”

  “There’s no common name?”

  She seemed to ponder. “Calaria. That is almost right.”

  Straker shrugged. “Okay, Calaria the place, Calaria the people. So… who’s winning?”

  Roslyn spat. “Bortoks. Always they drive us Calaria farther back. This is the final place, before… before…” She searched for Earthan words. “Before the land, the top of table, behind.” She made gestures with her hands, but in the near-darkness, he couldn’t see to understand.

  “Never mind. Show me later. How do we get there?”

  “By a secret way.” She took her sword in her hand, a knife in the other. “Make ready. The Bortoks have sentries. I will see for you.”

  “No problem.” Straker drew his sword in his right hand, but rather than a knife, he held his hand-light in his left. He wondered what these primitives would make of it. They’d probably think it magic. It might as well be, to them.

  They crept forward together, Straker walking as she’d showed him, trying to place his feet down gently, toe first, avoiding dry leaves and sticks. Roslyn’s bare, claw-toed feet were far better for this than his boots. He felt clumsy and noisy next to her silent glide.

  “There,” she murmured. Ahead he could faintly see a stone structure, a doorway as if to a mine leading into the hillside. A small fire burned low nearby, just smoky embers, and at least two figures lay on the rock next to it.

  “Stay,” she said. “Come when I am done.” She crept forward.

  He stayed. She was much quieter than he, and he had an inkling of what came next. Killing sentries was an old tradition in war, and ugly, brutal work. Now that he knew her people were besieged and at war with the big men, the Bortoks, he had no qualms about killing them in their sleep.

  He saw her make two quick thrusts, and then two more delicate cuts. The figures never stirred. Fools. Sleeping in guard duty was a capital offense in some armies. Today, Roslyn had meted out their sentences.

  She waved him forward and led him into the dark tunnel. As the light faded to nothing, she slowed. “Touch the wall.”

  “You need light?” Straker asked.

  “You have light?”

  “I do.”

  She probably thought he meant he had flint and steel, or matches if she knew of such things. He reminded himself that anyone who could build a castle of cut stone blocks and fight sieges with “thrown rocks”—probably catapults—was more sophisticated than he’d thought. Her imperfect Earthan had led him to be
lieve she was a Stone Age woman, but clearly, both sides had approximately medieval technology.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Those outside may see.”

  “Right.”

  Three twists of the tunnel later and Roslyn grasped his arm. “Now, the light.”

  Straker aimed his hand-light away from her, dialed it to its lowest setting, and pressed the button. Roslyn gasped in surprise, and then leaned close to examine it. “Like day! And no fire!”

  “This is what you see in Glasgow. In Rennerog. Many, many lights like this.”

  “You are truly the one Gorben spoke of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re the Azaltar. The one who aids us.”

  Straker shone the light up and down the tunnel. “I’ll try… but I’m not sure what I can do against an army. Not without weapons.”

  “We have weapons.”

  “Not the kind I’d like.” He turned to walk deeper into the hillside, the beam of light showing him the way. “How is it the Bortoks didn’t guard this way better? Or use it to sneak into your castle?”

  “It’s not so easy. You will see.”

  Twenty minutes later, Straker heard the rushing sound of fast-moving water. Ten minutes after that, they debouched into a cavern cut by a swift-running river five meters wide and equally deep. Several ways led off from it. He counted at least nine, perhaps more, if all the clefts led to tunnels.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  Roslyn smiled. “Now you understand. Branches lead to more branches, which lead to more. Only the wise know the way through.”

  “And you’re wise?”

  She lifted her chin. “I am.”

  “Lead on. Here, take this.” Straker held out the light.

  She took it carefully, reverently, as if she were afraid to break it. She then sheathed her sword and took his hand. “Walk where I walk, or you will fall.”

  Slowly she picked her way across the river, placing her feet at specific intervals. He stayed one-half step behind her. Her strong, steady grip made sure he didn’t stray.

  Each time his foot came down, he found a rock beneath it, just wide enough to stand on. One slip and they would be washed downward far into the earth. He could see why the Bortoks were deterred.

  On the other side, Roslyn led him into one tunnel that seemed no different from any other. With the light, she walked surefootedly, and he strode along behind.

  They crossed many intersections, each with a selection of several tunnels. Straker became hopelessly lost, but Roslyn seemed to know exactly where she was, and each time chose her path without hesitation.

  Three hours later, Straker estimated, she handed the light back to him. “Put out the light,” she said, and watched interestedly as he pushed the button to turn it off. He was about to ask why when he saw a flickering orange glow ahead.

  “Do not fear,” she said, “but do not speak until I say.”

  “I’ll speak when I damn well please,” he retorted, amused.

  “Then be ready to fight. My young warriors are eager for battle. My old warriors have stiff necks.”

  Straker grasped her arm. “I’ll keep quiet for a little while, but I’m a warrior too. You saw what I did to those Bortoks. I’m not afraid of a fight.”

  Roslyn took Straker’s face between her palms. “I know you are not afraid, my strong man. I only do not want you to kill my people. My Calaria. I need every warrior.” Then she pressed her lips to his.

  He didn’t resist. It would be impolite, after all. Fortunately it was brief, with only a hint of passion.

  Damn. This could get complicated.

  Chapter 15

  Straker in Calaria

  Straker and Roslyn found themselves at the end of the final cave tunnel, looking through an iron grate into a room lit by flickering oil lamps hanging from wall hooks. A crude lock held a larger bar across the door. Two armored men of Roslyn’s kind stood suddenly from their chairs at a table that held dice and stacks of coins.

