Date: 2018-05-31T18:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Fantasy
Description: The Destiny’s Crucible series chronicles the incredible adventure of Joseph Colsco, a college student of no particular importance, who is thrust into an unimaginable fate by an accident that couldn’t happen—but did. Cast naked on the planet Anyar, he forges a new life for himself and rises to prominence and responsibilities he would otherwise never have imagined. However, much is left undone and uncertain. For readers who finished the first four books, many questions were left unanswered, and many stories left untold. This collection of short stories and novellas addresses some of the question
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

Destiny’s Crucible

Book 5

Tales of Anyar

by

Olan Thorensen

Copyright 2018

All rights reserved

The is an original work of fiction. Any resemblance to people and places is coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-9972878-5-1

Maps

To see color maps of the planet Anyar, go to the web site  www.olanthorensen.com .

Contents

Author Introduction

“WHERE ARE THE BODIES?”

UNEARTHLY STARS

GHOST

AN UNFORESEEN DANGER

AN UNSUNG BATTLEFIELD

BEST OF ENEMIES

EYE IN THE SKY

THE BITTER TASTE OF HOME

DAY TO REMEMBER

TRADITIONS AND AUTHORITY

“THE THINGS I DO”

LEAF WAX AND SAWDUST

A uthor Introduction

Tales of Anyar assumes the reader’s knowledge of Volumes 1–4 of Destiny’s Crucible and is not the place to start the series. If this book sounds interesting, I point you to Volume I, Cast Under an Alien Sun to begin the incredible adventure of Joseph Colsco, a college student of no particular importance who is thrust into an unimaginable fate by an accident that couldn’t happen—but did.

For readers and listeners who finished the first four books, many questions were left unanswered and stories untold. This collection of short stories and novellas answers or hints at some of the questions, expands on earlier books, and points to possible future directions. There is a rough chronological order, but the stories can be read in any order, except “Where Are the Bodies?” should be read first. The two longest stories are associated with the climactic battle at Orosz City (“An Unsung Battlefield” “Best of Enemies,”), so if battles are not your thing, you might read them out of order. Events in the main characters’ lives are in rough order for the last four stories.

We begin not on the planet Anyar but on Earth, with the aftermath of the improbable accident that starts Joseph Colsco on his new life.

“WHERE ARE THE BODIES?”

“Oh, my God!” cried Jennifer Dowlin, thirteen years old and one of Elizabeth, Colorado’s 13,441 residents. Three other citizens, also of the same age and gender, turned to look at their classmate as they walked between school buildings. On seeing Jennifer’s upturned head and wide eyes, one hand over her open mouth, the other girls reflexively jerked their heads up to blue sky and isolated clouds. All four sets of eyes settled on a distant fireball and glints of sunlight off metallic surfaces.

Jennifer was one of three people to see the event as it occurred. She initially reveled in the attention, then came to dread being obliged over the next weeks to describe what she’d seen, over and over, to a seemingly endless stream of adults.

Radar screens flickered as aircraft position updates flowed into the room. The chatter of controllers created an undulating buzz at the Denver Air Route Traffic Control Center, thirty miles north of Denver. The center was responsible for en route air traffic over the entire state of Colorado and portions of seven adjacent states. Aliyah Morrison took her job seriously. Being the only female African-American air traffic controller at the facility, she was obsessively alert to her screens. Her sharp focus made the computer’s warning superfluous because she had fortuitously glanced at the vector and identification of United Airlines Flight 4382 when it flashed and vanished from her screen.

“What?” she muttered, checking the flight’s latest position and path.

She keyed transmission. “United four three eight two. What is your status?” She waited twenty seconds without a response.

“United four three eight two, do you copy?” No response.

She tried three more times, then triggered a call to the shift supervisor. He rushed to stand behind her right shoulder and look at her main screen.

“What do-yah got, Aliyah?”

“United four three eight two, San Francisco to Chicago, cruising at thirty-five thousand feet, dropped off the screen and is not responding.” She didn’t wait for him to respond and called three more times.

“Where was their last location?” he asked.

“About eighty miles south of Denver.”

“Any calls from them about problems or any deviations in flight plan?”

“Nothing,” Aliyah said and called twice more. No response.

“Keep calling. I’ll re-assign your coverage. The United flight is your only responsibility until we learn more.”

Curtis Janofsky leafed through his notes. He was about to teach a class for trainees at the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) facility in Ashburn, Virginia. Then his official cell phone rang.

“Janofsky here,” he barked, still staring at his notes.

“Curtis, it’s Charlotte Gonzalez. Looks like we’ve got a major event. A bad one. A United flight SFO to O’Hare dropped off the radar and isn’t answering. There are reports of a high-altitude fireball and debris falling somewhere south-southeast of Denver. The regional office people in Denver are en route. We’ll know more in the next hour, but I’m going to activate the GO-team. You’re not next up to be investigator in charge, but you’ve got more experience, and I’m afraid it looks like the plane broke up. At that altitude, there won’t be any survivors. It was a full flight—two hundred and thirty-seven passengers and eight crewmembers.

“I’m the board member in line for a major event, so both of us will head to Denver as soon as we get our asses to Dulles. An FAA Gulfstream will be waiting, and I want it wheels up in ninety minutes.”

As soon as Janofsky heard her say “major event,” his mind moved on to necessary actions. If it turned out to be a false alarm, only time and fuel would have been wasted, but the NTSB’s mandate was to get on-site as fast as humanly possible to take charge of any investigation.

“If it’s what it sounds like, we’ll need a full team,” said Janofsky. “I’ll pull in people here to start us off.”

“If there’s a debris field where I think it is, from my memory of that area, it’s not close to major facilities,” said Gonzalez. “I’d like to have a mobile mortuary, but I think the nearest is too far to get there in time.”

“I agree,” said Janofsky, “but keep it in mind until we get more information. I’ll leave it to you to handle the public relations staff and check that the main office notifies the usual agencies.”

He had referenced the FBI, the airline, and the manufacturer of the plane. The FAA would already know of the event since air traffic control fell under its agency.

“What about staff for the ‘witness group?’” asked Janofsky. “Can you handle that?”

“I’ll get some help here,” Charlotte said. “You focus on getting yourself and the other group leaders to Dulles.”

The first thing Janofsky did after hanging up was call his wife. She knew the routine and might not see him for many weeks, if it turned out to be a major airline disaster. He didn’t need to go home to pack. A black bag with two week’s clothing and toiletries sat in his office closet. A second bag contained a laptop, cell phone, video camera, and flashlight—all with extra batteries. These items, along with forms and other clerical supplies, were needed for the supervisor of an investigative team that could number in the hundreds and would include personnel at a debris site, local NTSB offices, and relevant staff back at headquarters in Ashburn.

Janofsky, as the assigned investigator-in-charge (IIC), spent the next twenty-seven minutes making contacts. He called Health and Human Services to alert the D-Mort team in Region VIII, which was coordinated from Denver. The members of the D-Mort team consisted of civilian forensic pathologists, odontologists, fingerprint experts, and other technical personnel who would leave their current positions for temporary assignment in victim identification and postmortems. They would assist the local medical examiners, and, if necessary, additional personnel would be brought in—civilians and military.

A full passenger complement for the Gulfstream lifted wheels at Dulles eighty-three minutes after Gonzalez’s call.

Janofsky maintained frequent phone contact with Ralph Dutton from the Denver NTSB office—first from Dulles, while the GO-Team gathered, and then on the flight west.

“It’s confirmed, Curtis,” said Dutton. “Didn’t take more than two or three minutes once we got to a debris field and identified one engine, part of a fuselage, and several remains. Local police and sheriff departments, plus the Colorado State Patrol, are securing the area. Fortunately, it’s a relatively uninhabited part of Elbert County, south-southeast of Denver.”

“How’s it look for setting up a command post?” asked Janofsky.

“Not good. There’s nothing appropriate within sixty to seventy miles. Even then, the facilities are marginal. Since the Denver suburbs are only another thirty or forty miles farther, I suggest that the command post be there. I have people checking out facilities, if you want to go that route. But then we’d have to set up a temporary, on-site command post here at the debris site.”

“All right, Ralph. I can’t decide until I get there, but we may have to do as you suggest. Go ahead with preparations. We won’t arrive until after dark, and given that it must be a good hour or more drive to the site, the organizational meeting will have to wait until first thing tomorrow. The GO-team will stay near the airport, and I expect everyone at the site at eight a.m. tomorrow morning.

“I’ll bring some staff with me, but you should tap into your Denver people. Get anyone you think relevant on-site either tonight or for the meeting tomorrow morning. Are there at least places to eat and sleep nearby?”

“We’re checking this out, but that doesn’t look good either. We’ll arrange food and drinks for tonight at the site, but the nearest accommodations are at least thirty-five miles away. We’ll settle all that tomorrow.”

“Ralph, if it’s as you describe, there’s no way I can coordinate the investigation, participate in all the required meetings, and spend much time at the site. In that case, I’ll appoint you as the on-site IIC.”

“That’s what I figured, Curtis. Anyway, it should only last one to two weeks. The terrain is flat and without any obstructions or water, so recovery should move along quickly.”

The Gulfstream touched down at Denver International at 8:43 p.m., and its passengers checked into a nearby hotel, after being warned of a 6 a.m. wake-up call. They’d have a grab-and-run breakfast in the hotel before leaving by vans at 6:30 a.m.

At precisely 8 a.m., Curtis called to order the organizational meeting for the investigation. Overnight, the Denver office had arranged for a large tent, plus folding chairs and tables to be set up fifty yards from a piece of fuselage. Ninety-four people sat and stood inside the on-site command center. Besides the GO-Team, there were additional NTSB staffers from the Denver office, the regional D-Mort team, representatives from local law enforcement, the Colorado State Patrol, the FAA, the FBI, the Red Cross, United Airlines, Boeing, and several airline unions. After the formal declaration that the NTSB was in charge and investigative groups were organized, they began to work. Curtis returned to Denver to formally establish the main command post at a conference center twelve miles south of downtown.

At noon, Curtis and Charlotte Gonzalez led a press conference on what was known, which was very little at this early stage. In the next few days, Curtis would spend most of his time going from one conference call or meeting to another, giving updates to NTSB headquarters, the GO-team, families, local authorities, individual groups, and the press. He knew the routine. When not at meetings, he was negotiating or refereeing among the sundry parties directly involved in the investigation or those with vested interests. In his few spare moments, he read daily progress updates from each of the investigative working groups.

On the tenth day of the investigation, Curtis Janofsky made what he thought would be his final trip to the debris site. Based on progress reports from the relevant groups, he foresaw closing the Colorado operation and returning to Ashburn, where all remaining work would continue, the groups’ draft reports would be completed, and a final NTSB report would eventually be issued—a process that could take anywhere from a few months to several years.

It was the sixth time he’d visited the site. As evidence of the wrap-up, only a few investigation staff members remained. Ralph Dutton, the site IIC, met him when he drove up. Together, they would make the final decision. Curtis was surprised to see Glenn Mahmud, the D-Mort team leader. The Denver pathologist was tied into the regional medical examiners—a connection that prevented problems Curtis had experienced in previous investigations.

“Glenn, surprised to see you here. I didn’t think they let you out of your labs,” jibed Curtis.

“Oh, even pathologists are allowed occasional exposure to the sun. However, I wanted to take one last look at the area. When I called Ralph to alert him I’d be stopping by, he told me you were coming today. As you know from progress reports, we haven’t found any new remains in the last five days. Not since we discovered an arm caught up in a tree about a mile from here.”

Mahmud licked his lips and shifted his feet. “It’s not showing up yet in progress reports, but I need to pass on an anomaly in remains recovery.”

Curtis frowned. “An anomaly? As in a problem with the investigation or a puzzle?”

“More in the puzzle camp. And it’s actually two anomalies. One is the distribution of remains. Take a look at this.” Mahmud handed Curtis a map of the area overlaid with thousands of dots.

“Blue dots are aircraft fragments; red dots are human remains.”

Curtis took one look at the diagram and frowned. “This can’t be right.” He continued staring at the pattern of blue dots intermixed with the human remains’ red pattern. “The patterns should be approximately the same shape, with variation due to winds and other factors. But the red dots show a major cluster of remains almost a mile from the nearest aircraft fragment.”

Mahmud shook his head. “That’s how it is. Now, this is more in your agency’s purview, but why would there be two patterns of remains, one similar to aircraft debris and a second one tightly positioned well away from everything else? And it gets more puzzling. The outlying cluster is mainly largely intact bodies or major portions of bodies, with only a few small fragments.”

“Ralph, what do you make of this?” Curtis asked.

“Glenn only showed me the diagram an hour ago. Sorry, but nothing makes sense. If anything, mainly intact bodies would tend to fall within the same area as the heavier plane pieces. Small fragments might get carried by wind, but less so for whole bodies. Almost as if the history of intact bodies is different from body fragments and plane debris.”

Curtis rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’ll have to think about this. I’m sure it will be a discussion topic once we’re back at headquarters. Glenn, you mentioned two anomalies. As if the first one wasn’t enough.”

“If anything, the second one might be more troubling,” said Mahmud. “We’re missing legs.”

Curtis said nothing at first, as he mulled over Mahmud’s words. “I can’t imagine the assignment of body parts has progressed enough that you literally mean there are identified people whose legs haven’t shown up. The DNA results will take months.”

