Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2) (12 page)

Cyrus twisted out of the knife’s path again and managed to stretch out his right leg. As Yang continued lunging, moving forward, his right shin crashed against Cyrus’s outstretched limb. The big man tripped, and he went flying. The crash of leg against leg nearly crippled Cyrus. He shouted, pulled in his leg, and hobbled in agony. Meanwhile, face-first, Yang thudded onto the stony ground. Like a maddened beast, he surged to his feet, spun around, and snarled with fury.

Cyrus drew his knife, and he knew by the look in Yang’s eyes that he should have attacked while the big man lay on the ground.

Spitting with rage, Yang advanced in a knife fighter’s crouch. Shame, fury, and blood vengeance seethed in his dark eyes.

“You are quick,” Yang muttered. “You are devious.”

“You’re a clumsy oaf,” Cyrus said. “You’re cross-eyed and you’re stupid.”

An evil grin stretched across Yang’s face. He rumbled a low-throated laugh.

It chilled Cyrus, and made his spine tingle with unease.

“He is a warrior,” Yang shouted to the others. “He tries to goad me to fury. This one thinks. Jana was right about him.”

“Kill him,” a primitive said.

“Yes, kill him,” another called.

“What do you say, Jana?” Yang asked. “Should I kill him?”

“The seeker wishes him alive,” Jana said.

“I did not ask you what the seeker thinks,” Yang said. “I asked what you say.”

“You are the hetman,” Jana said. “The decision rests with you.”

“I am the hetman.” Yang regarded Cyrus. “Do you seek death this night, pale one?”

Cyrus remained silent, waiting for the attack.

“He is devious,” Yang told the others. “And the seeker said this one performs magic. Tell me, Jana. Is it the Berserker custom to let a captive challenge the hetman for leadership?”

For a moment, it seemed as if a secret grin twitched across Jana’s lips. Then her eyes widened—it seemed overdone. She glanced almost theatrically from Cyrus to Yang. “He cast spells here among us?” Jana asked.

Yang grunted an affirmative.

“He used them against you, my hetman?” Jana asked.

“He is dangerous,” Yang said.

The primitives began to murmur among themselves.

Cyrus realized he didn’t have much time. If he was going to strike, he had to do so now. Yang was big and strong, with huge bones. Even if he stabbed the man a killing blow, it might not prove fast enough—the hetman could still deliver a deathblow against him. With a quick flip, Cyrus reversed his hold, pinching the blade’s tip between his thumb and index finger. Swiftly, he drew back his arm and snapped it forward, hurling the knife. It spun once, and would have struck Yang in the eye, but the hetman was quicker than he looked. He parried the spinning knife. A spark erupted and iron clanged. Then Cyrus’s deflected knife flew into the darkness and struck a rock.

“Very devious,” Yang said, and it seemed as if the fury no longer shined in his eyes. “But the star man has never fought man-to-man against a Berserker before.”

Cyrus wasn’t sure what was going on, but suddenly Yang didn’t seem to be quite the simpleton he’d appeared to be at first.

“The pale outlander can fight,” Yang said, “and he knows mind magic. But his mind powers cannot sweep all of us into his net at once. Otherwise, he would have cast the spell against all of us, not just me. Therefore, three Berserkers will watch him at all times.”

“You’re not going to kill me?” Cyrus asked.

Yang snorted. “You are from space. The seeker . . . you will learn about her soon enough. If you try more trickery, I will beat you. If you refuse to learn, I will break your legs so you will never walk again. I will bring you to the seeker, but I will first draw the poison from your fangs.”

“What about Skar?” Cyrus asked.

Yang glanced at the entangled soldier. “He is the demonslayer. He is very dangerous. This we know, because Jana told us. But your friend is not a seeker or a wizard. Strong cords will subdue him until the seeker says otherwise.”

“Do you know Klane?” Cyrus asked.

Yang’s eyes seemed to glitter, and he no longer seemed like a stupid brute. “The less you speak, the better it will be for you. Gag him, tie his hands, and ready the demonslayer. We must be far from here by the time the sun rises.”

12

Klane crept past the leafy green fronds of puffer plants. They stood a little taller than his head. The first puffer fruit had started to appear under the widest fronds. They were little brown nodules no bigger than his fingertip. After every few steps, Klane plucked several and deposited the hard fruit into a pouch.

