Artefact War

Chapter One

Journey to Marutchi

A grizzled and battle-scarred corporal Cado, who, thirty-three years ago, was handed to his nine year old sister by his weary mother, before she crawled out of bed and returned to run one of the sleaziest inns in the city's northern quarter, rode slightly ahead of an advance column of forty cavalry troopers. The corporal was a product of hell that was the Brizarian old northern quarter, a street urchin who learnt to survive by his wits and from watching bar-room brawls from a very early age, rose to become a soldier in the First Scavenger Legion. Following the First Neesien War, in which the legion distinguished itself for valour, Cado found himself confined to dank gaol cell for performing extracurricular night work with a hammer and fine chisel to feed his wife and six hungry brats.

By mere days, Cado was saved from a date with headsman's axe by the Lord High Recycler's order to supply Rhyka with an army of soldiers. Cado, whose speciality was forging priestly stamps on artefacts filched by smugglers from the Ruins, had run afoul of a rival forger with a score to settle. To Cado's chagrin, his rank with the legion couldn't save him from gaol. When Rhyka learnt that Cado was popular among his troops for the life-like etchings he could produce, he dispatched an armed party to the gaol, whereupon a standoff with the Watch ensued. Eventually, blows, bribes, and unknown quantities of military issue booze were exchanged, and Cado was released.

Subsequently, Rhyka appointed him legion cartographer, where he could keep a close eye on him, and returned him to his old rank and pay structure. In doing so, the soldiers under Rhyka's command determined that he was loyal, fair and made considered decisions based upon a man's skills, rather than his heritage.

Cado balanced a canvas-covered frame of hoop pine across his armoured thighs. The nuggetty Corporal drew with great accuracy all that he observed. Black stained fingers toyed constantly with a nub of charcoal. A wiry man with a dark complexion, he possessed hooded brown eyes that lit up with humour when he told a joke. His broken nose was sharp and thin, set below thick bushy eyebrows. His jug-handled ears were as distinct as his coarse laugh.

Rhyka nudged his mount up beside Cado. He asked him with a wry smile and in a low tone before flicking his eyes back toward the column, What do you make of our volunteers, Cado?

Scrunching his rough, weather-beaten face into a mass of wrinkled of lines, Cado turned his head slightly and replied in a like manner, If there's anyone who can attest to the worth of gaolbirds turning out decent soldiers, it'd be me, boss. Worked bloody hard this past couple of months to call themselves legionaries, those fellahs back in the column have. If it comes to a fight, they'll go at it like a dozen drunken whores tossed a bag of gold on a temple holiday.

Rhyka prayed that the reformed outlaws would pass the ultimate test. All their lives would depend on it. Marutchi was no gift for saving Brizaria from a northern invasion, more a backhanded face slap for having the temerity to rise from former monk to Scavenger elite status. In a bitter sweet gesture, the Lord High Recycler assigned Rhyka that portion of Brizaria where he discovered the artefacts that earned him Scavenger status, the treacherous portal known as the Gate of Lost Souls, a construction of the ancients set below the foothills of the Burning Mountains and the entrance to the Forbidden Lands.

Rhyka delivered a silent prayer to Unicef, goddess of Good Fortune, for the woodlands to give way to grassland. Unobligingly, the dense forest of foothill ash, red gum and towering pines remained dark and foreboding. His skin prickled and itched unmercifully beneath straps of perma-steel. He wore his clear perma-glaz visor upright to permit whatever meagre wind there was to cool his damp skin. Forest smells filled his nostrils--rotting leaves, wild honey, eucalypt, kangaroo dung, freshly trodden grass, honeysuckle and the rich odour of red and yellow wattle. An itch above his shin caused him to lean forward and relieve the annoyance.

An eye blink later, his guts knotted when a war arrow whipped past his ear with a distinctive--thhhffuut. The dull-meaty sound of the arrow punching through human flesh and shattering bone had his gaze instinctively darting to his left. The hunting shaft had penetrated Cado's right eye with a punishing ferocity. Blood, brain matter and splinters of bone sprayed in all directions. The fatal blow somersaulted Cado out of his saddle as neatly as Rhyka might flick a louse from his tunic.

As the corporal's armoured body somersaulted toward the ground, Rhyka instinctively raised his shield. An arrow sliced the air above his head. Shafts splintered on Rhyka's shield, jarring his arm, rocking him backward in his saddle. Sensing battle, his mount reared, raked the air with steel-shod hooves, and took several shafts in the chest below her armour. A storm of violence erupted from the woods as a hundred or more screaming Streeties hacked furiously at animals and riders.

