Valour and Victory (16 page)

Moving among
the girls Cynwise persuaded them all to take a drink. They were
thirsty and drank eagerly. Cynwise partook of her own share then
placed the half-empty jug back on the shelf.

“Can I have
some more?” asked Jill after she had drunk her portion.

“Can I?” Sister
Earcongota smiled.

“May I then?
I’m very thirsty.”

“Best not at
the moment,” the elderly nun answered, “we don’t know how long
we’ll have to stay here.”

“If you drink
too much,” said little Alfreda, snuggling into her favourite ‘big
girl’, (she was only six), “you’ll need to go to the
necessary.”

Jill had no
wish to use the bucket that had been placed in the corner so she
decided she didn’t want another drink after all.

Within a
quarter-candle-mark all but Sister Earcongota were fast asleep on
the cushions. Only then did the nun begin to murmur her prayers
aloud, content in the knowledge that if the Larg did find them the
children would feel no pain as they died.

From the strong
room she heard the screams from the chapel when the Larg, having
climbed over the convent walls, smelt out the nuns in the chapel
and made all haste towards them. Breaking down the stained-glass
chapel door with a crash, they began to enjoy themselves.

Sister
Earcongota shut her eyes but she couldn’t block out the sounds. She
began to pray faster, the words tumbling from her mouth.

The strong room
door began to rattle. She listened with bated breath and heard
rasping voices as the Larg discussed how best to break it down.
Sister Earcongota prayed that it was too strong, even for them.

Then, with a
sudden abruptness, the ceiling above her caved in with a crash of
lathe and plaster. The Larg had found the access shaft to the attic
space. Their weight alone was enough.

Sister
Earcongota died at once as a heavy body plummeted down on top of
her, her neck broken and did not witness the resulting carnage in
the strong room.

* * * * *

The Lai

The highest
mountains of the north-western continent where lived the Lai were
high and snow-covered at their summits all year round. The lower
slopes were tree-filled and lush, many a bubbling stream emerging
from the rock-faces and descending, growing deeper and wider until
they reached the plains where they joined together to make rivers.
Along the river-banks was an oasis of plenitude - good grazing for
the herds of kura, zarova and jezdic who browsed there, the only
predators being the Lind whose rtathlian was on the continent and
the golden-skinned Lai themselves.

Neither gtran
nor wral lived in these mountains. No creature, however brave
wanted to co-inhabit an area with large flying creatures who
breathed fire and who could rip a jedzic apart with a single swipe
of their claw-like hands.

The mood among
the Lai was sombre. The
Ammokko
was coming and the Lai knew
that soon, the Quorko would emerge from her holds and join in the
battle.

The Lai could
do little to help yet. They had to wait, hidden under the trees and
in the caves. The Lind rtath who lived with the Lai had already
gone to the war, four Lindars, totalling almost four thousand
fighters. Velku knew they were approaching the Island Bridge, a
welcome addition to Susyc Julia and Alyei’s army.

Only when the
power-core was located and when the Guildmaster had found the means
to adapt it would the Lai emerge from their hiding places and fly
to the aid of the army.

The Technicians
Guild were also making what Guildmaster Annert was calling
‘bombas’, barrels of inflammables that the Lai would be able to
drop on their enemies. It had never been done before but Velku had
hopes that these incendiaries might prove effective.

For that was to
be the task of the Lai; to draw the Quorko away from the desert
where all their hope lay, with the small group of four humans and
four Lind who were desperately searching for the spot where six
hundred and more years ago Peter Howard had buried the
Electra’s
power-core.

Velku settled
himself outside his cave-daga, stretching out his golden-coppery
wings so that the sun could warm his body and wondered how close
both teams were to their goals.

* * * * *

The
Guildmaster

“I’ve found
them!” squealed Jeannie, “the pages about the power-core!”

The other three
members of the team deciphering the print-outs raised their heads
to look at her.

“At last,
breathed Guildmaster Annert. “What does it say?”

“It’s the
schismatic of the power-core,” said Jeannie in a triumphant
voice.