He had seen such fruit before, of course. Puffer fruit didn’t grow in the uplands, on the Tash-Toi plains. They were Demon Valley produce. In his time, the seeker had possessed several puffer seeds. When crushed and mixed with gat juice, it made a powerful healing salve. Klane remembered as a child asking the seeker where puffer seeds came from. The wise old man had said, “The Valley of the Demons.”

Klane had believed him as a child. These last few years, he had begun to wonder about that, though. Who would dare climb down into the valley to gather seeds? The small fruit in his pouch was proof that the seeker had told the truth.

Klane exhaled sharply. He had aged these past few days since leaving the caves of the singing gods. Wisdom and sadness now mingled in his blue eyes, and his facial skin was no longer as tight as before. That might have been because he had lost considerable weight. Then again, maybe it represented the heaviness in his soul. He wasn’t sure.

Klane had rehearsed his magic as he traveled into the Valley of the Demons. He could levitate, move rocks, and far-cast with his mind. Far-casting was the ability to search ahead. Several times he’d spotted demon sky vehicles before they appeared in the air. He hadn’t attempted to probe a demon’s mind. A strange sizzling aura protected each one. The sizzling aura did not originate in its mind, but from a device like a junction-stone that it kept on its belt.

One thing Klane had learned: the demons had slaves who practiced magic. He had felt them like feathers on his skin at night. Because of the magic-wielding slaves, he had not dared to mind search for the seeker.

With his magic, Klane had slain several creatures for meat. He had dug up roots and drank water. Each time he ate until his stomach felt bloated, yet still, he had lost weight.

Am I dying?

He didn’t think so. Certainly, he had changed. The experience in the caves, the teleporting, the levitating, and the mind healing: he was different from the youth who left the clan.

Now he had reached the valley bottom, and the air was heavier, the days and nights warmer. Sweat remained on his skin longer and the very air smelled of moisture. Crops must surely grow better in such a place.

Klane crept through the field of puffer plants. The demon river gurgled just out of sight. Earlier, he had called river fish to his hands until his thumbs poked through their gills. Who needed a hook and line when his magic could supply him with food?

He came to the edge of the field. Klane paused there, collecting his resolve. He drew back a frond. It had a sticky underside. He’d have to grab them from the top from now on. After pulling the frond back, he peered at the nearby demon city.

There were big domed structures with cellular divisions on the outer surface. Towers had fluted roofs and bridges like spiderwebs connected them together. Squinting, Klane was sure he made out a demon—a speck from here—stalking across a high bridge, moving from one tower to the next.

For some reason that particular sight struck Klane with awe. He froze, with his left hand on the frond. All his life he had heard of this terrible place. Even now, as he breathed the moisture-laden air, he realized that he had descended into the Valley of the Demons. He had expected his spine to shiver and his teeth to chatter.

This was the locus of evil in the world, the abode of the grim demons who haunted humanity. The vile creatures had taken his best friend into the lair of evil. He was about to attempt an impossible feat. His stomach should have curdled at the thought, but it did not.

He wondered why. Did it have anything to do with journeying through the darkness of the singing gods? Had he gone from death to life, and because of that, power filled him as never before? Maybe that was the answer, or maybe doing a thing was less frightening than thinking about it and making himself scared to death.

I am not a warrior, but I have become a man of action. No one else in Clan Tash-Toi has dared such a thing as this. I alone had the courage to come here
.

He shook his head. This was a foolish place to make boasts. He had entered, or was about to enter, the foulest lair of evil ever: the demon city. Should he contact the seeker now?

That was a weighty question. If he contacted the old one too soon, the seeker might give away the plan to his captors. Demons were sly and devious. Yet if he waited too long to contact the old man, he might waste time searching in the wrong places.

I will wait
, Klane told himself.

He let go of the frond and retreated several paces into the puffer field. He lay down, stretched out, and closed his eyes. He needed the cover of darkness, and he needed to rest. Tonight, he would strike for demon city, and if the dice of fate tumbled the right way, he would contact the seeker of Clan Tash-Toi.