Mahmud nodded. “Right. Legs are sturdy, with muscle and bone. They might get ripped off in explosions or torn off by impact and shear, but they tend to stay intact otherwise. Small body fragments are harder to assign to individuals without DNA tests. As the number of human remains we find declines, the number of legs should start to match twice the number of victims. That hasn’t happened. If what we’ve been tallying doesn’t change, I think we’ll be missing the remains of about twenty-seven people.”

“Twenty—” Curtis stared are Mahmud. “That’s over ten percent of the total! That doesn’t seem possible. Not under these circumstances, with mainly flat grassland, no water, no animals to scavenge. It’s almost ideal conditions for recovery. Remember the Germanwings flight that crashed in the French Alps? They identified all one hundred and fifty passengers and crew. Hell, even with ocean events we can identify a high percentage of the victims, like with TWA 800 that went down in the waters off Long Island. We identified all two hundred and thirty victims. If that could be done in mountainous terrain and in the ocean, I expected we’d do the same here or, at worst, have one or two victims missing. But twenty-seven? No way.”

Curtis wasn’t looking forward to the daily meeting with Charlotte Gonzalez. Although she was technically his superior, the role of the IIC and the emphasis on thoroughness meant the IIC had authority in the investigation.

“Charlotte, I doubt you want to hear this, but we need to do a whole-plane reconstruction.”

“Jesus, Curtis. I know there are puzzling things about this case, but that raises the stakes to a whole new level. Hell, maybe more than one level. The FBI will claim we suspect criminality or terrorism. They’ll badger the attorney general to turn the investigation over to them, and the press will go bananas, with every conspiracy nut hitting the airways. Then there’re the families—they’ll apply political pressure to learn what’s going on.”

“Yes, but I don’t see any way around it. There’re just too many oddities about this case. No evidence consistent with a high-explosive event. People’s remains in odd dispersion patterns, and it looks like we’ll have a lot of missing bodies. No indication yet of structural, power plant, or systems failure to account for what happened. The momentary appearance of something larger than the plane, as seen by three eyewitnesses, the distance video from a smartphone, and the traffic control eyeball and data suggesting the plane apparently getting larger before disappearing off radar.

“I know of no other case with such a basket of anomalies. If the NTSB doesn’t take them head-on, you know conspiracy mongers will claim we’re hiding something.”

“What if we wait until all the analyses are finished before taking this step?” asked Charlotte. “Explanations might still turn up.”

Curtis grimaced. “Not going to work. The airline wants the pieces back so they can do their own study, and the FBI is already hinting these issues might point to terrorism. It’ll take time to get the debris back to Ashburn to a secure facility large enough for the reassembly. We could drag our feet a bit on the reassembly until more results are finalized. However, to do our job properly, we need to get the pieces moving east before we lose control of the investigation. Then, if it turns out most of the anomalies are explained, we can cancel the reassembly.”

It was another week before Janofsky returned home to begin the long process of completing the investigation. During the following months, he had other duties, but he kept coming back to Flight 4382.

The reassembly took more than a year, once all the debris arrived from Colorado. The long months saw completion of the working groups’ findings and a beginning draft of the NTSB’s final report. Charles Delacour, the NTSB chair, had been puzzled when Curtis had come to his office and insisted they visit the aircraft reassembly site. He hadn’t been happy when Curtis had made the reassembly recommendation based on anomalies, but he hadn’t felt justified in overruling the IIC assigned to the incident.

It was the first time Delacour had viewed the reassembly of United 4382. At least it’s only fifteen minutes from headquarters , he thought, while driving to the warehouse. He parked and walked inside.

The plane itself looked surreal. An estimated 98 percent of the plane had been recovered, and all but a few smaller pieces had been fitted together like a huge three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Delacour stood looking at the right side of the plane, failing to predict what the reassembly team would tell him and why he had to come here personally. He saw nothing obvious. Despite his years of NTSB experience, he was mainly a bureaucrat and depended on technical staff. His job was deciding what to do with the information and conclusions the investigators provided.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said a man’s voice. Delacour turned. Curtis Janofsky and Charlotte Gonzalez walked up to him. “I saw all the steps in the assembly, and it’s even more impressive that way. Will Canares will join us shortly. Ah . . . here he comes.”

A tall, wiry man loped toward them from the rear of the warehouse. “Sorry I’m a little late. I decided to print this out.” He handed each of them several sheets with photographs of the reassembled airliner, showing numbered arrows pointing to plane sections.

Delacour looked at the sheets. “All right. I’m here. So, give me the bad news. I assume it’s something I don’t want to hear. Otherwise, we’d be doing this in my office. I haven’t studied updates carefully, but I don’t recall anything that flagged why I had to come here. It’s been fifteen months since the incident with United 4382, and I’m getting more calls from congressional delegations. Colorado wants this wrapped up, Boeing has the ear of both Washington senators, and now I’ve gotten a snippy call from a staffer of the House Transportation Safety Subcommittee.”

“I’ll let Curtis give you the summary of bad news,” said Charlotte. “He’s stayed on top of all the investigation groups from the beginning until they completed their final reports.”

“What I’ll say includes the findings from Will’s group,” Curtis said. “He’ll correct me if I misstate anything. I’ll take it from the beginning.

“At 1:07 p.m., on September fourteenth of last year, United Flight 4382 was eighty-two miles south of Denver when a catastrophic event occurred. At that moment, a traffic controller at the regional en route control center saw the icons for United 4382 flicker and then disappear. Radar records are consistent with a momentary increase in the radar cross-section of the plane, followed by its disappearance. The only plausible cause of the change in the radar cross-section—consistent with anything we understand—is the plane breaking up and the scattering pieces simulating an increase in size.

“Shortly thereafter, at least eighty eyewitnesses, most in and around the town of Elizabeth, Colorado, reported seeing a fireball high in the sky at the approximate position of 4382. Three witnesses reported looking at the plane at the moment of the incident. Two of those three insist the plane broke into several large pieces before a fireball developed. If true, that argues against an explosion as the primary cause.”

Curtis stopped and grimaced. “Here’s where it gets a little freaky. Both of these witnesses also claim they saw the plane change into a larger, darker object for a split second before three or more big pieces of the plane fell away from one another, followed by a fireball around one of the pieces.”

Delacour shook his head. “We all know how unreliable eyewitnesses can be. Even if they did see something unexpected, it could have been smoke, an optical illusion, or who knows what else? The same for that smartphone video that apparently has the plane in the background when some citizen was filming his grandkids playing.”

“All true,” said Curtis, “and all within reasonable grounds to dismiss, but let me continue.

“The plane’s contents and parts fell onto gently rolling, grassy terrain with few structures or paved roads and no water features—an ideal setting to recover both plane parts and the remains of people on board the flight, meaning we had high expectations of finding all two hundred and forty-five bodies. The problem is, we’re missing twenty-seven bodies: two crewmembers and twenty-five passengers. The D-Mort team alerted me there was a discrepancy, and now that all reports are finished, it’s confirmed.

“Let me emphasize this point. I’ve quietly posed theoretical questions to everyone associated with this investigation and several others, and they have all agreed it’s impossible for this to have happened if those twenty-seven were on the flight. The manifest shows the passengers, and we recovered baggage for most of the missing. In addition, there’s no way the crew was short two people for the flight.

“If that wasn’t confusing enough, there’s the dispersal pattern of remains. Instead of roughly coinciding with the area of debris, we found a cluster of intact or mainly intact bodies well outside the aircraft’s debris pattern. Once again, this couldn’t happen. Unfortunately for logic and all our experience, it did happen, and we have no explanation we’d want to share.”

The more Curtis talked the grimmer became Delacour’s expression.

“And now we come to the pièce de résistance,” said the incident IIC. “The plane itself. Nothing was found in any of the systems that could plausibly have contributed to the accident, including electrical, hydraulics, or pneumatic. Nothing. The engines show no damage not attributable to whatever broke up the aircraft or from ground impact. Everything came up blank until we finished the reconstruction. Let’s walk around to the left side.”

Canares led the way, with Delacour following and Curtis and Charlotte in the rear, side by side. She looked at Curtis and raised a questioning eyebrow. He shrugged, not knowing how the NTSB chair was taking in what he heard.

When they stopped, Delacour stood stunned. The left side of the fuselage was crumpled inward from behind the cockpit to the wing.

Canares leaned toward Delacour and pointed to a diagram. “The conditions of the plane’s pieces are consistent with breaking up in midair and falling thirty-five thousand feet to the ground. Everything except this,” said Canares, pointing to the left side of the fuselage anterior to the wing. “No matter how we tried to fit the pieces together, we kept coming back to an indentation running from approximately row three in business class, past the mid-galley, and extending to row six just anterior to the left wing—a section covering about a quarter of the fuselage.”

Canares stepped back and looked firmly at Delacour. “There’s no question. The reconstruction suggests a collision with something of enough mass and momentum to cave in a good part of the aircraft’s left side.”

Delacour took a breath and opened his mouth to speak but was stopped by Curtis. “And no, before you ask . . . the initial event was not an explosion. You’ve already seen the chemical analyses. No high-energy explosive residues were found on any part of the plane. Neither was a fuel explosion to blame. All signs of fire were from row seven aft to row twenty-seven in the fuselage and on both wings. This suggests the front of the plane, to row six, broke away before fuel ignited.”

The NTSB chair rubbed his eyes, then looked at the ceiling. “You’re telling me what? An unknown large object collided with United 4382? An object that wasn’t on radar or visible to witnesses before or after the collision—only visible during the collision? What’s next? The dragon from Game of Thrones ate the missing people and regurgitated whole bodies to land apart from the debris field?”

“Trust us, Charles,” said Curtis, “we’re well aware how all this sounds. However, there’s no getting around the scenario for the aircraft. As for what happened to the people, we’d have to get into speculations I don’t want to voice, even if it’s just here among the four of us. How the final report will handle this is in your ballpark. I sympathize with you.”

Delacour looked up, as his mind raced through possibilities. His first thought was that everyone involved in the investigation was colluding or delusional, but he quickly dismissed it. Not this many people with this much experience.

Could it be some elaborate hoax? Was it possible? Yes, but perpetrated by whom? The effort and the technical details would have to be so complex, it would eliminate any party except sovereign nations or someone with fantastically deep pockets. And why do it?

Delacour heaved a big, audible sigh, as he lowered his head to face three people waiting for his response.

“You know we have to be careful with the final report and not raise wild speculations on how the aircraft was destroyed.”

“You aren’t suggesting we hide our findings?” Canares protested.

Charlotte nodded in grim understanding, and Curtis laid a hand on Canares’s shoulder.

“Think about it, Will. To be honest, all we can say is that a cause unknown damaged the fuselage, leading to the aircraft breaking up. Subsequently, fuel ignited and further fragmented the plane.

“As for the bodies’ odd distribution pattern, it’s not lying to say we can’t rule out freak wind patterns at those altitudes essentially sorting the bodies, thereby pushing many of the complete, or near intact, bodies away from the debris field. Highly improbable, and we may not believe it ourselves, but still within the realm of possibility.”

“We might be able to wordcraft much of this,” said Charlotte, “but there will be a problem with the missing bodies.”

Delacour’s mind was already on the same track as Curtis’s: they would have to gloss over most of the anomalies.

“Okay. I’ll read everything, and I expect we’ll need to meet often. However, I only see one way forward. As I said before, we can’t go into speculations that could lead to a media circus. We might have to suggest improbable possibilities, even if we don’t believe they’re valid.”

He raised both hands, as if to ward off Canares’s red face and Curtis’s pursed lips. “Think about it. Do you want to spend the rest of your life pestered by conspiracy nut jobs, tabloids, and alien abduction freaks? Isn’t it the truth that we don’t know exactly what happened? We won’t lie, but in the absence of plausible explanations, we don’t want to fuel controversy any more than necessary.

“As for the missing bodies, we’ll honestly say we simply don’t know what happened. Enough wackos will come out of the woodwork. We don’t need to encourage them.”

“You know we’ll have to meet with the families of the missing passengers and crew,” said Charlotte. “It’s been months since the last remains were released, and the families of the missing are lawyering up.”

“I wish to God I could forget it,” snapped Delacour. “I don’t intend one-on-ones with them, so we’ll schedule a meeting with them all as soon as possible.” He pointed to Charlotte and Curtis. “The two of you will be there to share the glares and accusations, but we’ll all stick to the truth. We don’t know what happened to their missing loved ones.”

Two months later, the two NTSB members and Curtis sat at a raised table facing 137 hostile faces—family members overwhelmed by anger, sorrow, frustration, and fear. In a very few cases, they still dared to hope. Yet they were about to hear that the investigation into Flight 4382 was officially closed, without a resolution regarding the remains of their loved ones.

Charlotte sat to Delacour’s right. He would do most of the talking. She didn’t envy him the next two hours, the time scheduled for the meeting room. She glanced over the faces. Some she recognized from previous encounters or from watching TV interviews and news spots. Her eyes rested momentarily on an obvious family group on the left end of the first row. She recognized them. The family of passenger Joseph Colsco. Middle-aged parents. A couple of siblings. Two other middle-aged women Gonzalez assumed might be aunts. And in the middle of the grouping, a young woman holding a one-year-old infant.