The old-city youths executed a true and tested formula of ambush. Through sheer weight of numbers, they separated the vanguard into small groups. Against poorly equipped farming communities, even lightly armed caravan guards, such strategy invariably worked well, but not against battle-hardened veterans encased in perma-steel and mail. At the fore of the van, Rhyka was set upon by two Streeties streaked in ochre and black war paint, clad only in hide shoes and greasy fringed trousers.

Desperate to spill his blood and claim a trophy head, a tall skinny youth with a mean cast to his eyes and dirty white feathers strung through his braided blond hair, gripped a stone-head spear. He danced around Rhyka's weakening mount nervously, as if unsure where to lunge. His companion, equally skinny, but not so tall, clutched a butcher's cleaver bound to a stout pole. Weaving his torso from side to side, he slashed the air experimentally with his makeshift weapon. This was but a feint, for the youth with the spear took the initiative. Crouching, he lunged upward at Rhyka's helmeted head without uttering the usual war-cry.

As Rhyka's sword cleared its scabbard, he pushed his feet deep into his stirrup cups. Leaning as far back in his saddle as he could, he wrenched his reins to the right. His war-horse reared toward the youth wielding the meat cleaver. The effect of this manoeuvre was to put the attacking youth off-balance and to cause the other to leap for his life, else risk being trampled by iron-shod hooves. He employed his mount's momentum to sweep his drawn blade across one youth's throat. The flashing steel trailed a crimson spray in its wake, exposing raw flesh, split oesophageal muscle and gouting arteries. Answering his spurs, her flank cannoned the remaining Ruin's dweller flat on his back. Rhyka leaned from his saddle to skewer the dazed Streetie through his weedy chest.

Already weakened from arrow wounds, his mount staggered as a spear was thrust deep into her bowels. Rhyka had already let his reins fall across his lap in preparation to dismount. As the mare collapsed, Rhyka jumped free from his stirrups. Landing upright, he used his sword automatically, acutely aware of the whipping sound the long cavalry blade made before carving through flesh and shattering bone. His shield blocked and slammed opponents. Perma-steel rang on perma-steel. Bluish yellow lightning bolts leapt into the air as blade smote blade. Roaring a battle cry, he dispatched a Streetie with a backhand swing sending the tip of his sword through his opponent's throat and deep into the shoulder of the Streetie next to him.

Shifting his weight, he planted both feet firmly in the blood-rich soil to meet a head-on charge by four Streeties. Snarling angrily, he dealt death swiftly, delivering the Ruins dwellers to whatever perverse death god they worshipped. He dispatched the nearest one with an upward curving thrust to the belly, then shield-slammed the dying Streetie into his companions. He stomped on one fallen Streetie's throat, stabbing the remaining pair repeatedly through the neck when they tried to disentangle. Glancing into the thick of the fighting, his gaze was drawn to a dismounted trooper. The unfortunate wretch gave tongue to an arresting scream as a Streetie wielding a two-handed sword severed his right arm from his trunk with a well-timed blow.

Rhyka tried to move toward the badly injured man, but the press of brawling bodies was so great that he could do nothing except defend himself. The trooper's screams attracted the attention of five Streeties who fell on the wounded soldier like crazed animals. In a frenzy of bloodletting, they stabbed, war-whooped and hacked until their unfortunate victim ceased to thrash in pools of his own blood. One of the new recruits, a stocky fellow, battled his way toward Rhyka. He had sheathed his short sword in favour of a curved cavalry sabre, which he wielded with enthusiasm. Streeties fell before him as he swung the sabre in an arc of death. Rhyka observed him whip the sword tip across one Streetie's face, then twist his wrist to follow through and neatly chop off another's hand. He mentally marked the trooper for promotion to the rank of corporal for his expertise. He would replace the unfortunate Cado.

When a painted Streetie leaped out of the bush directly into his path, Rhyka attempted to close with the warrior. But to his astonishment, the Streetie stood his ground, studying his opponent. Rhyka cursed him. The Streetie grinned back with a lively, but unblinking stare. The youth's face was a mask of bright blue and black war paint running from forehead to chin. Dark blue eyes, cool and calculating, inspected Rhyka's armour and stance for weakness as he hefted a weapon that resembled a saw blade that had been trimmed, honed to a fine edge on one side, and fitted with a two-handed grip. Judging by the blood staining its shiny surface, it was well looked after and frequently used.