13

Chengal Ras rustled his streamers in agitation. The mentalist looked up at him, and the small creature made a weird grimace.

The 109th stood in a domed chamber filled with medical and mentalist equipment. Machines hummed, gurgled, buzzed, and flashed lights. Tubes, screens, boxes of machinery, illuminated globes, computers, life-support systems—the items cluttered the chamber. It was a mess, and to his way of thinking, it indicated a troubled intellect.

Mentalist Niens was a thin human and wore a long white coat. He reeked of recent sex and pungent foods, and his breath stank abominably. For a human, Niens had narrow features, a beak of a nose, and spidery fingers. He looked devious, but was supposed to be the best at these brain scans.

An even thinner, older, naked human lay on a scanning bed. Mentalist Niens had attached leads, tubes, and other paraphernalia to the ancient, and now lowered a metal dome onto the creature’s head.

Chengal Ras had read the information concerning this one. He was a seeker, a psi-able shaman among the human primitives on the game preserve. He had belonged to Clan Tash-Toi. It had been Zama Dee’s policy to send failed experimental creatures into the uplands. Chengal Ras wondered about the wisdom of that, but the 73rd had her own schemes and theories she wished to test.

“Do you wish me to explain the procedure, Revered One?” Niens asked.

Chengal Ras swished his tail in annoyance. The creature’s offensive breath reached his nostrils. Was this a subtle insult on the 73rd’s part? Had she known about the cattle’s habits and offensive stenches?

Chengal Ras lifted his scent maker and almost pressed the switch.

“I beg your pardon, Revered One,” Niens said. “But your odors may interfere with the scan.”

If he had been in High Station 3 or on one of his vessels, Chengal Ras would have struck down the offender. It was inconceivable that a human should attempt to balk any of his actions. Through an effort of will he restrained himself. Mentally, he cataloged the insult to his superiority. After this was over, he would have to bargain with the 73rd for Mentalist Niens. Yes, he would purchase this wretched skunk and run the human in his game room, chasing and killing the man for sport. Blood would wash away the insult.

“What are you hoping to achieve with the scan?” Chengal Ras hissed.

“My predecessor kept the specimen under sedation,” Niens said. “During that time, she ran the primitive through routine tests. This one showed a higher than average psionic ability, but little else of note.”

“Where is your predecessor now?”

“Scrubbing processing tanks, I believe,” Niens said. “She is being punished.”

“How were you associated with your predecessor?”

“I was her laboratory assistant,” Niens said.

Chengal Ras blinked rapidly. He was sure the creature’s stink irritated his eyes. “Did you approve of the sedation?”

“I respect the specimen’s abilities,” Niens said. “But my personal security isn’t at issue. I seek knowledge, data. It is my goal to extract what I can from the specimens in order to broaden my Revered One’s fund of raw knowledge.”

“You are a dedicated creature,” Chengal Ras said.

Niens bowed low.

Chengal Ras knew the signs. This one was a dissembler, a climber, and a possible liar. It must have a keen intellect. Surely, Zama Dee would not otherwise keep climbers among her mentalists. Humans such as these were instrumental in teaching fledging Bo Taw to love their masters, their betters.

“Continue the scan as you explain the procedures,” Chengal Ras said.

“As you will, Revered One,” Niens said. He lowered the helmet. The outer surface bristled with nodes and leads. Gently, he settled it onto the old human’s head. Then Niens slid his narrow hindquarters onto a stool and began to tap controls.

“We have developed a new serum,” Niens said. “Some among the mentalists do not believe it is altogether trustworthy, but I approve of it. The serum blocks the majority of the subject’s psi process. Psionics is, as I’m sure you are aware, a frontal lobe phenomenon.”

It was a talkative creature, this mentalist. That was another strike against it.

Niens made adjustments and tapped the main screen. The old man on the board jerked and groaned.

“Hmm,” Niens said. “He’s twitchy today. I wonder why.”

For the next few minutes the mentalist sat hunched over his controls. The ancient on the table tightened its stringy muscles by slow degrees. Soon, it lay rigid, the otherwise flaccid muscles showing starkly.

“Why is that happening?” Chengal Ras asked.

“That is an excellent question.”

“You dare to make an assertion concerning the quality of my question?” Chengal Ras hissed.