“At last,”
repeated Jhonas.

“Read it out,”
Master Annert commanded.

“Is there a
diagram?” asked Professor Angus.

“There is and a
very detailed one,” answered Jeannie, scanning the information on
the durapaper sheets in front of her. “Why, it’s not as large as we
expected, about a yard long if that and only about six inches in
diameter!”

“It’s a circle
then?”

“It’s a rounded
oblong,” she corrected him. “I suppose we should have expected it,
it
is
called a power-
core
.”

“What does it
say?” demanded the Professor, his fingers twitching to get hold of
the pages himself.

“Tack it to the
blackboard,” suggested Jhonas, “then we can all see.”

Jeannie did and
the four brought their chairs round to face the board on which she
was pinning the five precious pieces of paper.

“Look,” said
Jeannie, pointing with one finger towards the detailed diagram on
the second page, “that’s what is inside the outer core. What does
it say? Looks like ‘polarity conductor’ whatever that means.”

“What are all
those wires for?” asked Jhonas, “and how could such a little thing
power such a large spaceship?”

“I would
imagine that the power-core was designed to harness power from
elsewhere on the ship,” answered Professor Angus in his customary
dry voice. “I’ve been reading about their solar sails and panels.
The power-core would pull in whatever energy they gathered and
convert it into the power our ancestors needed to work their
engines.”

“A sort of
battery?” hazarded Jhonas.

“Not
precisely,” Master Annert entered into the discussion. “We’ve got
batteries, simple ones I admit but they couldn’t generate enough
power to work even one of the weaving looms.”

“It’s not
electrical?” asked Jhonas.

“No, but the
concept behind it could be similar. I wonder what these round bits
are at the end?”

“They must be
what connected the power-core to the wires that led to what they
called the distribution display,” said Professor Angus who was
reading the rest of the schismatic and its explanations.

“So energy from
whatever source it was came in at one end of the core and then out
the other, to this distribution display?” asked Jeannie who was
following the Professor’s lead and was reading the rest of the
document. “It doesn’t say it is dangerous,” she added in a
disappointed voice.

“No,” admitted
Master Annert, “but our ancestors knew that it could be otherwise
Captain Howard wouldn’t have hidden it. We have to assume that it
can be
made
dangerous.”

“How?”

“We don’t know
yet,” Professor Angus interrupted. “That’s what we’re here for. It
has been done, has to be done, can be done again. We’ve only got to
work it out. Energy in one end, power out the other.”

“Only!” quipped
Jeannie in an aside to Jhonas.

Professor Angus
bestowed on her a reproachful look.

The four
discussed and analysed the schismatic for some bells until at
Midnight Bell Master Annert called a halt.

“We’re tired
out,” he said. “We’ll get nowhere further tonight. I vote we get
some sleep. I’m sure it’ll be clear in the morning. Miggi will have
left us a cold supper.”

The face of
Jhonas brightened, suddenly realising that he was ravenously
hungry.

Professor Angus
gave Master Annert a sour look.

By Noon Bell
next day they were not much further on in their quest to solve the
conundrum about how to turn the power-core into the weapon that
would destroy the Dglai although their understanding of the
internal mechanisms of the power-core was much improved.

It was over a
light luncheon of cold meats, bread and pickles (Jhonas’s
favourite) that they got their first breakthrough.

“What would
happen,” asked Jeannie as she sat munching through her second
plate, “if energy entered the power-core and could not get out
again?”

“It would blow
up,” hazarded Jhonas, “stands to reason, it would have to, energy
needs somewhere to go.”

“Can you prove
that?” she challenged and Jhonas looked crestfallen.

“No I
can’t.”

“However,” said
Professor Angus, “she might have got hold of something here.” His
eyes were gleaming. He swept away the plates and glasses before him
with scant regard for the tablecloth, pulled a pencil out from
behind his ear and began to scribble whilst Jeannie tried to mop up
the spills with her napkin.

Annert leaned
over and peered at the complicated mathematical formulas and
notations.