Rhyka stamped his foot, trying to goad his opponent into action. But the Streetie was having none of that. Instead, he crouched. Swinging the sword blade from side to side, he waited for Rhyka to make the first move and first mistake. Scarred muscular arms bore circlets of dingo fur strung with remnants of human scalps. The Streetie knew how to kill, if not how to fight. He stared at Rhyka, waiting. As in all battles, the slightest distraction can cost a life, as easily as save one. A sudden impact to a shrub and subsequent noise compelled the Streetie to divert his attention for a heartbeat, but that was all Rhyka needed. He struck with the speed of a black snake, but the Streetie was equally as fast to recover. He parried the thrust with his sword, then shoulder-charged Rhyka's shield.

In one fluid motion, the Streetie pirouetted to one side, then reared up on tiptoe. Pulling the big sword over his shoulder with both hands, he came to a halt. Rhyka dropped to his right knee, as if in fear. This was but a ruse to fight from behind his shield, which he held crosswise over his head. Grunting with exertion, the Streetie grit his teeth and powered his man-killer downward. Once committed to the strike, the force behind the blow put the Streetie instantly off balance. Rhyka took the opportunity to bury his sword up to its hilt in his attacker's bare belly. Putting all his weight behind his thrust, Rhyka reared up. Holding the Streetie on his sword like a spitted chicken, he propelled the open-mouthed warrior onto a bed of wild cactus. The Streetie's shiny weapon fell from his fingers. The dying warrior did not utter a word as his blood stained the bright green cactus, crimson, and the sharp spines bit into his flesh. As Rhyka moved, the Streetie raised two bloodstained palms to his face. Staring up at cotton white clouds, the Streetie died.

Rhyka dismissed the dead youth from his mind when he spied a Streetie crouching behind a bush, waiting to strike the unprotected back of a nearby trooper. Shouting, Rhyka rushed the youth. When he turned, Rhyka booted him viciously in the face. He heard a satisfying crunch and felt bone snap as the youth's face disappeared into red pulp beneath his hobnail boots. Someone grabbed his leg, impeding his progress. Snarling like an infuriated dingo, Rhyka stabbed blindly downward. He felt his sword sink into soft, yielding flesh.

Some sort of blade bound to a broken spear shaft, flashed by his eyes before he could withdraw his sword. He pulled away, only to stumble over an inert Streetie. Recovering quickly, he turned and deflected an inept parry, then lashed out with an armoured foot, connecting with a Streetie's groin, breaking the attack. Rhyka's sword cleaved the dazed warrior's head into bloody halves exposing brain tissue and milk-white bone in a fountain of blood. He registered arrows protruding from his shield, along with the odour of blood, hot urine, and faeces emanating from the bodies piling up around him.

A wounded mount with an empty saddle covered in blood, forced him back against a tree. Her eyes were wild. Green tinged foam boiled from her mouth onto her neck and across her trembling withers. Fighting in pairs, mounted Scavengers wreaked a heavy toll on the unarmoured Streeties. Rhyka estimated that one third of his attackers had fallen dead or wounded to his warriors' blades. Mangled bodies lay strewn across the trail. Where the fighting was most furious, the dead lay piled on top one another like stacked firewood. Wounded youths made terrible moaning noises, many clutched gaping wounds.

Nearby, one youth had crawled to a fallen tree. A broad blood smear traced his agonised path. The youth had dragged himself into a sitting position. Between bursts of hysterical screaming and blubbering for help, he tried desperately to stuff slippery intestines back into his slashed stomach. Tears of pain streaked the broad ribbon of black war paint crossing his face and mingled with the blood flowing from his wound.

Two older Streeties leaped atop the fallen trunk. One paused just long enough to cave the wounded youth's skull in with a contemptuous underhand swing from a stone head axe, before he leapt off the lichen covered trunk to pull a mounted warrior from his saddle. The warrior's squealing cries ceased abruptly when he slumped sideways. His head resembled a smashed pumpkin. Slimy grey brain tissue and pink guts flowed to the forest floor.

Food for the ants and whatever carrion eaters lurked in the scrub, Rhyka grunted wordlessly as he shifted position. Judging by their red stained teeth and lips, Rhyka suspected mulagar leaf was chewed prior to the raid. He guessed the Streeties were in that phase of the drug where nothing mattered, not even pain, and only killing would sate their blood lust. All about him high-pitched yips and yelps blended with the bellows and war cries of his men. Arrows constantly whirred and zipped past Rhyka's head, one sprang off his armoured chest with a distinctive whang. Stone chips from the shattered head rattled on his perma-glaz visor. Instinctively, he blinked. If the arrowhead had been perma-steel, he might well be dead.