Niens looked up in alarm. His tongue flickered into view, sliding across his thin lips. “I beg your pardon, Revered One. I misspoke. Something lies at the edge of the seeker’s subconscious. I’ve been trying to tease it into view. Such was the absorption in my task that I thoughtlessly forgot about your presence.”

“Your remarks show an exalted belief in your status.”

“I crave your pardon, Revered One. I work too hard, it is true.”

“I have not said that.”

“Oh. There I go again, Revered One. I—”

“Silence,” Chengal Ras said. “Cease this useless rambling. What occurs here? Explain what you suspect and what you’re attempting to achieve.”

“Do you insist upon hearing my foolish conjectures, Revered One?”

“I am not in the habit of having my orders analyzed or questioned.”

Niens lowered his head. “The seeker—as I shall refer to the test subject—appears agitated. I believe he has hope. This hope causes him stress because he doesn’t know if the hope is warranted or not.”

“That is a convoluted theory,” Chengal Ras said.

“I have been told I have chaotic thoughts. Zama Dee approves, however, as I often attempt something new and therefore original.”

Clever, very clever
, Chengal Ras thought. He saw the utility of it right away. It was also a dangerous practice. The 73rd gave her cattle greater leeway than ordinary. The reason, according to Niens, was to broaden the base of Zama Dee’s raw data. That would imply the 73rd thought cattle could uncover information a Kresh could or would not. Yet, didn’t the FTL drive—the Faster-Than-Light drive—the Sol humans brought prove the validity of the theory? He would have to consider this in greater depth.

“What causes the seeker’s hope?” Chengal Ras asked.

“That is what I’m attempting to discover, Revered One. I wonder . . .
maybe we—I—should seek the answer in his memory.”

Niens’s thin spidery fingers blurred over the touchpads and screens. The ancient one’s stiffness remained, but a slow movement of its mouth showed a smile spreading into place.

“Please look at the big screen, Revered One,” Niens said.

Chengal Ras twisted around.

“We’re viewing the seeker’s memory,” Niens said.

Chengal Ras instantly recognized the Kresh sky vehicle. It came toward a compound of Jassac natives. He saw a youth sprint into view. The white-skinned native clutched something in its fist. It glared at the sky vehicle, and suddenly, incredibly, the vehicle lurched. A moment later the sky vehicle sailed down and crashed against the ground. Another flash of memory brought a dancing throng of cattle to the broken sky vehicle and to the dead Kresh. The memory showed the grinning youth.

“Is this a dream, or a memory of a true event?” Chengal Ras asked.

“That is an interesting question, Revered One. Certainly, the old one lying on the table believes this to be true. If it in fact happened . . . that is another s
tory. Notice the smile. The memory delights him. I am inclined to believe it happened.”

“Why did the investigation team capture this one?” Chengal Ras asked.

“Interesting, interesting,” Niens said. He swiveled around on the stool and tapped a computer screen. Data appeared. He read it, and he looked up sharply. “We must assume this is a true memory,” the mentalist said. “The specimen was caught due to the Kresh attack, due to Kresh deaths.”

“Elaborate.”

“It is strict policy to capture and interrogate any human who murders one of the Noble Race.”

“This one killed a Kresh?”

“Let us proceed with the interrogation,” Niens said, “in an endeavor to find out.”

Chengal Ras silently agreed with the analysis. For an hour, two hours, he watched the mentalist at work. This one knew its trade. Perhaps here lay the reason for its arrogance and improper deference.

Finally, Mentalist Niens sat up, and with a tug at his collar, straightened his coat. He peered at Chengal Ras. “A mistake has been made.”

Chengal Ras’s attention had been wandering as he thought up new axioms involving subterfuge and espionage. Now, he regarded the human.

Niens indicated the seeker trembling in exhaustion on the table. “According to the capture report, the investigation team sought the psionic-capable individual who had caused the Kresh deaths. I now realize that this one impersonated the killer.”

“You’re attempting to perpetrate the notion that cattle can climb to heights of pure altruism?”

“What?” Niens asked. Maybe it took him a moment to untangle the thought behind Chengal Ras’s words. “No, Revered One.”

“Why would this bag of bones sacrifice its life for another?”