“And,” shouted
Professor Angus at last, Jeannie had never seen him so excited. “I
can prove it!”

“Theoretically,” said Master Annert.

“Mathematics
does not lie,” asserted Professor Angus, this was an old argument.
The Guildmaster was a practical man while the Professor was of more
of a theorist. “If we gather enough energy into the power-core,
once it has reached a critical level,” he stabbed a finger down in
the middle of his calculations, “here, it will explode!”

“How big an
explosion?” asked Annert.

“Colossal.”

“That’s it
then,” the Guildmaster, “now all we have to do is to work out how
we can get the energy into the core then blow it up. Any ideas
anyone?”

“We build a
test core,” said an excited Jhonas, “there must be a way.”

* * * * *

“We’ve tried
everything,” sighed Jeannie six days later, eyeing the prototype
with disfavour. “Nothing. We can’t get the energy level up to even
the first measuring line on the dial. It’s hopeless.”

“We have no
mechanisms on the planet that can gather in enough power,” agreed
the despondent Jhonas.

“We have
nothing, but fool that I am! Of course, why didn’t I think of it
before?” Annert stood up and looked around the room. “Where is
Angus?”

“Gone to get
some sleep,” said Jeannie. “He was up all night and he’s not a
young man.”

“Same age as
me,” protested Annert, momentarily diverted, “give or take a few
years.”

“I can go and
wake him,” offered Jhonas.

“No matter,”
said Annert, “now, as you said, we have nothing.
We may not but
the Dglai do
.”

“So?” queried
the mystified Jhonas.

“Don’t you see?
The Dglai, they sent that, that, what was its name, yes, that Boton
here. Where did it get its power? It worked for years. Where are
the notes Niaill left us? He described it.”

After a
frenzied search, Jeannie found the notes, buried under some
discarded papers. The three read them and examined the sketches
Niaill had made.

“There,”
announced Annert, “there it is, imbedded at the top, Niall called
it a crystal prism. That’s where it got its energy, from the sun -
the crystal captures the sun’s rays and converts it into the power
to run the Boton. We have to get this crystal, connect it to the
prototype somehow and place it in the sun. Thank the lai it is
summer.”

“If it works we
might well blow
ourselves
up,” observed Jhonas.

“Nonsense,
we’ll disconnect it before it reaches the critical point on the
dial,” Annert answered. “We have to get the Boton here at once.
Now, where are these two Lind that Inalei left with us?”

“To keep an eye
on us,” said Jeannie.

“Jhonas, go get
them, bring them here. They must send word west at once. Hurry now,
there’s no time to lose!”

* * * * *

Isobel

A shocked Duke
Pierre Cocteau heard the man out.

The Larg were
coming.
Curse Xavier and all his works.

He turned to
his brother who had accompanied him to the gatehouse when the
messenger arrived.

“Thank the gods
we brought in the local families and livestock,” he said, “dammit,
Xavier told me we were safe, I should have known better than to
believe him. Get all the women and children into the tower. Men and
boys on the walls.”

Mark Cocteau
nodded. As he made his way through the crowds of people and animals
he stopped and calling the Captain of the Cocteau Guard over gave
him his brother’s instructions. He then went to hunt out his
son-in-law, his daughter Tamsin’s husband, Kellen Charles
Dubois.

Count Mark
Cocteau knew that the Larg were intelligent, they could climb
stairs and even open doors. The barred doors of the manor would be
more of a challenge but not an insurmountable one. Mark realised
that refuge with the rest of the family on the top étagère of the
tower was not the answer.

Kellen Dubois
came running and Mark Cocteau grabbed his arm. “We need to find a
better hiding place than the tower,” he shouted over the
tumult.

“What about the
small wine cellar?” asked Charles Dubois. “Under the trapdoor. We
can cover it with barrels.”

“Better yet,”
said his father-in-law with a flash of inspiration, “the Larg rely
on their sense of smell. Break some of my brother’s finest vintage
port above the trapdoor and they’ll smell nothing underneath.
Quickly now Charles, before it’s too late.”