If you skipped “Where Are the Bodies?” stop and go back. Then return here. The next three stories answer two of the questions Yozef Kolsko posed to himself at the end of Forged in Fire —questions he doubted he would ever learn the answers to.

UNEARTHLY STARS

Martha Whitworth awoke to pounding on her front door.

“Uh . . .,” she groaned and rolled over. Being a medical caregiver in a small village usually meant getting a full night’s sleep, except for cases that couldn’t wait—childbirth, worsening illnesses, and late-night accidents that the village healer couldn’t handle. Martha (Marta, as the locals pronounced her name) didn’t think of him as a real doctor—more like a first-aider. Neither the village nor the rest of the valley had the population to support someone more trained. Not that she wanted to be treated by anyone practicing what passed for medicine in this society.

The pounding continued, despite her wish that it go away. She accepted that she wouldn’t get any more sleep before morning light.

She pushed aside the covers, walked barefoot across the plank flooring, and lifted the wooden locking bar from the door. She opened it to reveal the village chief, Nando Sadaro, dressed in a nightshirt and a hastily donned cloak. Puffing hard, he had a harried expression.

“Pan Marta, there has been an accident in Seminang. Chief Ramat begs you to come quickly.”

Seminang was one of five villages clustered in the Amamor Valley. People regularly called on Marta for the most difficult medical cases. She usually hoped that whatever the problem, it would be in her own village, Tagel.

Sighing, she motioned to the village chief.

“Chief Sadaro, come inside while I get ready and tell me what happened.”

Sadaro followed her inside and stood by the door of the one-room house. He turned his back, as appropriate, while she shed her nightgown and pulled on a full-length dress typical of the Jukanda people of southwest Purasia. She slipped into sandals and checked on the three-and-a-half-year-old child sleeping in her bed.

Sadaro hadn’t answered her question, so she prompted him.

“Well, what happened? I need to know what I should bring.”

He turned, taking her prompt to mean she was dressed. His eyes roamed quickly over her gray clothing. “No, no, Pan Marta, gray will not do. You should wear blue or at least green.”

“Before I do anything, what is doing on?”

“Chief Ramat’s messenger says that as a party of riders galloped through Seminang, a child ran in front of them. The mount of the men’s leader threw the man, and he broke his leg—badly, said the messenger. I don’t know who he is, but Ramat says he wears blue, and one of his men addressed him as ‘Lord.’ The whole village is afraid. Parents have already sent their children to hide in the forest, in case the village is punished.”

“Nando,” she said, switching to his first name, “we’ve talked about this. The villages need to forget what happened in past times. From everything I’ve been told, severe punishment for minor transgressions hasn’t happened in over a generation, when Emperor Juhatro was on the Golden Throne. Emperor Jokamdo long ago forbade such injustices.”

“People’s memories are long, Pan Marta. There are still many alive who remember when Duke Emundo ruled the province, and memories still haunt their dreams. Please hurry. Chief Ramat’s cart and driver are waiting. And change your clothing so the Lord’s men will let you attend him.”

Marta habitually wore gray when treating patients. The neutral color had many implications, but most important was that it didn’t identify the wearer as belonging to one of the castes. She still hadn’t mastered the intricacies of the caste system. However, from experience, some patients and circumstances were best handled if she was thought to be from one of the recognized societal strata. In those cases, she might wear blue, green, tan, rust brown, or dull brown. The people of the valley had come to accept her idiosyncratic view of clothing shades.

She’d never seen purple, the royal color allowed only to high members of the emperor’s court. Blue identified the upper caste of members of important families who filled leadership positions in the military and the empire’s bureaucracy, along with people acknowledged as experts in trades or professions. Even within the blue, unacknowledged sub-castes existed, with those who rose from lower origins the least respected.

“A badly broken leg, you say? Let me gather a few more things. I’ll be ready after I wake Wanda Tahn next door to come stay with Sonya while I’m gone.”

She added more instruments and supplies to her main medical bag, then filled a smaller satchel. Satisfied that she was as ready as she could be, without examining the patient, she checked Sonya, pulled the cover back over her, and gave a soft kiss to the blonde head. Sadaro waited by the cart, rocking back and forth and wringing his hands. She woke Wanda, talked to her, and quickly climbed beside the cart’s driver.

“I’ll send word back when I know how long I’ll be in Seminang,” she called to Wanda, as the driver whipped the donkey with the reins.

During the two-mile ride to Seminang, she saw scattered tree clumps separating neat paddies and their crops with plant heads resembling rice but tasting like corn. The grit-like gruel served as a staple of villagers’ diet, supplemented by vegetables, fish, occasional meat, and what looked to Marta like amaranth grown on the valley’s slopes. She couldn’t be sure because she’d never tasted amaranth, but the dense red, yellow, and purple seed clusters and leaves looked like photos she’d seen.

Tonight, she couldn’t quite make out the amaranth’s colors, but stars lit the road and paddies. No moons ever lit the night—a lack more than compensated by the panorama of stars. She had never had an interest in astronomy, but one of her sons had festooned his adolescent room with star maps and space telescope posters. His regaling her about the universe gave her enough background to recognize this solar system must be part of a globular cluster of stars. Depending on the night’s atmospherics, she thought she could make out color differences: sharp blue stars, whitish ones she suspected were shades of yellow, a few red, and her favorite—a green star.

A disadvantage of the illumination provided by the sixty to seventy brightest stars was that their light prevented people’s eyes from detecting fainter stars—giving the sense that the cluster represented the entire universe, instead of the infinite expanse suggested by the clearest nights on Earth.

After first arriving, she’d spent lonely hours staring skyward at night, straining to see a familiar constellation behind the cluster’s stars. Now, she glanced up only occasionally to search for something familiar and to feel a pang of loss. The cart’s wheel rolled over a rock, and the jolt brought her back to the current night’s call for her help.

“We’ll be there in a moment, Pan Marta,” said the driver, breaking into her ruminations. “We all hope you can help whoever the man is. Everyone’s afraid.”

She didn’t recall the driver’s name, though she associated him with a home in Seminang where she’d performed an appendectomy on a ten-year-old adolescent—fifteen Earth years. The longer year made for extended seasons, which didn’t bother her as much as the longer days she estimated were twenty-seven Earth hours long.

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” she said. The pro forma assurance nagged in the back of her mind. Even after three years, she didn’t have the lifetime of experience necessary to intuitively understand this society and its variants. Any change in routine unsettled her, being too fraught with uncertainty.

When they pulled into Seminang, torches illuminated a small square with a water well at its center. Six mounts stood reined to a tying post—otherwise, the square was deserted. The torchlight let the driver see her puzzled expression.

“People are staying in their homes with their families. No one wants to be out and identifiable if anything goes badly.”

She climbed out of the cart without responding to the nervous driver and collected her two bags from the cart floor. He led her to a thatched-roof, general-purpose building used by the village chief for meetings and public affairs. Inside, a strange man dressed in a white shirt, blue jacket, and blue pants lay on a narrow table. The left pants leg had been cut away, exposing a gruesome break below the knee. Five other strange men surrounded the table. All the men wore similar clothing she recognized as either military or an important family’s livery.

A worried Chief Ramat stood to one side, while the white-haired village healer, Satrio Rafo, examined the leg. Marta considered Rafo both a first-aider and an herbalist, the valley’s expert in medicinal plants, some of which she believed efficacious enough to use. She knew Rafo’s family worked a section of paddies because payment for medical services by villages was spotty and commonly involved bartering with goods and services, rather than paying with the silver coins used in rural areas. She knew of gold coins, though she had never seen one.

The driver said something to Ramat, who nodded toward the table. Marta walked over to stand next to Satrio Rafo. “Greetings, Dan Rafo. Chief Ramat asked to come to see if I could help.”

She carefully avoided giving the appearance to Rafo or any of the other village healers that she intended to usurp their positions but had come merely to assist. In many difficult cases, no one pretended she wasn’t in charge, but she and the five village healers maintained the pretense.

Today was different. Rafo’s pleading look when he saw her left no doubt that he wanted someone else—anyone else to be responsible for this case.

One of the men wearing what she now believed was livery looked at her skeptically. She wore blue but not of good-quality cloth, unlike what he would see in larger cities or the capital. She wore common folks’ sandals, and her two bags were worn leather.

“ You’re supposed to be the best healer in this valley?” he snapped.

“Yes,” said Ramat. “Pan Marta Witwurt will do the best for Lord Etullo.”

Don’t make it sound like you’re praying , Marta thought.

“Maybe we should take a wagon and go to a larger town,” said another of the men.

From Marta’s limited contact with the higher castes, she believed timidity only fueled their disdain.

“Make up your mind, Dans. I came all the way from Tagel to help Lord Etullo. If you don’t want me to look at him, say the word, and I’ll go back home to sleep.”

The man lying on the table groaned and spoke. “Suhandro. Let her look at it and see what she thinks she can do.”

Marta looked at the patient closely for the first time. His hair and beard were cut and manicured in the manner of the higher castes. She thought his common light brown complexion resembled coffee with too much cream added. Lines of pain etched his face, and he gripped the thigh above the break.

It was bad. Both the tibia and the fibula were broken in two places. Sharp ends of bone protruded, and the leg sat in a pool of blood.

“How did it happen?” she asked.

The standing men’s leader cursed. “A damn child ran into the road. His Lordship’s mount swerved, tripped, and fell on Lord Etullo’s leg.”

“She’s only three years old and wandered outside her home,” said Ramat desperately. “She didn’t see you.”

Four and a half , calculated Marta. A year was fifty percent longer here than on Earth. I’ll bet they were racing through the village at full gallop and never gave a thought to anyone in their way .

“Perhaps if you had been going slower, this wouldn’t have happened,” said Marta, annoyed at the man’s attitude and suffering a momentary lapse in judgment.

Ramat paled in the torch and candlelight.

“Enough!” grated Etullo, his jaw clenched from the pain. “My leg. I know. It’ll have to come off, so get on with it.”

Marta leaned closer to the leg. “Bring the candles in closer.” It was as bad as her first glance indicated.

The bones didn’t shatter , she thought. If there were too many pieces, there would be no choice but amputate. As it is, they look like clean breaks. The problem is getting the pieces to stay aligned. It’s not like single breaks where a good, simple splint can do the job. At home and in a hospital, I’d use titanium screws to hold the pieces together. Here, I doubt they know titanium exists.

It’s more important that Sonya and I stay below the radar. Having no one notice us outside this valley has worked for three years. If I do a procedure no one here has ever seen, I’m asking for trouble.

She pretended to continue examining the injury, while her conscience warred with self-interest. She sensed she’d run out of time when several of Etullo’s companions began to shift their feet and grumble.

It’ll be hard enough with the bones, but if arteries are severed, they’ll have to be closed first.

She addressed Etullo. “I’m going to loosen the tourniquet, so I can tell if major blood vessels were cut.”

He nodded.

A piece of rope and a stick had been used for the tourniquet. “Get me a length of cloth I can tear. The rope will damage his flesh. I’ll release the rope, so I can see how much bleeding there is, then I’ll put on a cloth tourniquet.”

Ramat rushed out of the room and returned moments later with a woman’s tattered dress. Marta ripped a five-foot-long, three-inch-wide piece. When she released the tourniquet, blood pulsed out of the spot where a jagged bone jutted from Etullo’s leg.

Damn! she thought. I was hoping he’d lucked out. One of the bone ends cut the anterior tibial artery. I’d have to go in and suture it closed and hope it’s a fairly clean cut and not sliced down the artery’s length. In that case, at home I could resection using a piece of vessel from elsewhere, but not here.

She moved to look down into Etullo’s sweating face. “There’s a chance I can save the leg, but I can’t guarantee it.”

“How good a chance?” he asked.

“Probably less than one in two. Even if I can stop the bleeding and get the bone pieces back together, the leg might still have to come off.”

“Do what you can.”

“Lord Etullo, are you sure you want this woman to treat you?” said the man named Suhandro. “How competent can she be, if she’s living here?”

“Suhandro, what are the options?” said Etullo. “You’ve seen the leg as I have. If she fails, the leg is still lost. We make decisions on what’s possible. I’ll let her try.”

Suhandro shook his head. “It’s your decision, Lord.” He turned to Marta. “If Lord Etullo dies, you and this village will be held responsible.”

Marta stepped back from the table. “In that case, I cannot try to save the leg. It would be a difficult operation, and no one can tell the outcome. The best doctors and healers can lose patients for reasons beyond their control. I cannot put the lives of the villagers at risk.”

Suhandro snarled and put a hand on the hilt of one of three knives on his belt. “You will do as you’re told.”

Marta swallowed and prayed she understood the society well enough. “And who are you to threaten me ? You wear Lord Etullo’s colors, but if not for that, what caste are you? High enough to threaten someone wearing blue?”

Suhandro’s eyes narrowed. “You wear blue, but how do I know it’s by right and not imposing?”

“Enough!” said Etullo. “Suhandro, we’re wasting time, and these are not the old days.”

His eyes shifted to Marta. “The village chief called you Marta Witwurt. Pan Witwurt, I give my word no retribution will come, no matter the outcome of your efforts.” He looked back at his retainer. “You understand, Suhandro?”

“Yes, Lord, but if I believe she is incompetent and your life is in danger, I will stop her and have the village healer take the leg.”