He looked around and smiled. Sergeant Wor-Ust had a dozen men formed into a defensive line. Completely oblivious to the arrows flying past his head the Sergeant was busy organising two lines of archers. The front rank consisted of kneeling troopers sighting along crossbows, capable of launching a steel bolt that could puncture a horse, then travel on for a good five metres more. The second, of standing troopers armed with deadly longbows. Six more troopers on horseback held the Streeties at bay, permitting more soldiers to form a shield-wall some three paces in front of the archers.

Once established, the horse soldiers spread out through the bush rejoining the battle as the archers savaged the Streeties with synchronised volleys. The volleys pushed the Streeties toward Rhyka. And yet, drug induced Streeties continued to pour from the surrounding forest, adding their voices to the commotion and their blood and smashed bones to the forest floor. As quickly as they emerged from the tree line, Streeties fell to sword thrusts, flying javelins and deadly arrows. Still they came, determined to win glory and collect trophy heads.

Rhyka's eyes narrowed when he noticed twenty or so Streeties climbing into the trees. Whooping and screaming insanely, they fell upon troopers fighting outside the shield-wall. Observing their success, other Streeties shinnied up the branches. One Streetie was swinging back and forth between two branches like a Durian monkey. Apparently, an alert trooper had too, for a well-aimed crossbow bolt slammed the capering warrior backward onto a knotty branch. Screaming in pain, the youth stood upright. His face was drawn into a painful mask. Blood spurted from between his clenched fingers. Suddenly, the Streetie slumped forward and with two hands holding the shaft, nosedived out of the tree onto one of his companions, killing the fighting warrior instantly.

Quite unexpectedly, Rhyka found the ground rushing up to meet his face. A great weight pressed across his shoulders, forcing him down. Pain surged upward from his knees into his lower back. A spray of leaves and fine dirt flew through the air when he struck the forest floor. Arm and shield across his chest, he flipped on his back. This manoeuvre probably saved his life. A hail of blows rained down upon his shield and helm as he struggled to sit up. A fiery pain lanced across his left shoulder blade, numbing his shield arm. His stomach knotted when a blow to his helm jarred every tooth in his head and blurred his eyesight.

Out the corner of one watered eye, he spied a rusting scythe withdrawing for a strike. He tasted warm blood in his mouth. His shield was gone, torn from his useless arm it laid many paces away. From a kneeling position, Rhyka drew his dagger with a shaky left hand, then launched himself at a point approximately one metre below the blade head. Despite the weight of his armour and blurred vision, he drove the blade through the sternum of the drug-crazed warrior. His sword sliced clean through the Streetie's thigh, crippling him. Standing over the inert body gasping for breath, he knew that he dared not fall again. In this maelstrom of death, he was certain to earn a blade thrust under his visor.

More by touch than eyesight, Rhyka stabbed the fallen Streetie's companion through the throat and belly with a double-handed strike. As the dying youth started to topple back onto a pink leafed Lilly Pilly bush, Rhyka spun about and employed a sideways arm sweep to dent another opponent's skull with his blood-slick sword pommel.

A split second later, both his blades were buried deep in the flesh of two separate attackers. When he wrenched his sword free, he gave it a twist to clear away shattered bone. As the blade emerged from the Streetie's body, Rhyka faced the warrior and snarled at him. In desperation, the dying youth grabbed Rhyka's blade with his bare hands to prevent it invading his body another time. Severed fingers and thumbs tumbled from two bloody stumps as Rhyka sawed the blade up and down to free it. The digits scattered on the leaf litter at Rhyka's feet, reminiscent of the noise fat raindrops make on a clay tile roof just before a heavy storm.

Rhyka head butted the youth, then stabbed him through the throat as he fell to his knees. Sticky blood smeared his visor, sword arm, and chest, impairing his vision. Through smears of blood, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Hastily, he dodged, but lost his balance on a rock slippery with brain tissue. He turned the slip into a controlled fall, slashing crossways in a scissor-like movement with both blades as he went down heavily on one knee.