  They unsheathed their swords and said something in their clicking language. One grasped a rope that led upward through a hole in the rock, perhaps an alarm of some kind.

  “It is I, Roslyn,” she said, pressing her face to the bars. “Speak the Low Tongue for my friend.”

  “Sessa! You have returned! Is he…?”

  “He is.”

  The guard rushed forward to unlock the door. The other released the rope. “Sessa, the Bortoks have weakened the south tower, but still we hold.”

  Roslyn clapped the man on his shoulder. “Fear not, Powl. I have brought a man from beyond the wall of Rennerog.”

  “Beyond the wall…?” The guard Powl stared as Straker stepped through the door. “This puny one?”

  Roslyn grinned her toothy grin. “He is Straker. He is the Azaltar. Take his hand and feel his strength.”

  Powl snorted skeptically, but put out his hand. Straker took it and squeezed until the man’s face broke with pain. “He’s a demon!”

  Straker found it ironic that this scaly man with crests on his head like a lizard was calling him a demon. “Just a man,” he said. “Not Calaria, not Bortok.”

  “What kind of man?”

  That was a question Straker had pondered. What should he call his own people, when he wasn’t even sure if Bortoks and Calaria were races, species, tribes or nations, or something else entirely.

  He settled on, “Earthan.”

  “Urr-thannn… Urthan.”

  “Close enough.”

  Roslyn said, “He is like the orange man of the trees—small, but of great strength.”

  “Yes, Sessa.”

  “Why do they call you Sessa?” asked Straker.

  “Because I am Sessa. It means…” She looked upward in thought. “Daughter of the king.”

  “Princess?”

  “Yes, Princessa. Sessa.”

  Straker laughed uproariously, his eyes watering. “I rescued a princess, who wears a sword and lives in a castle, and she looks like a dragon.”

  The others stared at him as if he’d gone mad. Powl, being quick of mind, spoke up. “You rescued Sessa Roslyn?”

  “Yes,” Roslyn said. “Four Bortok took me, but Straker killed them all with nothing but a metal bar.” She winked sidelong at Straker.

  Straker played along. He’d need the reputation as a great warrior to counter his small size, otherwise he’d be forced to give endless demonstrations. “That’s right.” He hefted his improvised club, the bar still showing Bortok blood. “And now I’ve returned your princessa to you.”

  “If not a demon, then a god,” Powl said.

  “Perhaps the son of a god,” Roslyn said. “Gorben foretold his coming. He is the Azaltar.”

  “And we laughed!” Powl lowered his head, as did the other. “Forgive me, Sessa.”

  “I shall. Spread the word among the warriors. It will hearten them. Now I must see my father.”

  “Of course.” Powl hastened to hold the far door open for his princess.

  Roslyn led them up a dozen flights of cramped spiral stairs, wide enough for only one. The steps turned so that defenders above would have great advantage. Straker nodded with approval. The Bortoks could never fight their way through here, even if they found the path.

  “What’s this Azaltar you keep calling me?” Straker asked as they climbed, Roslyn in front.

  “He is the one who brings victory. The champion.”

  “Some kind of savior?”

  “Calaria need no saving. We are happy to die for our freedom. What we crave is victory, and the death of Bortoks.” Roslyn turned to sit on the steps and look down at him as he stood below. “You are the Azaltar, Straker. As Gorben foretold. The champion.”

  “And if I’m not?”

  Roslyn pressed her thin lips together, and then hissed through her teeth. “Then we die. Or…”

  “Or?”

  “Or you become him.”

  Straker grinned. “Okay. I guess I’m the Azalt
ar. Now let’s go see your father.”

  “Oh-kay.” She turned back and resumed climbing the steps. “And I do not look like a dragon.”

  “You do, a little.”

  She said something in the clicking language, the High Tongue. Probably something vulgar.

  “You know, your High Tongue sounds like the Opter language. I need to learn some of that.”

  “Op-ter?”

  “If your gods and demons are real, then they’re Opters. They look like huge bugs, and they have great power. And they don’t give a shit about humans like you and me.”

  Roslyn turned to look back. “Why should they give shit?”

  “I mean, they… they’re not our friends. At all.”

  “I shall keep it in mind.” She turned to face the front and kept climbing the long spiral stairway up from the earth. “I will teach you the High Tongue, but it is difficult for those not taught from birth.”

  “Even a little might be useful.”

  “All wisdom is useful to the wise, and useless to fools. In this manner one tells the two apart.”

  “You got that right.”

  By the time they entered the king’s personal dining room, Straker and Roslyn had collected a train of followers—knights, servants, ladies of the court. All of the women were bare-breasted, though their multi-hued, scaly skin made this fact less titillating. On the way, Roslyn silenced everyone’s questions with a stern slash of her hand in the air and a grim-set mien, and then shut the door in their faces.

  Inside the room a huge older man sat at a table, eating and drinking while looking at maps and documents. His skin was of the same fine purplish scale as Roslyn’s. His crests were large and impressive, and he wore rich clothing. He rose and rushed to Roslyn, embracing her and speaking in the clicking language.

  “Father, this is Straker. He does not speak the High Tongue. He freed me from a Bortok capture party and killed them with nothing but an iron bar. He is a great warrior. He is the Azaltar.”

  “This one? The Azaltar? Our champion?” The king looked Straker skeptically up and down.

  Straker became acutely conscious of his ragged clothes—nothing but ripped trousers and boots, with the sword belt and a bag of salvaged items. But this man was obviously a warrior. Exquisite armor and weapons rested on stands nearby. Time for another demonstration. Straker held out his hand.