“Get on with it,” said Etullo to Marta.

“We can’t do anything yet,” she said. “The treatment will be difficult and must be done with great care. There’s not enough light yet. We’ll have wait until the sun is up enough, which should be in another three hours.”

No reason to tell him we’ll have to wait days or weeks to see if the leg can survive having so much blood flow stopped. I think the posterior tibial artery is still intact, so periodically releasing the tourniquet will allow partial blood flow to the tissue below the breaks. If that’s not enough to keep the leg viable, I’ll have to amputate. But she could worry about that later; she had to proceed assuming the leg was salvageable.

“While we’re waiting for more light, there are things that need preparing. In the meantime, I can’t give you morxtin extract for the pain. It’ll have to wait until I start to operate.

Etullo seemed to stifle a groan, then gathered himself. “I am Lord Etullo of the House of Ko. I will bear what I must.”

Whatever helps . She controlled her temptation to blow off his macho bullshit. He must be a tough bastard , she conceded. I’d be screaming in agony, yet he’s able to carry on rational discourse.

Opioids were unknown. Severe pain was treated with an extract of the venom from a bright orange-colored centipede-like creature that grew two feet in length. A bite was often fatal, but small amounts deadened nerves. However, it had to be used judiciously because the effect wore off in about an hour, and more had to be applied. Although the numbing effect was temporary, the life-threatening characteristics were cumulative. Too many applications could add up to the same effect as a direct morxtin bite.

She turned to Ramat. “Give him water whenever he wants it and keep someone wiping his face with cool water. We also need to send to Gawfur village for the man there who makes jewelry.

“Dan Suhandro, village chief Ramat will bring someone who needs to accompany one of your men to the village of Gawfur. It’s the one you passed when you first entered the valley. There’s a man there named Bikmun. He makes jewelry and does other metal work. We need to bring him here as fast as possible, and he’s to bring his tools and the smallest steel nails he has.”

Suhandro stood looking at her.

I bet he’s trying to decide if I’m of high enough caste to be ordering him around. A little sugar here is needed to get the big oaf moving.

“Please, Dak Suhandro. Lord Etullo’s condition and the best chance to save the leg depend on all of us doing everything we can as quickly as we can.”

She hoped that shifting from the common “Dan” to the more honorific “Dak” would soften his attitude. Whether or not her ploy worked, Suhandro shouted for one of the other men, and shortly thereafter the man galloped off with a village youth sitting behind him and holding on.

Sooner than Marta expected, the rider returned, this time with a middle-aged man seated behind him—the youth had presumably been left to find his way home in the dark. While they were gone, Marta had directed Ramat to prepare an operating position, and she used paper and quill to sketch what she needed made.

She had the jewelry maker lay out the small steel nails and tacks he used in his trade. Next, she selected a dozen of the best size available. Then she pulled him over to a set of candles and held the paper near the light. On the sheet, a crude drawing of a screw showed its spiraling groove. “You know what a screw is. What you’ll be doing is converting these steel nails into screws. You’ll need to cut into the shaft, as shown, so that when I turn it, the small screw twists into bone and holds firm.”

“Into bone! What—?” exclaimed the old man.

“Just do it, as quickly as you can,” she said. “When you’re finished with about a dozen of the ones I pick out, I’ll take those while you’re making more screws like the first ones. I’m sure Dak Suhandro will be pleased to see the speed of your work. I’ll give you two hours to finish the first ones.”

She hated making the implied threat, but there wasn’t time for more questions or excuses.

While she waited, she continued to direct the men setting up an operating table outside, and once again thanked the fates that infections were rare. Humans were not subject to invasion by local microorganisms, and however people had come to this place, they’d brought relatively few infection-causing microbes with them.

Just over two hours later, the craftsman hurried to her with the screws, shiny from fresh filing. She didn’t doubt that the sweat beading on the jeweler’s face resulted from Suhandro standing by his shoulder the entire time.

“Here they are, Pan Marta. I did the best I could in the time I had.” His words contained an unspoken prayer that she found the screws acceptable.

She examined what he held out on a white cloth. The screws were so crude, she would have been disbarred from using them in any hospital she’d worked at.

“They’ll do fine. Thank you for your quick work. I’m sure no one else could have done better. Continue making more in case I need them.”

There. That should absolve him if anything goes wrong .

For the next half hour, she set out her instruments and mentally rehearsed how she would proceed. When the sun was a hand’s width above the eastern hills, it was time.

“Dak Suhandro, please bring Lord Etullo to the table we’ve set up.”

Four of Etullo’s retainers carefully carried him to the table. Despite their caution, his wan face and gritted teeth confirmed what he felt every time the leg moved.

She put a hand on his chest and leaned over him. “Lord Etullo, I am ready to begin. I’m going to tell you what I’ll be doing.” The explanations were more for Suhandro’s benefit, so he didn’t react badly as he watched her work.

“The broken ends cut at least one of the blood vessels in your leg. I’ll have to sew the cut shut or reattach the ends, if I find the cut all the way through the vessel. If more than one has been cut, they’ll all have to be repaired. If I can’t succeed, then I’ll have to take the leg. Once the vessels are repaired, I’ll put the bone pieces back together as well as I can and hold them together with these.” She held up one of the newly made screws. “They’re made of steel, and there is a chance your body will not tolerate them. Unfortunately, we can’t predict how your body will react. For some people, there’s no reaction; for others, it will happen within days. In the worst case, they would have to be taken back out, and you might lose the leg. Hopefully, there’s no reaction or it comes on slowly; then the bones will have healed enough that the screws can be removed by another operation without your losing the leg.”

She motioned for the men to bring closer several stands supporting the largest mirrors in the village. Sunlight created shadows, and she’d be working over and inside the leg. She would direct onlookers to change mirror positions to reflect sunlight into the wounds as she worked.

She turned back to Etullo. “We’ll be strapping you down to prevent any accidental movement.”

Etullo was starting to fade in and out but asked an obvious question. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Yes. Several times.”

“Yeah,” she said, continuing to speak, though in English, “with a team of doctors and nurses helping, precision-made titanium screws, and a proper OR. What could go wrong here?”

Suhandro looked at her, puzzled. “What did you say?”

“Just some incantations to prepare myself,” she said.

She pulled Suhandro aside. “I spoke the truth about preventing him from moving. What I didn’t tell him was that I can’t be sure I’ll finish before the morxtin extract stops working on the pain, and we can’t give him any more. If that happens, even the straps might not be enough to keep him completely immobile. In that case, you and your men will have to help hold him completely still while I work.”

She went back to the table, as Rafo and two of Etullo’s men finished strapping him down.

“I’m going to start by injecting the morxtin extract, then I’ll immediately begin to work on the leg.”

Rafo held out one of Marta’s hypodermics—she’d had it made by the same jeweler and a glass blower. The needle was in the range of a sixteen gauge and more appropriate for use by a large animal vet than for injecting humans, but it was all the technology this place could produce. The ungraduated syringe pulled in the appropriate amount Rabo had pre-measured for the first injections.

Ready, she nodded to Rafo and the men and began. Etullo twitched as she pushed the needle into flesh above the break point at the shin and below the tourniquet. She slowly depressed the plunger to expel about one-fifth of the extract. Two more injections went into muscle below the tourniquet, and the last two directly adjacent to the protruding bone ends. Etullo began to relax by the third injection, as the toxin took hold.

She waited a few minutes, then checked whether Etullo felt anything as she gently, then with more pressure, moved the leg.

“Do you feel anything?”

He shook his head, eyes never leaving her face. He would be awake during the entire procedure and would hear everything said. A strap across his forehead prevented him from looking down at the leg. As tough as the man seemed, what would happen next could test anyone.

She began.

She saw no choice but to open the leg above and below the break, move aside the bone pieces between the two break points, and search for the anterior tibial artery. She loosened the tourniquet enough to allow the blood flow to lead her to the cut end of the artery. Three minutes after the first incision, she found the artery and re-tightened the tourniquet. The ends of the cut were ragged, but she could resection small pieces of each end and sew together the flush ends. She re-loosened the tourniquet and watched the resection. She observed minimal leakage and tightened the tourniquet to allow partial blood flow to keep the tissue alive while she worked on the breaks.

First came the fibula, the smaller of the two lower leg bones. She found clean breaks, but she had to work around pieces of the larger bone, the tibia. Rafo used cloth to absorb and wipe away blood. They had worked together before, and on her instructions, he irrigated away blood with warm saline using a foot-pedaled pump she’d had made the previous year.

“Urk!” uttered one of Etullo’s men, who stood by to help hold the patient still. Marta glanced at his greenish-cast face.

“Pussy,” she said in English. “I bet you’ll kill men in battle, but it’s different when you have your hands inside a human and his life depends on you.”

The man weakly grunted. Suhandro gave a more forceful noise. When she glanced his way, she wasn’t sure but suspected he understood her meaning, if not the words. Plus, for the first time, his look might have revealed respect.

Once she’d maneuvered the fibula pieces into place, she used the craftsman’s fine-work tools to drill a hole slanting through both ends of the first break. Then, with small pliers, she gripped the end of a screw and twisted it into place. The hole was slightly smaller than the screw diameter, and she had to strain gently to work the screw into the bone without separating the pieces. She was constrained to work around the tibia and access the fibula from only one side. What she was doing was radical enough without introducing a second incision behind the leg. Securing the second break went smoothly, and she stopped for a moment to inspect her work and check the artery resection. Both looked good.

From decades of experience, her internal clock told her they were at the one-hour mark.

“Water,” she directed, and a village woman standing aside rushed forward to tip a cup of water to her turned-aside head. She took several deep swallows, and the woman wiped Marta’s mouth with a cloth.

“Amazing,” said Rafo in awe, having forgotten his previous fear of the strangers. “Later, you’ll have to look at my notes from what I’ve seen. I wouldn’t dare try this myself.”

Hush, man! Marta thought . Don’t give listening ears any more to wonder about than they already have.

Training and a lifelong career took over, as her momentary concern about remaining hidden receded.

“Now to the larger bone, the tibia.”

Before she started, Etullo twitched. “I think I’m starting to feel pain,” he said in a strained voice.

“ Starting to feel or have been feeling it for some time?” she asked in her “I’m a surgeon and don’t fuck with me” voice.

“For a while,” he conceded. “But it’s been bearable.”

“God damn!” she exclaimed, then switched to words he could understand. “I don’t care who you are or how brave you think you are. I’m the doctor here, and you’ll do as I say. You’re to tell me as soon as you feel any pain, is that understood?”

Only later did she realize that instead of referring to herself as a “healer,” the only medical person typically available in rural areas, she’d used “doctor,” the highly-trained profession found in larger population areas.

Etullo looked at her for a few moments, expressionless, then his eyes shifted to Suhandro. “I think she is either a high caste or should be. What do you think?”

The retainer grimaced, then chuckled. “I have a feeling that in this situation, we are all best advised to assume she’s of a caste higher than any of us.”

Marta harrumphed. “More extract,” she ordered Rafo. He handed her the same syringe, refilled. Once again, she felt grateful for the minimal risk of infection, while imagining the horror of her surgeon colleagues if they saw her reusing the same syringe. After the next set of injections, she focused again on the large bone. The first part went smoothly. The broken ends were slanted enough that a single larger screw held the pieces firmly in place. The last break point proved the most difficult. It was nearly perpendicular to the length of the bone, leaving no overlap to screw the ends together. Instead, she used three smaller screws in diagonal holes forty-five degrees slanting from one bone end to the other. The first screw was behind the bone, and she had to use Rafo’s fingers to hold muscle tissue away so she could work.

Halfway through the final break, they injected more venom extract, the last they could use without risk of killing the patient. She worked as fast as she could.

At three hours, she took the irrigation device from Rafo, flushed out the tissue, did a final check of the screws and the artery resection, flushed out once more, and began closing. The last suture was in place at three and a half hours.

Rafo helped her with bandages of clean cloth. Despite infrequent infections, the chances weren’t zero, and moderate pressure suppressed bleeding.

It had not been a long operation—not compared to many she had performed. The difference was that it had all fallen to her, with no experienced supporting staff, no other surgeons to help or take over specific parts. When she finished, she stepped back and sagged until Suhandro caught her.

“Steady, Pak Witwurt. Do you need to sit?”

“No, I’ll be all right. Give me a moment.”

Only later did she realize Suhandro had used the more respectful honorific.

“Is it over?” murmured Etullo.

“Yes, Lord,” said Marta. “It went as well as is reasonable to expect, given the severity of the break. The extract will wear off soon, and you’ll feel considerable pain for several days.”

“And the leg. Will I keep it?”

“I can’t say, Lord Etullo. I repaired the artery, but it will take time before we’re sure it stays repaired. We’ll leave the leg as it is for now, and we need to keep you absolutely still the next several days. If it looks good three days from now, we’ll put on a strong splint to prevent movement that stresses the break points. I suggest you stay here for at least sixteen days before attempting to return to wherever your home is.”

Even after three years, she still was not accustomed to eight-day weeks. She thought she’d read that the ancient Romans used eight days, though she didn’t remember the details.

“If it still looks good after two weeks, then the main problem might be your body eventually trying to reject the screws. I can’t predict whether that will happen. If it does, it may become a problem two or three months from now. The surgeons at home would have to operate to remove the screws. If they are careful enough and keep the leg immobile, it should be fine.”