He felt his blades grate on bone, opening up a youth's leg. More blood sprayed onto his helmet when a femoral artery jetted out a stream of sticky red fluid. An agonizing scream rent the air. He swiped the thick blood from his visor with his forearm, then faced right. A tall Streetie had downed the trooper he had marked for promotion with an over-hand blow to the helm with a two-handed war club. While he was raising the weapon to cave his victim's skull in for a second time, another drugged up Streetie finished the job. Ducking under his companions strike, the eager Streetie thrust a spiked iron post under the downed trooper's chin. Such was the force behind that blow that the tip emerged out of the top of the trooper's helm exposing glistening, white shattered bones of his skull through tufts of black hair. A steady stream of blood gushed on to the other Streetie's feet.

Laughing, both warriors dipped their hands in the warm blood, then smeared it across their necks and chests. The second Streetie bent. He withdrew the iron spike, then straddled the dead trooper's chest. With a couple of expert slashes, he severed the trooper's head. Holding the gruesome trophy up on the iron-tipped post, he capered around the headless corpse whooping and slapping his chest for all to see. The Streetie slammed the upright pole into the earth, punched the air with his fists, then leapt at another of Rhyka's troopers knocking him from his mount.

Kicking and screaming defiantly, the soldier valiantly struggled upright. Using a vicious short, half-circular stabbing motion, he stabbed the youth holding the iron spike in the groin with his dagger. As he righted himself, he swung his short sword in a chopping action at the youth with the club poised over his shoulder. The force behind the perma-steel blade drove it deep into the youth's left leg just above his knee. The swing was so perfectly timed that the blade amputated the leg and continued halfway through the left knee. The trooper shot up from a kneeling position, eviscerating the youth as he lay on his back bellowing in pain. Covered in gore, the rising warrior finished his next opponent with a thrust to the heart before stabbing another youth through the eye.

The unknown trooper recovered his shield and slammed the dying youth so hard with it that he bowled three of his companions over. Shouting with glee, the trooper enthusiastically set about flensing the flesh from their bones with long strokes of his sabre. A bull's horn trumpet blast penetrated Rhyka's helm. He turned, prepared to meet another assailant, but the forest around him had fallen eerily silent, except for the moans of the dying. As the last note faded, the Streeties fled into the forest shadows. A dozen or so wounded raiders threw down their arms, pleading for mercy. Rhyka's men slew them without hesitation. Unless it was for sport, Streeties rarely took prisoners. Their cruelty with fire was well known. Torture was the way new band members were blooded.

Sergeant Wor-Ust boomed, Hold! Streeties may as dumb as dog turds when it comes to open order fighting. But they're expert guerrilla fighters and that bush is their home. Go ten paces, and they would be on you like fleas on a dog. Archers. Form guard. The rest of you see to the wounded.

Rhyka nodded gratefully to the Sergeant, then slumped to his knees blinking rapidly to clear his vision. He tore his helmet off, exposing his sweat-drenched face to a cool summer breeze. Thus kneeling, gauntlets resting on the pommel of his bloody sword, he sucked in lung filling gulps of air. As his heart rate slowed, he counted himself lucky despite his losses. He had lost maybe half his men. The Streeties, on the other hand, had left an estimated one hundred plus, to rot on the forest floor. Rhyka grunted as he pulled himself upright. From his knowledge of the feral Ruins dwellers use of face paint, this was a raiding party of several bands drawn together. He speculated silently whether they had been tipped off to his column passing this way. He could hear Sergeant Wor-Ust yelling at the men to bury the dead and collect the wounded.

Leave the scum where they are, he bellowed.

Troopers trained as battlefield Healers lashed the wounded to makeshift stretchers as the column set off to leave the killing ground far behind. Darkness was about to descend when they were met by a patrol scouting from the Gate of Lost Souls. The Sergeant in-charge led them into a glade crisscrossed by long shadows. As his men squatted by a stream to wash dried blood from their armour and weapons, the Sergeant told Rhyka of his activities since taking over from the Activists. As the Sergeant spoke, a mist began to envelop his men, tents, horses, and equipment.

As Rhyka listened, the vapour swayed, as if giving ground, then rallied, swallowing the forest and restricting vision to a couple of paces in any direction. The moon was up by the time the Sergeant completed his report. The fog would hide the Scavenger patrol from night raiders, or worse, from the beasts that were said to roam this uncharted land. In essence, the Sergeant had said that of the original thousand legionnaires, six hundred remained fit enough to carry out garrison duties. They had been busy fighting Trog war parties, Ruins dwellers and Streeties ever since they had arrived and were anxious to return to Brizaria. Although the legionnaires had erected crude lodgings, nothing permanent stood to mark the old fort, just piles of stone, burnt timbers and sun-bleached bones.