“That is an interesting question. I’m sure it would take extended study to find the root cause.”

“Heed my next question carefully, mentalist.”

Niens looked up. A second later, he nodded solemnly.

“What or who is the ‘Anointed One’?” Chengal Ras asked.

Niens blinked with seeming incomprehension. “Is that a religious term, Revered One?”

“Obviously, yes,” Chengal Ras said.

“I ask because I haven’t heard it before.”

Chengal Ras checked one of the devices attached to his belt. According to this, the creature told the truth. His human operatives on High Station 3 had infiltrated the Resisters. The operatives had returned with several fables, one telling of a being who would lead the humans out of so-called captivity. There were indications that the Anointed One resided on Jassac. Logic dictated such a being would possess unique abilities. That indicated a psi-able human.

“You will probe deeper,” Chengal Ras said.

“The seeker is worn out,” Niens said. “I suggest—”

“Have I asked for your suggestions?”

“No, Revered One.”

“Because you are Zama Dee’s creature, I have tolerated your slurs and aspirations to my superiority. I will do so no longer. Approach me.”

“Revered One,” Niens said, as he remained on the stool. “I hold you in the highest esteem and I worship the floor space you occupy. I would—”

Rage motivated Chengal Ras, as well as the realization that he needed to make the mentalist fear him. Cattle must either love their superiors or fear them. There was no room for middle ground. The 73rd might not approve of this, but she would not be able to press the issue. Custom would restrain her, if nothing else.

In a swift stride, Chengal Ras reached the mentalist and plucked him off the chair. Like all humans, the man was feather light, and Chengal Ras refrained from using his full strength. He threw the yelping man onto the tiles and placed one of his clawed feet on the human’s chest. If Chengal Ras pressed down with all his weight, he could easily crack the man’s ribs and crush him. He had killed humans like this on several enjoyable occasions. Once, he had done so only for pleasure. Every other time had been to inflict greater obedience from his cattle.

“You have offended me,” Chengal Ras hissed.

“I beg your pardon, Revered One,” Niens wailed.

The stenches didn’t improve, and now the stink of fear radiated from the human filth. Chengal Ras unhooked an agonizer from his belt. Bending low, he touched the cool device to the creature’s neck.

Mentalist Niens howled in agony and the creature voided its bowels at the pain. Perhaps he had put the setting too high. Chengal Ras removed the agonizer and saw that it was at the second-highest setting.

Under his clawed talon, he could feel the human tremble and heard the creature weep.

“I have failed you, Revered One,” Niens sobbed. “I have grossly failed. Forgive me, please, oh Noble One of Kresh. I am—”

“Silence,” Chengal Ras hissed.

The mentalist fell silent.

“I will tolerate no more of your slurs.”

Niens nodded quickly.

“You will work efficiently and with due reverence and respect for my rank and my race. Together, we will probe the old one’s memories and see what it will uncover.”

“I hear and obey, Revered One.”

Chengal Ras heard the whining note, and therefore true piety, in the mentalist’s words. He removed his foot, and he nodded, indicating the creature could stand.

“You will clean yourself,” Chengal Ras said. “You will don fresh garments. No. First, you will shower and use grade-seven solvent on your skin. You stink. You will eat cloves and drink lavender spice. That should mask the foul odors emanating from you. Then you will don fresh clothes and we shall work late into the darkness.” He glanced at the pathetic thing lying on the table. “That will also give the seeker time to recover strength for tonight’s ordeal.”

Niens bowed repeatedly and kept his eyes aimed at the floor.

It was clear to Chengal Ras that Zama Dee did not punish her humans often or hard enough. This was a good lesson for the creature. Maybe one more swift session would be enough to turn the cattle’s loyalty to him instead of the 73rd. In any case, something odd was taking place in this chamber. Chengal Ras could sniff it in the air. He needed to find this Anointed One and spirit him or her away.

“Go!” Chengal Ras said in a loud voice. “I have given you commands. Now you will obey with haste or feel the agonizer again.”

Niens spun around and nearly stumbled in his hurry to comply. The agonizer, in Chengal Ras’s opinion, was the most important tool in teaching humans their proper place in the universe. Yes, finally, he was beginning to enjoy himself on Jassac.