“And if there is a problem and the surgeons can’t remove the screws?”

“You could still lose the leg, but I doubt it will come to that.”

Etullo smiled. “It’s unusual to hear so blunt an opinion of what might happen. Suhandro also tells me you didn’t perform many incantations or rituals before, during, or after the operation. Only once did you tell him your chanting was required.”

“I had to tell him something to get him to shut up and quit bothering me.”

Etullo laughed. “He said he suspected as much. He also seems to have developed quite a respect for you. Trust me, that doesn’t happen often with Suhandro.”

Seventeen days later, two weeks and one day, Marta watched Etullo leave in a coach summoned from Duvelo, a city of two hundred thousand approximately four days away. The inside had been modified into a bed with several down mattresses, and the driver would drive the coach at half its normal speed—all designed to minimize jolts.

Etullo’s men carried him to the coach, and Suhandro gruffly handed village chief Ramat three gold coins. Ramat turned bug-eyed, and his hands trembled. Marta wondered whether even a village chief had ever handled a gold coin. Suhandro then turned to her and held out a small leather bag.

“Lord Etullo thanks you for your service, Pak Witwurt.”

When she unthinkingly reached out a hand under the bag, Suhandro released it. Only her quick reflexes as her other hand darted out stopped the bag from falling to the ground.

Holy moly! she thought. If he gave Ramat three gold coins, there must be a dozen or more in the bag!

Suhandro grinned.

You sneaky bastard. You did that on purpose.

Both Suhandro and Etullo laughed. The tension the villagers felt about the six men from outside the valley had eased during the last two weeks. People had resumed their routines, and Marta had avoided proximity to Etullo and Suhandro as much as possible, claiming duty in other villages and needing to be home for Sonya. However, Etullo persisted in prying into her past when she couldn’t avoid checking on him. She stuck to the same story she had concocted soon after arriving: a distant homeland, wanderlust to see the world, not knowing the way back. Only months after fabricating her origin did she realize the story was pathetic, and no one believed her. However, that realization came only after she’d told the story so many times, she was stuck with it.

As they left the village, Etullo looked out the coach window at the odd woman who had saved his leg. His escort commander, retainer, and friend sat next to him on a perch not occupied by the mattresses. “What do you think, Suhandro, of this woman doctor from a nothing village in a nothing valley?”

“Out of place, Lord. Almost like she’s hiding here. Why, I wouldn’t know, but if what we saw her do was not some one-event miracle, I would think she could be wealthy and prominent by moving to Duvelo or even the capital.”

“I’ve had similar thoughts. Enough so that I intend to see whether I can get an inquisitor to look into both Pak Marta Witwurt and these villages.”

I hope I didn’t make a terrible blunder , Marta thought, as the lord’s coach and escort riders started off. Her last glimpse of them was when they turned onto the road heading toward Duvelo. Despite her worry, the sight of a team of large donkeys pulling a coach and accompanied by armed donkey riders brought forth a smile.

Why donkeys and not horses? At first, I thought the damn braying would drive me crazy, but I guess you can get used to anything.

When Joseph Colsco awoke on the Watcher’s spacecraft, Harlie, the AI with whom he interacted, told him there was an “obligation” to mitigate the consequences of the collision between Joseph’s airliner and the spacecraft. Left unexplained was the reason for the obligation or its limitations. The latter became clearer when Joseph was cast naked onto a beach and left to the mercies of local inhabitants and chance. The outcome for him could have been much different.

GHOST

“You shouldn’t have killed it, Youngling.” Untork, the hunt’s leader, snarled and pounded the end of his spear on the ground. “I saw you jump with fright when the creature moved. A man doesn’t react out of fear. He is aware of everything around him and controls his feelings.”

“But . . . but it was a ghost!” protested Youngling.

The youth didn’t have a man’s name. He and every other male were called “Youngling” until the clan declared that they had left childhood and deserved a name.

“This is the first hunt we’ve allowed you to come on armed. If we can’t depend on you to control yourself, you’ll be a danger to yourself and all the men.”

Youngling hung his head, shamed before the eleven other men who had gathered to look at the body.

“Go stand away while the men decide what to do next. We may have to stop the hunt until we consult the shaman.”

Once the youngling moved away, a muffled laugh came from Untork’s side.

“It does look like a ghost,” said Mumertork, the youngling’s uncle.

Untork looked down. Mumertork was right. The body was man-shaped, but the pale, almost white skin unnerved him—so different from a real person’s brown skin, as if a dead person had come back to life drained of blood and soul. He had never seen a ghost himself, but the clan shaman had described them often enough and what could happen to a real person when a ghost was angry. As a result, Untork had never wished to see one for himself.

“You’re right. It does.”

“Sorry, Untork,” said Tolatork. “It was my responsibility today to keep an eye on him during his first hunt. I admit I was surprised myself when the ghost moved.”

“Yes, but you didn’t jump back then spear the creature, or whatever it was.”

“But it bled and is clearly dead now ,” said Mumertork, stroking his dark beard, “so can it really be a ghost? The shaman says they don’t bleed.”

“Who knows the ways of the underworld?” said Tolatork. “There could be different kinds of ghosts. Maybe this kind can bleed and die. We all know the shamans exchange incantations and potions when clans meet, so maybe this ghost is of a kind unknown to our clan.”

“It must be an underworld creature,” said the party’s oldest member, gray-haired and scarred, though still spry for his advanced age of more than forty winters. “It appeared as if by magic in front of the cave we spent the night in. It wasn’t there at sundown, and no one guarding the entrance saw it arrive. The ghost must have come there by underworld powers we don’t understand.”

“Well, we can let the shaman worry about such things,” said Untork. “The hunt is what concerns us now. The sarkotik herd will begin grazing in the next valley within the hour. We need to decide whether to continue the hunt if we think the ghost is a bad omen.”

Although Untork was the hunt’s leader, by custom, all the men had a say in major hunt decisions.

“The clan hasn’t stored enough dried meat for the winter,” said Mumertork, “and we may not see a herd this size again before snow begins to fall.”

Herds of the brown, heavy-bodied grazer passed through the clan’s territory twice a year, heading north after the snow melted and south before new snows. The clan had fared well when three different herds passed in the spring, but the meat gathered at those times had been consumed long ago. This was the only herd to enter the clan’s territory this fall. Years were hard when no herds came before the snows, and clans had vanished in such years.

Thus, this hunt was critical and dangerous, as always. Untork’s father had died from being gored by the horn of a vicious sarkotik bull. It turned on his hunting party when they tried to drive part of the herd over a cliff. Though large and too fearsome to face alone, a herd could be startled by screams and men jumping and waving their arms.

“I think we need to take the risk and continue,” said Tolatork. “This may be the clan’s last chance for such a hunt. From the number of hoof tracks, this herd is big enough to feed us through the winter. They will be in the best place soon, but that won’t last as they move on.”

The clan had used the same site for generations. A fifty-foot-deep ravine ran down the side of a flat valley floor. If the men could get into position, they could drive part of the herd over the edge into the ravine. Harvesting the meat from dead and wounded animals could then proceed after the rest of the clan came to set up a temporary camp. They would let the meat dry before they returned to their wintering settlement. The previous spring, the clan had spent two extra days clearing the ravine floor of bones several feet deep, left from years of successful hunts.

“I agree,” said Mumertork. “Continue.”

No man disagreed, although several worried about the ghost.

“It’s decided,” said Untork. “We’ll continue the hunt, and we’ll leave the ghost, or whatever the creature is, without touching it. We’ll also tell the rest of the clan to avoid this cave until the shaman tells us there are no evil spirits here.”

As the party left for the herd, Untork took a last look at the ghost.

The shaman says ghosts have large blood-red eyes and beards. This one just looks like a man with white skin and no beard. I’ve heard of a clan to the south that shaves their beards at burials, but that clan has skin like we do. The eyes of this ghost are a strange green-brown, not red, though that may be because the creature is dead.

I’m sorry the youngling speared whatever this is. We might have learned more about it. I suppose it could even have been a real person—just one different from us.

He shrugged his fur cloak higher onto his shoulders, turned, and followed the last man in the single file leading away. The dark orange sun hung above the hills to the west. When fully risen, it would cover a quarter of the sky. He often stared at it for many minutes. For some reason, he had always been fascinated by the swirls that moved across the sun’s face. The shaman claimed he could read portents in the red and black patterns, though Untork occasionally wondered whether the shaman only pretended. Once, when he was young, he had gotten so entranced by watching the patterns move across the sun that his father had punished him for wasting most of a day with his eyes skyward.

He glanced once more back at the cave and the body lying at the entrance. No, they would avoid this cave until the shaman told them it was safe. For now, they needed to hurry before the herd moved on.

AN UNFORESEEN DANGER

Mark Caldwell pushed open the swinging doors of the Wasted Zernik pub. Sounds of patrons talking and a small group of musicians at the opposite end of the large room washed over him. It wasn’t the dregs of Landylbury’s pub options but was distant enough from the commercial section of the city that he believed it minimized his being recognized by guild members. Not that there had been any sign that he was still being sought since fleeing Brawsea, the Frangel capital, after things went south. Nevertheless, why take risks he didn’t have to?

He looked around for a empty table, though the large crowd argued against success. It wasn’t that he was naturally unsocial, but he strove to leave as small a memory footprint as possible in the larger cities. Tonight, the attempt failed.

“Kaldwel, just saw you come in,” called a gruff voice behind him and above the general buzz of patrons. A hand rested on his shoulder. “Come join me and my cousins. We’re a stein ahead of you.”

The Ostyns were a family of ranchers and hunters thirty miles from the larger ranch where Mark worked. They were amiable sorts, but he would have been more pleased to spend a pub evening with them in Nurburt, the town in the middle of ranch territory, rather than in Landylbury, where he strove for anonymity. Sighing, he followed the burly Vernyn Ostyn to a table and ordered a stein of ale.

“Vernyn told us you came to Landylbury to sell hides, instead of Brawsea or Caledon,” said the older cousin whose name Mark forgot. “He figured it must be because of better prices, and it was! Almost half again as much as we usually get in the capital. The drinks are on us tonight!”

Mark knew the Ostyns sold destrex hides whenever the family needed coin—usually one or two hides at a time. He had no intention of telling them how many he had sold that day.

The negotiation over the price for the five destrex hides had been as long and annoying as usual. Still, he knew he had gotten a fair price. He’d been selling to this particular boot-maker for two years, following less-than-satisfactory experiences with other trade shops. The hides were highly prized for footwear by men in the upper levels of Frangel society, and the cost of destrex boots was well beyond the budget of common citizens. Those hides that weren’t used within Frangel went to lucrative export markets.

The Ostyns hunted in teams of three or four men, the usual number to be reasonably safe in bringing down one of the armored terrors. This family, along with other hunters, believed that either Mark had a secret or was insane, the only two conceivable motives for anyone hunting destrex alone.

That there were any destrex left alive was due to the distressingly high mortality rate of hunters attempting to collect the hides. Both species of destrex preferred the brush and short tree country of the Drilmar continent, in terrain ending at the approximate tree line. Also living in that location were the destrex’s main prey, several species Mark thought looked like camels trying to imitate horses, rhino, hippos, and tapirs. Vegetation that grew no more than six feet high provided ideal cover for a destrex ambush as it burst from cover and galloped to catch unsuspecting prey before the animal saw it and got up to speed.

Mark’s first reaction on seeing a destrex was amusement because it looked like an alligator or a crocodile with long legs. His humorous mood vanished when he witnessed one run down a horse-like mammal and tear off hunks of flesh while the victim screamed.

The creatures were annoyingly clever enough to avoid any snare, pit, or other trap sufficient to hold them. They had an even more disturbing habit of turning on hunters whose musket balls had failed to sufficiently penetrate their armor-like hide.

Mark studiously hid from other hunters the rifled muskets he’d had made in Landylbury, the third-largest city of Frangel. It was far enough from hunting terrain that he could usually avoid attracting attention from other hunters. The seventy calibre weapons were almost twice the weight of an average hunter’s musket, had three times the effective range, and fired minie balls hand-made by Mark. It took a man of his size, six-foot-three and two hundred forty pounds, by Earth measures, to handle the weight and recoil. The steel-covered lead shot with lead skirting was designed for penetration and aerodynamics. His wife had watched, puzzled, two years ago in their home as he covered pages with scribblings she didn’t recognize. He didn’t try to explain why he was amused at using his mechanical engineering degree to kill a nightmare creature.

He had left the rifles at home, there being no reason to take them to Landylbury. He’d had two of them made for safety and to ensure his success—if the first shot didn’t bring down the destrex, he might not have time to reload. Most of the money he’d made from hunting during the last two years had gone into saving to buy their own land, where Mark and his wife, Maghen, planned to raise cattle, horses, and children.

His stein arrived just as he thought the younger Ostyn cousin was about to probe how many hides Mark had sold. When the woman server asked whether the others wanted another stein, Mark hurriedly switched topics the instant she left.

“Did you hear there’s been a zernik outbreak near White Mountain? A bad one, from what I hear. A pack of twenty or thirty hit a settlement.” The town of ten thousand was in south Frangel, not far from the tree line, and existed only because of mining and trapping.