Dawn saw the Scavengers emerge onto an open savannah dotted with scarred and blackened concrete ruins, Relics from the Disaster wars fought four hundred years or more gone by. Rhyka stood tall in his stirrups to survey the area. Lush green grass touched everything he looked at. Shading his eyes with the blade of his hand, he surveyed the landscape that would become the Brizarian Empire's newest Protectorate. Circling pterosaurs descended languidly in winding circles, sensing his decision.

Here at last he could reconstruct a stone fort and build a Keep, establish grazing lands, raise fine herds, and maintain agricultural plots to feed his people. But, his Keep must be constructed unlike no other in the empire, and it must rise high. His roof must be sturdy enough to support a landing ramp and alcoves to service the needs of the mighty Hawk-Wings. One hundred young nobles would arrive soon to commence their flight instruction. Hopefully, by then, the Hawk-Wings will have produced hatchlings.

A broad river flowing eastward, peppered with glistening rocks at its centre, fed countless streams and boggy marshes. There, opposite him on the other side of wide tidal mud flats, was a beach scattered with the glistening white bones of dead Activists. The bones stretched up into the pass leading to the Ark. His new castle, or Keep, must stretch across the foot of the pass. To do that, he would have to knock down what remained of the structures used by the Activists to recycle the cut stone.

The land between the river and mountain pass was flat, and as he would discover, marshy and interrupted only by gentle green hillocks punctuated by granite outcrops stretching long fingers of moss-covered stone, northward. That granite he would quarry to build his fortress. He would divert the marsh water to fill a broad moat, the forest would supply the timber for houses and the open plains, grazed by cattle, would serve as barrier against attacking tribesmen. His first artefact mine would commence in the ruins where he first hid from the Canbrans, who guarded the Ark far beyond this mountainous pass.

In addition to constructing a fort, establishing grazing lands, agricultural plots and a series of stone watch towers manned twenty-four hours a day, Rhyka was honour bound to train warriors from selected clans, to fly Hawk-Wings. The Lord High Recycler ordered this to alleviate tensions between rival clan leaders. In a rigid caste system, where the strongest ruled through Battle Challenge--the Lord High Recycler considered the distribution of ariel mounts throughout the clans, Rhyka's equal most pressing problem. Rhyka had given his word as a Scavenger lord that he would be ready for the riders when they arrived. Nothing short of death would prevent him from keeping that promise.

Chapter Two

Problem Solving the Scavenger Way

Hard-Blood stood. Raising his arms, he arched his back to relieve hours of tension before walking to stand beside his lord to observe the swift Darges tacking with the wind on the bay. Folding his arms, he watched the white tri-shaped sails on the narrow draught vessels sailing across the sky blue water. They always served to steady his restless mind. His eyes flicked sideways. You threw young Rhyka an unprecedented lifeline, raising him from commoner to clan status, m'lord. I'm thinking it would be a wise move to encourage his loyalty, not to blackmail him. The business of running a Protectorate will force him to political skulduggery soon enough. But before that day arises, make certain his loyalties lay with you. So far, you've not tried to trick him or to buy him. That would only serve to make him bitter. Now is the time to win his loyalty, not bitter his soul.

You're right of course. But if he returns to the city now, he'll become the unwitting catalyst for a civil war, Jaggan concluded.

The Brizarian Lord High Recycler carefully rescanned the words contained in Rhyka's dispatch. Setting the document aside, he looked up, not focussing on anything in particular.

Hard Blood studied Jaggan's face out the corner of his eye for signs of alarm, anger, or distress. Much to his relief, all he observed was mild annoyance.

Hard Blood was a bearded, bullnecked man with a stout body, long, powerful arms and lumpy fingers. If his numerous battle scars could speak, they would tell tales of the fiercest campaigns fought by empire soldiers. For his dedication to the sword, he had calloused palms, a timber peg replaced his right leg and a sword strike had left an ugly weal across the bridge of his hawkish nose. Hard Blood knew through a discreet network of citadel informants, what the document contained. Therefore, he remarked without invitation. M'lord, the failure of his Hawk-Wings to breed may be the least of your concerns.