“No,” said Vernyn. “White Mountain, you say? I imagine the people there are sweeping the countryside. Can’t let the damn things get a foothold and start breeding. How did they get all the way from Tekleum?”

“No one seems to know how and where they got over the Urstyl Mountains and then traveled unnoticed across southern Frangel nearly to White Mountain.” The narrow chain of mountains that bisected Drilmar north to south was a formidable barrier, yet a steady trickle of zerniks got through from their normal range in western Drilmar.

“Why don’t the Tekleumese and Rumspasians exterminate the damn things?” asked Vernyn.

As Mark had intended, the conversation moved away from his hunting success. He only half-listened to the three Ostyns during the next hour, contributing enough to seem involved, while his mind drifted to getting home. Suddenly, something caught his attention. It was as if someone had said something that didn’t quite reach his consciousness, but he knew it was there. He looked around the full pub, his eyes and ears searching for what he might have missed. Nothing.

“Excuse me, men, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone I need to see. I’ll be back if I can’t find him.”

He picked up his stein and meandered among the tables, jostling men and a few women. He heard men complaining about bosses, jobs, wives, and the latest news from elsewhere on Anyar.

As he finished his second circuit of the room and was about to reclaim his seat with the Ostyns, he caught his breath and felt a surge of adrenaline. A knot of eight or nine men stood talking. Most were dressed as local workmen, but two of the men were out of place, with clothing more common in higher-class pubs closer to the city center.

“No, can’t say as I’ve ever heard of a land called ‘Amerika,’” said a man in work clothes. He turned to the men on his left. “Any of you heard of the place?”

Head shakes and words confirmed their ignorance.

“How about you?” said a voice to Mark’s right. He didn’t respond. A hand gripped his shoulder. “You. I asked if the word ‘Amerika’ means anything to you?”

Mark shook himself out of his momentary stupor and looked at the more hard-bitten of the two out-of-place men. The man’s eyes focused on Mark, and all the other men stopped to look their way.

“I . . . ,” he stuttered. “I may have heard the word somewhere, but I’m not sure where.”

What cried out in his mind was the urge to grab the man asking about America and shake out of him how he knew about a place on Earth. Calm yourself , he thought. Maybe it’s just some similar pronunciation.

The first man pulled the arm off Mark’s shoulder, shaking his head at the bigger man. “Pardon my friend here, but we’ve been looking for information about Amerika, and Lurkyn simply got excited that someone else has heard of the place. But what about you? How is it you’ve heard of Amerika?”

Mark warred with himself. After years of hiding who he was and where he had come from, to be hit unexpectedly with a connection to home was almost overwhelming. He needed time to think.

“I’d have to try to remember where I heard about it,” he said. “My mind’s a little addled from the ale. Maybe I can remember more tomorrow morning. We could meet after I’ve had a chance to think on it.”

“Where are you staying?” asked the smaller of the two men. “We could meet you there.”

“Uh . . . I forget the name. It’s an overnight inn east of here. Why don’t we meet back here at seven bells tomorrow? They have bread and cheese, and I’ll eat after we talk, then leave for home.” As much as Mark wanted to hear what the men knew, something about them bothered him. He was still skittish after his experience with the guilds.

“In fact, I think I’ve had enough ale for this evening, so I’ll head over to where I’m staying. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

As he made his way through the throng to the main door, he glanced back to see the two men in animated conversation. The big man was obviously unhappy, as the other man seemingly tried to placate him. Outside, Mark hurried to the nearest corner, turned it, and quickly circled the block. If anyone was following, he hoped he’d led them in the wrong direction. By the time he was halfway to the inn, he was chastising himself for being paranoid. He didn’t know whether the word of interest to the two men was his America, but he would be bitter if it was and he’d lost an opportunity by worrying too much. However, to be safe, he stopped twice and waited in shadows to watch for the two men from the pub. Finally, he was satisfied he hadn’t been followed and had all but convinced himself he had only heard what his imagination wanted to hear.

He nodded to the night man at the inn’s front counter and the second man sitting to one side. Both were visibly armed, and there was only the one entrance to the building—not a safe situation if there was a fire, but something Mark risked for a one- or two-night stay in Landylbury. He figured it was a reasonable trade to secure the two bags of silver coins in his room.

He climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor hallway, used a key to unlock the sturdy door to his room, undressed, and lay down. After pulling the thin cover over himself, he fell asleep quickly. A knife sheath lay under the folded blanket he used as a pillow.

He had always been quick to both fall asleep and wake at strange noises. He didn’t know what he’d heard, but he awoke to shadows moving toward the bed in the small room.

“What—?” exclaimed a voice, after its owner pulled back the bed’s blanket to reveal wadded clothing.

Mark couldn’t justify why he’d needed to sleep on the floor that night. Using extra blankets, he’d made a bed in a corner, partly shielded if the door to the hallway opened.

“Get some light,” ordered another voice. Someone opened the door wider to let in faint illumination from a candle in the hallway. The instant Mark made out three men, two carrying clubs and the third a coil of rope, he leaped to his feet. Hunter’s knife in his right hand, he threw a blanket at one of the men holding a club.

“Damn!”

“Get him!”

The second man with a club swung at Mark’s head and missed.

“Don’t kill him, you idiot! They’ll only pay if he’s alive!”

The words caused hesitation long enough for Mark to move inside another swing of the club. A straight arm to the throat staggered the man, and Mark slashed at the arm holding the club. He recognized the larger of the two men at the pub.

He didn’t want to kill anyone, and his qualms almost cost him. As the injured man fell back into the hallway, a blow from the second assailant holding a club glanced off Mark’s head and hit between his neck and shoulder. Only thick muscle prevented a broken shoulder or collarbone, but he went to his knees, his left arm numb.

“Hit him again! The other arm! They don’t need to work.”

Mark saw the club rise for another blow, and he stabbed the wielder inside his thigh, aiming for the main artery.

“Agh!” cried the man, stepping back into the doorway light, still on his feet. Mark’s left arm was useless, but the rest of his body was intact, and the adrenaline rush made him feel powerful. He leaped to his feet and stabbed into the abdomen. Still the attacker didn’t go down. It took a second stab to the belly and one to the exposed throat before the man fell.

Mark whirled on the leader, who had turned to flee. He slammed into the man with his shoulder, still grasping the knife with that arm. The man crashed into a wall and collapsed. Mark jumped to one side. He turned, anticipating an attack from the man he’d first wounded, only to see a back disappear out the door. Mark pressed his senseless arm to his side.

He sagged onto the bed, gasping and pulling in as much air as his lungs could manage. He stayed seated for several minutes until his breath and heart rate returned to near normal. The smaller man hadn’t stirred, still slumped against the wall. Mark’s arm hurt more now than initially, but he could move his fingers.

I’ll have a hell of a bruise tomorrow, and I expect it’ll be stiff for a few days, but I don’t think anything is broken . Now, what the hell was that all about? The guilds? But what would be the connection with a word sounding like “America”?

Re-sheathing the knife and lighting the whale oil lantern took some effort. The light confirmed one man was dead, and the unconscious man was the smaller of the two from the pub. Mark pulled him into a sitting position on the floor, his back to the wall. A cup of water thrown in the face yielded sputtering and groans before the leader opened his eyes.

Mark pulled his knife again and held it in front frightened eyes.

“You’re going to tell me what your interest is in me,” said Mark in a tone conveying certainty. “Who are you?”

The man shook his head. Whether it was to clear his head or refuse to answer, Mark didn’t know and didn’t care. He slammed the hilt of his knife into the man’s nose. The crack of broken cartilage was following by a bloody stream.

“Let’s try this again. What’s your name?”

“Ar . . . arg . . . arg . . . ,” burbled out of a blood-filled mouth.

Mark cut a piece out of the man’s shirt and held it to the broken nose, tilting the head back for about a minute, then pulled the head back to face forward and let the man hold the cloth on the nose.

“Once more. What’s your name?”

“K . . . Kros . . . Kroswyn,” the man said, his voice barely audible through the cloth.

“Who are you? Why did you attack me?”

“C . . . Coin. Not kill you. Paying for you alive.”

“Paying? Is it the guilds?”

“Guilds?” replied Kroswyn, whose eyes and brow showed surprise. “Why would the guilds want you? It was some Narthani at the port.”

Mark sat back on his heels. Narthani? Why would the Narthani care anything about him? He knew of them and how at one time people feared the Narthon Empire might someday cast eyes on Drilmar. However, the conflicts between Narthon and neighboring peoples on Melosia, the largest continent, had been stalemated for a long time. The Narthon threat seemed to have abated in Frangelese minds in recent years.

He leaned to within a foot of Kroswyn and held his knife point inches away from the man’s eye.

“Why would the Narthani be interested in me?”

“All I know is that they’re offering bags of coin for information on anyone knowing about a nation called Amerika with people called Amerikans or a man named Yozef Kolsko. They’ve been spreading the word on ports in Frangel and, from what I hear, in other nations, too. We’re not to kill you or injure you severely,” Kroswyn added hurriedly, “just deliver you to them.”

Mark sat back on his haunches again, stunned. America! Americans! He had assumed he would spend the rest of his life with no one knowing where he had come from, with no one to reminisce about home. The first year had been hard. Then, once he’d accepted his fate as much as possible, he had worked to create a life here in Frangel. That hadn’t gone too well, but once he removed himself to central Frangel, away from major cities, he had become content with his life. Not happy, he admitted to himself in moments when he allowed reflection, but content. He loved his wife and child, and his livelihood provided well for them and seemed to bode well for the future. Yet he never had any doubt that this was not a life he would have chosen for himself.

Now . . . there were others? Even if they were also castaways, at least he could talk to them about things he otherwise dared not speak of.

“What is it about this Amerika and the Kolsko man that interests the Narthani? I don’t think I’ve ever met a Narthani, so why are they so interested in me and this Amerika?”

“They’ve never told any details to me or anyone else I’ve talked to. The only other thing I know is I overheard two Narthani say something about a place called Caedellium. I had to ask around to find out where it was. It’s some shitty little island northwest of Landolin. That’s all I know.”

“Landolin? Christ! That’s on the other side of the world.”

He had spoken in English, and Kroswyn looked blank at the unknown language. Mark knew where Landolin was but had never heard of an island named Caedellium. At the end of his first year on the planet, he had visited a library in Brawsea, the Frangel capital and the nation’s largest city. The world maps he’d studied allowed him to assign names to the major landmasses he had previously seen from orbit. He now mentally juggled distances.

If this Caedellium is west of Landolin, that puts this island about twelve to thirteen thousand miles from here in a straight line. More with travel. Shit! Why couldn’t it have been near Drilmar or at least Fuomon or one of the Harrasedic states? Isn’t anything on this damn planet going to be easy?

“Why are they interested in this, what did you call it . . . Cudelum?”

“Caedellium. Who knows why the damned Narthani are involved with them? It’s not near Narthon. That’s all I know, I swear.”

Mark’s thoughts roiled over what he’d just heard. He needed to know more about Caedellium. Why were the Narthani so interested in the island? What was their intent for him? Did any of this relate to the guild’s search for him? He sensed that Kroswyn was a dead end. The man was obviously, and justifiably, afraid of what Mark might do to him. From what he knew about the Narthani—and their willingness to pay handsomely for delivery of his person—he realized that he needed to leave Landylbury. Yet he ached to learn more about this Caedellium and the man named Yozef Kolsko.

At a loss for how to satisfy the conflicting paths forward, he opted for security. He needed to get out of the city and back home. There, he would have time to plan what to do next. Time might be short. The man he’d cut had fled. Mark didn’t think the wound serious, so the man might be summoning help, while Mark sat thinking. Worse, the assailant might go get the Narthani, who were not known for subtleties. They could show up with twenty men, and Mark would be at their mercy, facing a future that might not include freedom or ever seeing his family again.

“Don’t move, or I’ll gut you,” said Mark, once more showing the knife blade.

Kroswyn nodded. Mark cut strips of fabric from the clothing of the dead man, then used them to tie Kroswyn’s legs and arms and gag him.

“I’ll let you live, but if I ever see you again, I won’t be so kind. Do you understand?”

Kroswyn nodded, his relief obvious.

Mark quickly packed his gear. He stood in the doorway for several seconds, looking at the body and the trussed man. He mentally checked whether he’d left anything that might trace him home and wondered if it might be best to kill Kroswyn as a loose end. As he started down the hall, the two guards from the front desk thundered up the staircase, pistols in their hands. They stopped when they recognized him and lowered their weapons.

“What’s happened?” yelled one of the men.

“I was attacked in my room by three men,” said Mark.

“Must be the three that just checked in for a room,” said the man from the front counter. “Something didn’t seem right. They didn’t have bags. One of them ran out dripping blood. Where are the other two?”

“One’s dead, and the other’s tied up in my room. I’m getting out. Is that going to be a problem?” asked Mark, not sure of the protocol for leaving dead bodies.

The two men looked at each other before the counter man sighed. “Damn. This doesn’t do our reputation any good. We’ll clean up the mess, if you agree not to tell anyone what happened.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m leaving Landylbury now and don’t know if I’ll ever be back.”

Mark walked past the two men, then stopped and turned.

“I left one of them tied up. I told him I’d let him live if he talked to me. He did, so I’d appreciate it if you keep my word.”

He didn’t wait for an answer and hurried down the hall, then out the front door to make his way to the stable where his horses and wagon awaited.

“Yes, yes! Stop banging on my door. You’ll wake my wife, and she’ll bitch at me for the next sixday!”

Mark stopped pounding the door and waited for the stable owner to unlock and open it.

The owner recognized him. “What couldn’t wait until tomor—”

“Sorry, but something urgent came up, and I need to leave Landylbury.”

The grizzled man sighed. “All right. Give me a minute to dress, and I’ll be out to help hitch the horses to your wagon.”

“That’s something I need to talk with you about. I don’t really need the wagon anymore, but I do need three riding horses. Good ones. I’ll trade you my wagon and its horse team.”

The owner’s eyes narrowed. No one came to his home in the middle of the night wanting to swap a solid wagon and two strong draft horses for riding horses unless there was a reason that could play to his benefit.

“I’ll have to check the wagon and horses again, but you’ll need a saddle and other gear. You’d have to add six hundred soldors.”

The dickering on price commenced and continued after the owner threw on a coat and they walked to the stable. Mark didn’t have time for the endless arguing over prices that seemed ingrained in the Frangelese and gave the man silver coins worth five hundred soldors, the monetary unit of Frangel. The tack was used but in good shape. The horses were adequate—they only needed to survive to get him home.

An hour later, Mark knocked on another door, the sun still an hour from first light. Minyn Lustor wasn’t as annoyed as the stable owner had been, but he was surprised.

“Kaldwel? Haven’t seen you for months, and why come calling this early?”

“Sorry, Lustor, I need to make some purchases, and it can’t wait for your normal hours. Can you open your shop? It’ll be worth your while.”

“Well . . . sure. Meet me at the front door.”

Mark walked from the rear of the building, where Lustor lived in an adjoining house, and waited at the street door of the firearms shop. Heavy bars over windows and a similarly barred door were set into timbered walls. No one broke into the shop easily, and Lustor had once recounted that the few who did try had met unpleasant fates from the heavily armed owner and his sons, none of whom had compunction against shooting intruders.

Mark had done business with the owner before. Lustor had taken Mark’s plans for the seventy calibre hunting rifles and manufactured the firearms in the forge shop next door. Once Lustor saw the plans and Mark’s descriptions, he offered to make two rifles at no charge, as long as he was free to produce and sell more of them. Their inevitable bargaining had settled on Lustor being free to sell more rifles in three years—one year of which was left in their agreement. Mark had figured that by then, he’d have saved enough to start his own ranch and quit hunting destrex, which would be a relief to both him and his wife—rifles and skill only went so far. Lone destrex hunters didn’t have long careers.

With a clang of metal, the door swung open. Luster turned to light lanterns. One of his sons stood aside, holding a double-barreled musket shotgun. He and Mark nodded to each other. Then, satisfied that his father’s customer was who he claimed to be, the son disappeared into the dark workroom behind the now illuminated displays.

“I won’t ask why the urgency,” said Lustor. “I expect it’s trouble and not something I want to know about.”

Mark ignored the statement. “I need a number of firearms—to start with, two of those double-barreled shotguns like your son brandished, plus shot packets and powder. Also, four pistols that would stop a man but that a woman could handle. They should use the same caliber shot. And that double-barreled pistol you showed me last time I was here and tried to sell me. I didn’t need it then, but I do now. Is it still for sale, and do you have more than one?”

Lustor call out to his son, presumably still in back, to bring out the shotguns. He then pointed to a display case of pistols. “Pick out your single-shot pistols. The others are locked away. They’re still hard to make, so they’re expensive. I have two ready to sell.”

“Can we work out an agreement? The shotguns and pistols for the remaining year of our agreement on the rifles you made for me?”

Thirty minutes later, the shotguns, the pistols, shot, and powder were wrapped in waterproof leather and tied on the two horses he wasn’t riding. The weight was compensated for when Lustor swapped silver coins for gold. Mark usually took payment for hides in bulkier silver, which was less conspicuous to spend than gold. Now, Mark’s fear of drawing attention with gold coin was less important than ease of transport and concealment.

He rode at a steady but unhurried pace until mid-day. He estimated he’d covered thirty miles from Landylbury to the top of the escarpment, where he sat watching the road behind him. The horses were tied next to a spring. He’d fed them a portion of grain from the sacks the stable owner had provided. The pause and the grain were in case of pursuit. He still wondered whether he shouldn’t have killed the leader of the three men who tried to capture him.

An hour passed. Two hours. Traffic on the road slackened the farther he got from the city, but at thirty miles there were occasional wagons and riders: farmers bringing goods to sell or returning home, single or multiple riders traveling for whatever reason, freight wagons loaded or empty, heading in both directions.

“Well, we’d better get going,” he said to the air and the horses thirty feet away. “Nothing so far. We’ll stop again tomorrow when we get to the top of the Balgorn pass to check for anyone following.”

He’d always had the habit of talking to horses, first on his family’s ranch and then in Frangel. At home, it was a point of laughter within the family. Here, it was just the oddity of a man speaking to empty space in a foreign language.

He saddled a different horse this time and tied the packs on the other two, after giving each horse another double handful of grain. Before mounting, he took one last look north toward the city . . . and stopped. A cluster of horses had just come into view about three miles distant. It took five minutes before he got a count of ten riders and three pack animals. At fifteen minutes, he believed a large rider had one arm in a sling and a smaller rider had something covering the middle of his face, as if they’d suffered a wounded arm and a nose injury. He didn’t believe in coincidence. It had to be the two men from the night before, and now with eight comrades.

I should have killed them , he thought. Definitely the one I let go. He talked like the leader.

There was no way they’d tracked him, not on the roads and through multiple forks. They had to have found out his name and where he lived from someone at the pub. Maybe the Ostyns. Maybe another patron he’d spoken with on past visits. It didn’t matter from whom. They were coming for him—meaning whatever price the Narthani were willing to pay was significant.

If he’d had one of his “doomsters,” the name he’d given the destrex rifles, he’d be tempted to discourage them. With its longer range and striking power greater than anything they’d carry, he could pick them off out of their range. A couple of men with fist-sized holes all the way through their bodies might stop them, but maybe not. Enough gold could overcome any hesitation, and even if these turned back, there could always be more later.

He briefly considered ambushing the party, perhaps with help from the ranch owner and friends, but that would put them in danger during the ambush and from later Narthani agents. Even with the doomsters, the help of other men, and picking a spot to trap his pursuers, he couldn’t be sure of getting them all after endangering people he cared about. He couldn’t turn such men back forever, and there was no safe haven at home. If the Narthani wanted him badly enough, they might send hundreds after him.

He felt angry and bitter. After all that had happened in the first years, he thought he’d settled into what the rest of his life would be. And now this. He would have to move again. No, not just move, but run. Run away from Narthani agents. Where to? It couldn’t be in Frangel. He’d already moved south, away from the major cities. He needed to go where he might not be known, maybe far into the south where few people lived—for good reason. No, he would have to leave Frangel entirely. For the first time since hearing the word Amerika , he acknowledged the nagging thought he’d tried to suppress. He had to get to “Caedellium” and find out what was there.

Time for the leisurely pace was over. He transferred all the packs to his own horse and one of the others. The third horse would travel light and be the least tired when he needed it. If the opportunity occurred, he would look to buy fresh horses on the way. He had to get home as fast as possible. The riders were an hour behind him because climbing the road up the escarpment was slow going and added distance by its winding switchbacks. He would push the horses and rest as little as possible. If he was lucky, he would cover the 340 miles back home a full day ahead of the ten men—perhaps two days, if all went well.

Maghen Kaldwel had spent the morning with friends—the owner’s wife and four workers’ wives—preserving what Mark insisted on calling figs , instead of the nurster fruit’s correct name. She could never get a satisfactory answer for why he had to use a different name. It was just one more unexplained trait she had come to accept, a minor annoyance in exchange for such a fine husband.

As she walked from the ranch owner’s house to her family’s cottage, she shifted two-year-old Alys to her other arm. She noticed that she’d missed cleaning off a spot of nurster juice from her elbow. The preserves would be shared by all the ranch’s families.

“Mama. ’Orses,” called her daughter, who hadn’t mastered all sounds yet. Maghen looked behind to check what Alys saw. She raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. It was a rider pulling a single packhorse. A rider whose shape looked familiar.

“Damnation, Mark. It’s not fair for any of us,” argued the ranch owner after Mark apprised him of the Narthani. “I’d hoped to eventually take you on as a partner with the ranch. Plus, we’ll all miss you and Maghen. But you’re right. If they want you that bad, for whatever reason, even if we drove them off now, they’d come back with more men or when we weren’t looking for them. We’re too remote and the local authority too weak to help us. It’ll gall me the rest of my life I couldn’t stop all this from happening.”

“I do have a favor,” said Mark. “We’ll have to leave on horses for speed and so we’ll have the option of going where wagons can’t. I left my own wagon in Landylbury, and the horses I arrived with are done in. We’ll need six horses.”

“Pick any you want. You know them all. It’s the least I can do. And when those assholes get here and we tell them we don’t know where you went, there’ll be enough of us here to discourage them from doing anything. It’ll force them to go looking for your trail and give you time to lose them.”

“I hope you’re right, but my gut feeling is that they’ll be persistent. I don’t know how much the Narthani are paying, but it must be impressive. As for not telling anyone where we went, I’ll think of something for you to say. I don’t want them to assume you know where we’re at and aren’t cooperating.”

Twelve hours after Mark arrived home, he and his family rode away from the ranch. He reined in his horse at the top of a rise. He turned to look past his wife, riding with Alys, and four pack horses roped, two each, to his and her mounts. The ranch and their cottage would likely vanish forever when they started down the opposite slope.

“I said it before, but I’m so sorry, Maghen. Neither you nor Alys deserves to lose your home and the future we thought we had.”

Her eyes were moist, as she looked back one last time. “From what you described, Mark, it’s nothing you could have prevented. I, too, thought we were safe here from the guilds, but for whatever reason, the Narthani are after you, and we have to leave. And don’t say anything again about you going without us. You’re my husband, and we’re a family. Even if we don’t know whether we’ll be safe from the Narthani, our places are still together.”

He had argued with himself and then discussed with her the option of him leaving alone. In no scenario could he conceive of her being safer without him. If the Narthani found him gone, they might take his family as hostages, and chances that they’d see one another again would become vanishingly small. If rumors were true, the Narthani might ship them to Narthon and a fate that could not be contemplated.

After the initial shock of hearing her husband describe the events in Landylbury, Maghen had begun sorting through their possessions. They’d gotten four hours’ sleep, then loaded six horses and said goodbye.

“We’ll stop at Maghen’s family’s farm on the way,” Mark had told the ranch owner. “It’ll be a quick stop to see her family and let them know we’re leaving. Maghen will tell them why and that we can’t say if we’ll ever see them again. Then we’ll continue on east to Nurburt and beyond. If the Narthani or their agents or whoever they are show up here, you can tell them the direction we’re headed. You don’t need to know more than that, but we’ll be watching to see if they follow us. If not, and if I’ve been an alarmist for no reason, then maybe we’ll come back here in a few sixdays or a month. Otherwise, we’ll try to disappear.”

Mark intended to leave numerous witnesses to his family’s passing through Nurburt and heading east toward the Madyrna border. Once clear of Nurburt, they would circle the town and stop in a place with a view of the road that pursuers would have to use to follow them. Then they’d wait. He held out a small hope that they would see no one, but if the two men from Landylbury and the eight others were on their trail, then the family would reverse course and push hard west, sticking to open country and bypassing the ranch twenty miles south. From that point, they would steer west toward to the sea, then north, looking for passage to Novaryn, the smallest and most mercantile of the Drilmar dominions. If Mark hadn’t been worried the guilds would follow him there, he would have attempted to move to the Novaryn capitol, Baeraton. He didn’t have a specific plan once they were in Novaryn. The language was different from Frangelese, although he’d heard they were similar enough to make oneself understood with effort.

They needed to lose the men—whatever combination of Frangelese and Narthani they were. If they picked up his family’s trail, he’d first whittle them down with the doomsters. If that failed, and the numbers got low enough, he had other options. Maghen was a good shot, and with their collection of firearms, he would look for an ambush site to trap the remaining men.

As for what happened next, they might still be in danger if word had spread and agents of the Narthani waited for them elsewhere. They had all the coin they’d saved for land of their own and from the last five destrex hides. It was enough for food and lodging for many months, along with a sea passage, if he decided where to go next. Wherever they went, they needed to keep moving to reach someplace safe before the coin ran out. Whatever happened and however long it took, he would protect his family and a find way, somehow, to get to Caedellium.

In all great wars, pivotal battles are regaled or lamented in books, poems, and music. In the same wars are battles that played critical roles in victory or defeat but that are overlooked by circumstances. In the final confrontation with the Narthani, the fate of the clans of Caedellium hung precariously on a single day at Orosz City. However, another battle took place over many days and a hundred miles of skirmishes, ambushes, and assaults. Although the battle was given no name, it deserves recognition for its role in victory.