Jaggan removed himself to a broad oak windowsill, more like a sun seat than a sill situated on the far side of the room. He sat at a slight angle and hooked one leg over the opposite knee. Bouncing it meditatively, he stared out over the teeming city. He watched a line of dock labourer's lug bulging sacks of Durian grain to a silo, but if he does come to the city, the question is--will my political opponents use him as an excuse to launch a formal challenge anyway? The answer is yes. Few courses of action are open to me. I surrendered my clan for this title. I've no men at arms to back me but the legions and for me to involve the legions in a personal challenge, would be an invitation to civil war. I'll not risk that. All our plans could be undone with one sword stroke.

I wouldn't be overly concerned m'lord, Hard Blood said. The Neesien war gutted the clans. They've much too factionalised for anything more than plain old fashion politics to be played out.

Jaggan nodded his agreement, Maybe so, maybe not. Whatever their status, we can't afford a charismatic former monk like Rhyka, welding a few hot-heads into a single fighting force. He sucked air in between his teeth. This Rhyka is destined for far greater things than clan lord of Marutchi. Even I can see that. He must not return to Brizaria until you build up the legions and I bring my political opponents to heel. Any suggestions?

Even though Hard Blood maintained a rigid military posture, he shrugged. He's well isolated guarding the Gate of Lost Souls. I think that an older man might not have taken your political manoeuvring so easily, He pointed to the despatch. Rhyka's Hawk-Wings display signs of illness. Maybe they're worn out from the war, He shrugged again. Who knows for certain about such ancient creatures. But he's seeking your permission to return through the pass beyond the Gate of Lost Souls to Garthen-Ror's spire. I'd not delay him. Pick up your quill and give him your blessing, before he stands before you asking in person.

Jaggan nodded at the sense of his words. Soreth-Kar suspects that the beasts spread no further than Garthen-Ror's spire, because the ancients ensured that their health and fertility was maintained only inside the borders of the Ark.

Your rivals will smell a plot if news that the Hawk-Wings have failed to breed leaks. The more paranoid will imagine that they have, in fact, bred and that you and Rhyka are keeping the hatchlings secret to build a superior air force of your own. Hard Blood raised an eyebrow, suggesting that wasn't such a bad idea. Such an air force could see your rule without the encumbrance of a Council of Lords.

It'll be tricky for him though, Jaggan mused, ignoring the tempting inference. Rhyka gave his word to the Canbran's that he would keep their borders free from all intruders. No matter if they were Scavenger born or not. Now he must break his word and my word to find a way of returning to the Ark. He's got to do that with his Hawk-Wings and without offending me or the Canbran's. An almost impossible journey, I'd say.

Aye, plus, he's a Protectorate to construct. Hard Blood added.

Jaggan dropped his chin to his chest, stood, and clasped his hands behind his back brooding on his Battle Lord's advice. After a time, he sighed in agreement, But, what the Seven Hells do I do, if Rhyka succeeds? He'll receive as much notoriety as his driving off the Neesiens with those Hawk-Wings did. His name's on everybody's lips. The moment he returns to Brizaria, my enemies will be licking his boots, and if he fails, I'll lose my aerial army. We remain under strength and vulnerable to attack from the Neesiens and Wesslanders. He turned his head to gaze moodily toward the forest of masts and furled white sails spread across the Docklands. His brow creased. If he does return from the spire with the breeding problem solved, I must have a contingency plan, something that will hold him out at Marutchi other than the construction of a fort.

Hard Blood's heavy brows arched, then folded back into a frown. M'lord, whatever you're thinking of, it had better be good. Seivse reports that there are much chivvying and connivance to see who will stand against you, and who will support Rhyka in the event he issues Battle Challenge for your position.

Yes, I'm aware of that. Jaggan acknowledged in a strained voice. What I fear more, is that certain clans may take matters into their own hands, forcing the issue without Rhyka's consent.

A door to the hallway opened. Jaggan's wife, Reb-Ekhar, their one-year-old son, Mitchy and his nanny, Lizet, Reb-Ekhar's first cousin, entered the room. Hard Blood fell to his good knee, bowed his head, then rose. At first Jaggan was annoyed, but as he acknowledged his family, his eyes came to settle on Lizet of Protectorate Nooh-Sah.

Lizet was a strikingly attractive young woman, stunning, many would say. At twenty-one summers, her skin exuded a healthy, peach-like vital glow. She had rich red hair that fell to a slender waist in two long braids. Her gaze was steady and her violet eyes held a haughty quality only those of high birth might acquire after centuries of just the right breeding. Square shoulders accentuated firm breasts, that swelled beneath a black leather jerkin with each breath she took. Her face was shaped like a heart and her eyes, set wide apart over a pert, upturned nose. There was not a skerrick of fat on Lizet, and she was tall for a woman. When Lizet moved, it was with long, graceful steps.

At her back, hung a long sword, at her side, a serrated dagger, and from two thigh bands, four throwing knives, doubtless more weapons would be hidden about her person. As his son's nanny, she must be armed at all times, even in his presence. There was much of Reb-Ekhar in this female, the same stubborn streak, a fiery temper and from all accounts, a wilful attitude that had seen many a suitor throw his hands up in exasperation and leave the citadel shaking his head. He kept his thoughts masked as he studied her afresh.

When Lizet was very young, her mother died of a swamp fever. While Lizet's father's holdings were not substantial, they were rich in sugarcane and filled with countless small farms producing exotic spices that refused to grow anywhere else in Brizaria. The Protectorate's wealth was built on a sugar trade monopoly and high-quality spices. His brow knitted in consternation as the kernel of idea began to form. Seivse reported that Rhyka had displayed no interest in females, confining his interests to establishing his new holding. In so far as marriage was concerned, none but desperate lords would be rushing their daughters to Marutchi. At the thought of marriage, a huge smile split his face.

Despite Rhyka's reinstatement into the clan records and his achievements during the war, the notion remained throughout the aristocracy once a monk, always a monk. If not for a freak entry in the Ark and encounter with a buried treasure, he might well be skulking in a mine with a band of monks. What clan lord, even an ambitious minor one, would risk introducing his ex-monk son-in-law to his peers, then suffer the ignominy, taunts and jibes that would follow without drawing a sword? It would be far safer to ignore such rogues altogether.

Lizet's father, Nern-Arl, died from wounds received in the battle for Brizaria against the retreating Neesien menace. As a debt of fealty on his wife's behalf, Jaggan instructed his Master of the Keep, Corvo, to administer Nern-Arl's holdings, Nooh-Sah, until Lizet's younger brother, Nern-Erl came of age and could defend himself against the issue of Battle Challenge by deed or strength at arms. Now, if he matched these two in a successful marriage, he might well solve several vexing problems simultaneously. Rhyka's Hawk-Wing fliers would prove powerful allies to both Jaggan and Lizet's clansmen. The fact that Rhyka could lawfully petition the High Council to station a flight of Hawk-Wings at Nooh-Sah, would deter most Challengers and keep the boy safe.

Reb-Ekhar revealed some nights ago that Lizet was proving rather a handful. During a shared bath, her young cousin had privately professed to hate the god's for causing her to be born female. If she were male, Lizet had stated vehemently, she would already be in control of her father's estate and expanding her holdings through Battle Challenge and shrewd investments. Despite the secrets that abounded in the Keep, he was aware that Lizet had seriously injured three Sword Masters during morning practice sessions and broken one Sun-Kor Master's arm in a sparing bout within one moon of her arrival.

There was little doubt in his mind that Lizet was an accomplished fighter. It was, after all, her ability with a sword, bow and dagger that had caused him to employ her as his son's nanny in the first place. Were she not of high birth and under Jaggan's immediate protection, Lizet would certainly have had a visit from an assassin long before now. For the moment, she remained safe.

He watched Lizet drop Mitchy's left hand, whose balled right fist was held up to his mouth as he sucked on something. When his big blue eyes settled on Hard Blood's bear-like frame, they lit up immediately. He dropped a sticky glob of honeycomb to the floor as he rushed the old warrior like a squad of new recruits departing from the barracks with their first leave pass.

Mitchy, Lizet bent to grab him, demanding sharply, Come back here, you little worm.

But Mitchy easily dodged her and pulled himself up Hard Blood's peg leg, with all the dexterity of a Durian monkey.

Lizet halted abruptly with a bemused smile hovering at her lips, while Hard Blood, on the other hand, could barely suppress his delight. Yet he picked the boy up by the collar. Holding him at arm's length like a newborn puppy, Hard Blood knitted his eyebrows into a fierce line and thrust his face as close to the lad's as he dared, without getting sticky hands enmeshed in his beard. Darkening the look in his eyes, he scowled while waggling a warning index finger.

Here now, young fellah. I've told you before, that the son of the Lord High Recycler must conduct himself in a dignified manner, not like some Sah'rd slaver keen on enhancing his stock.

Mitchy was having none of that. He squirmed like a fish on a hook.