AN UNSUNG BATTLEFIELD

Orosz City, Island of Caedellium, Planet Anyar

Seven men stood on the elevated walkway separating the two large maps in the “Pit,” the hub of the clans’ operations headquarters in Orosz City. The large, flat map they faced depicted provinces, cities, towns, rivers, and other prominent features. Behind them was the relief map of Caedellium showing elevation and terrain. Women taking updated position and status reports of both Narthani and clan forces moved figurines on the flat map. As the men watched, a middle-aged woman used what reminded Yozef Kolsko of a croupier’s stick to edge the figurine representing Narthani marshal Gullar’s army farther into Eywell Province.

“Remember, we will undertake no major engagements as they attempt to resupply the main force—not until they commit to moving deep into Caedellium,” said Yozef. “Right now, we can assume the Narthani have chosen the strategy of marching into the middle of the island to seek battles. That’s where we want them—where their navy is out of contact, and we can take advantage of our greater mobility. We don’t want to give the Narthani any reason to pull back to Preddi Province and then destroy coastal clans piecemeal with combined army/navy operations.

“Though we have to occasionally attack their supply trains lest they’ll get suspicious, these have to be limited to platoon- and occasional company-size attacks. Any major action that occurs will be under Brigadier Stent, as he entices the Narthani to pursue him, hopefully to one of the battlefield sites we’ve prepared.”

The clans had authorized four clan hetmen to make final decisions on conducting the fight against the Narthon Empire. Although Yozef Kolsko was not formally a member of the council, he served as the de facto leader and led this day’s briefing.

Denes Vegga stood to one side. He would lead the defense of the blocking end of the trap the clans planned for the Narthani. Hetman Stent commanded the mobile force attempting to lure the Narthani into one of the planned battlefields. Both men were temporarily promoted to brigadier to acknowledge the number of men each led.

The seventh man was Hetman Harmon Swavebroke, breveted as Colonel Swavebroke. Someone had to lead the forces cutting the Narthani supply lines, and having a hetman in command, even if from a different clan, would evoke enough customary respect to minimize the clansmen’s questioning of orders. To distinguish Harmon’s rank from the regimental colonels, Yozef had come up with an ad hoc rank of “Senior Colonel.”

The council had held the briefing mainly for Swavebroke. He commanded eight thousand men in four regiments and would cut the supply line back to Preddi City when the War Council ordered it. Despite the number of men under his command, the council had held his rank to colonel, not expecting his regiments to fight united against the Narthani—a restriction that Harmon was about to be reminded of.

“I know you’ve heard it many times, Harmon, but you’re not to try any complex maneuvers with all four regiments. They’re among our least trained troops, and you have no experience in coordinating this many men from different clans.”

Swavebroke wasn’t offended by the overt statement about his lack of qualifications. Yozef often reiterated that none of them were qualified for what they would attempt, only that the clans had no better options. The council had entrusted Swavebroke with four regiments because of positive reports on how he’d organized men of his own and neighboring clans. The latter had come to the Swavebroke clan’s aid when the Narthani attacked their capital, Shullick.

A battle hadn’t materialized since the Narthani had withdrawn back aboard their ships. However, the way that Harmon had quickly taken the reins of authority from his father impressed Yozef and the War Council. Harmon’s father had stayed behind and died in Shullick.

“Be sure to avoid major contact with the Narthani until the right time. We want them to think only Stent’s force is their main opposition. And it’s critical your men don’t get carried away, Harmon,” said Yozef. “I agree with your decision to keep the four regiments separated even now. Besides having them placed along the arc in front of the Narthani’s current line of march, it keeps them from thinking their numbers are great enough to attempt attacking the main Narthani force. People can lose perspective if they think the force they’re in is large enough to seem invincible.

Harmon added, “It also leaves room for each regiment to continue training in battalion and regiment maneuvering without the distraction of other regiments. I’ve told the four colonels I’ll rate their units’ quality when I see them all separately, just to add a little incentive, something pride can do. As soon as I leave here, I’ll ride hard to Moreland City to meet with all four colonels to drum in their orders. Afterward, I’ll come back here to await the council’s decision about releasing us to sever the Narthani’s supply line.”

Senior Colonel Swavebroke would not be riding alone. The fourth of his regiments had just increased in size the previous day with the arrival of a Clan Bevens battalion. The two thousand men had left on the main Orosz City/Moreland City road an hour earlier, and Harmon would ride to catch up. A second regiment waited in Moreland City. Two more regiments were encamped thirty miles north-northwest of Moreland City and fifty miles south-southwest. All four regiments sat on semaphore lines.

“See you back here then, Harmon,” said Yozef and watched the Swavebroke hetman leave the group. Yozef had quietly discussed one more potential mission for the departing commander. Despite the estimated fifty thousand troops in the invading army, thousands more Narthani remained in Preddi Province, those of the original Narthani units and those who came with the massive reinforcement. As events unfolded, and the islanders attempted to maneuver the Narthani army into a trap as it headed into Caedellium’s interior, the clans couldn’t allow the two enemy groups to merge. It might fall to Swavebroke’s men to stop any attempt to reinforce or resupply the main Narthani force.

Harassing Raids

Synton Ethlore was both thankful and vexed. Though pleased to be away from the necessary organization of larger military units and the need for clear chains of command, he couldn’t suppress his ire at being ordered by none other than Yozef Kolsko to command a platoon nibbling at the Narthani army’s supply trains. His predicament found no sympathy from Balwis Preddi when the two men shared ales in an Orosz City pub before they left for their regiment.

***

“Hah!” Balwis laughed. “Don’t look to me. You’ll only be in charge of about twenty-five to thirty men. I’ve got four hundred to worry about. That’s what you get when you make any assumptions regarding any dealings with the man. He’s liable to connect you to something he wants done, whether you want it or not. Reminds me of when I first met him. We delivered a bunch of Narthani and Eywellese prisoners to him to question. We hated having to keep those fuckers alive and thought we’d just get them to Abersford, where Yozef lived at the time, and then head back to our homes. He made us stay another couple of days to guard and look after the prisoners.

“However, if you haven’t noticed it already, hanging around Yozef Kolsko can lead where you’d never expect. Although I’m not happy about being a battalion commander, who would have thought that the son of a Preddi rancher living far from major towns would end up a dragoon major and a close associate of a Septarsh who’s also a member of the War Council?

“And I’m not the only one who wonders about how his life changed, due to the man. It’s not like he intends to change your future, it’s just something that happens. Almost like the wake of a large ship that pulls along anything it passes close to.”

***

Ethlore snorted as he remembered Balwis’s words. At least, he had been given the latitude to pick his men. Some he knew personally, others by recommendation or reputation. None would have fit into the orderly organization Kolsko fostered on clan forces, but all the men were ones he would want by his side in a desperate fight. He only regretted that Balwis, Carnigan Puvey, and Wyfor Kales were not here, too. Well, perhaps not Carnigan. As formidable a force as the big man was, his size precluded the skulking the platoon had been doing.

The object of their current skulk rolled five hundred yards away, coming from Preddi Province and traveling toward Morthmin in Eywell Province. A tarp covered each of the ten wagon beds, presumably protecting food for the Narthani army that had passed by two days previously. Ten wagons, two drivers per wagon, and twenty cavalry guards.

“Forty of them,” observed Vandyl Purmerl , who served as Ethlore’s second-in-command, had the platoon bothered with such ranks or distinctions. “The men in the wagons are nothing. We can take care of them at leisure. First, we’ll have to deal with the cavalry.”

Kolsko had lectured Ethlore and twenty other leaders of platoons forming an early warning arc between the Narthani and the clans. “Remember, if you end up along the Narthani army’s path, it’s not how many supply wagons you burn in any one engagement, but how many you burn over time, until you get other orders. We’re also trusting you not to get yourselves and your men killed too soon. If you do insist on dying, at least have the intelligence and honor to first do as much damage as possible to the Narthani. That can’t happen if you get your asses killed the first time or even the tenth time. You’re to put it off as long as possible.”

Ethlore kept Kolsko’s words in mind, as he whispered to the man lying beside him in the bushes on a hilltop flanking the Preddi/Morthmin road.

“We’ll do it as we planned. They’ll pass through that dense patch of forest in another three miles. The rest of our men are waiting there for us. We’ll ride ahead and get everyone into position.”

Thirty minutes later, the Narthani reached the forward point of the kill box, a term introduced by the Fuomi officer Reimo Kivalian. He had led a month-long cram of basic tactics useful for the fledgling clan forces. The first such session included Balwis, who, like many other attendees, gave similar abbreviated sessions to more men, including Ethlore.

At the ambush site, Purmerl commanded the forward twenty men. As soon as the lead Narthani’s horse stepped across a line of four pebbles on the road, Purmerl fired his first musket at it. The man next to Purmerl shot the adjacent horse. The two downed horses blocked the road. Nineteen more men fired at the forward Narthani cavalry and the two men on the first wagon. Purmerl and the man beside him immediately picked up their second muskets. They finished one riders who had miraculously escaped the first salvo. Then they fired on the other drivers trying to control their panicking horses or those attempting to flee after leaping off their wagons.

Ethlore and the rest of the platoon opened fire on the ten Narthani riders to the convoy’s rear. One of the riders escaped, wounded, but Ethlore thought of the admonition to remember their mission. It wasn’t to kill Narthani; it was to slow supplies. More wagons and Narthani cavalry were only a few miles away and must have heard the shots. In the next ten minutes, the platoon finished off the wounded Narthani and horses, cut loose and drove away any horses still alive, then set all the wagons on fire.

“That’s it, Vandyl,” said Ethlore. “Let’s get our asses out of here and a few miles off the road. Assuming they don’t chase after us, we’ll move and wait a couple of days before we look for another convoy to hit. It won’t be as easy as this first time. They’re bound to start bunching up, with more wagons in a train and many more guards.”

Narthani Invasion Force, Eywell Province

Marshal Dursun Gullar’s headquarters carriage could hold a command staff meeting of up to ten men, albeit crowded, but he used it mainly for his own work or smaller meetings. Larger meetings he preferred to hold either outdoors or in a local building appropriated for the purpose. Tonight, he ate evening meal with his staff and leaders of one of the 29th Corps’s regiments, so that those officers would see the corps commander as one of them, instead of as a remote authority.

“It’s not like we didn’t expect attacks on our supply line,” said Gullar, on hearing the unwelcome news.

“Yes, but this close to Preddi surprised me,” said Brigadier Balkto, the corps operations chief. “We thought it would start farther toward the center of the island, perhaps not until we crossed into Moreland Province.”

“Still,” said General Kamil Avan, Gullar’s second-in-command, “it was only the one attack, and the perpetrators disappeared quickly into the surrounding forests. The man who escaped wasn’t sure, but the accounts suggest no more than fifty islanders, maybe fewer. The supply wagons and escorts walked right into an ambush, where more caution might have saved them.”

“Possibly,” said Gullar, “but we all know you can’t be on maximum alert every second. If the officer in charge had sent men to check every time they reached a confined space, it would have slowed them so much the officer would have come under criticism from higher ranks. We know how that can work—push subordinates until something goes wrong, and then it’s the subordinate’s fault. I think we need to focus on how we adjust.”

“The obvious action is to stop sending small convoys,” said Avan. “Instead of ten wagons and twenty escorts, I suggest we make them a minimum of thirty wagons and a hundred escorts.”

“Hmmm . . . ,” murmured Gullar. “Balkto, still no sign of large islander forces?”

“No, Marshal. Our scouting parties and the two cavalry battalions have swept out thirty miles along the road to Hanslow. They haven’t encountered more than twenty or thirty islander riders, who immediately ride off. As ordered, the battalions don’t send pursuers, in case of ambush. Although they can’t prevent small groups of enemy from operating in the area, we would have seen signs of larger forces.”

“All right, let’s increase the convoy size, as Kamil suggests. But let’s make it a hundred and fifty escorts, with orders that riders scour the path ahead of the wagons for ambushes. If the attacks continue but don’t increase in intensity, it’ll only be annoying pinpricks, and it shouldn’t slow us down. I see no reason to change our plans. We intend to set up a supply base en route, depending on clan resistance. Morthmin was the first possible site, then Hanslow and Moreland City, if things go well. We’ll leave the Morthmin vicinity tomorrow, and I believe we can hold off on the supply base and use Hanslow in northern Eywell. Once we arrive, we’ll evaluate whether to establish the supply base there or wait until Moreland City.”

General Okan Akuyun’s Office, Narthani Headquarters, Preddi City

“Another supply convoy left at first light, Okan,” said Brigadier Aivacs Zulfa, Akuyun’s second-in-command and direct commander of the troops part of the original Caedellium mission. “This one is twenty-six wagons and a hundred and sixty escorts. They shouldn’t have trouble getting through at least to Morthmin.”

Akuyun ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. “Gullar has probably decided to bypass Morthmin and advance to Hanslow to set up a supply point, Aivacs. I’ve assumed it should be Hanslow since Morthmin’s too close to Preddi for the location to be all that much of an advantage.”

“Gullar’s encampment here in Preddi City feels different now that he’s moved fifty-two thousand men into the island’s interior,” said Zulfa. “Before, it was a raucous place with sixty-eight thousand men. At times now, it seems on the way to being deserted.”

“It will be more so once General Istranik heads to Keelan Province,” said Akuyun.

Istranik, one of Marshal Gullar’s subordinate generals, had sailed two days before from Preddi City with 8,000 men. They would first assault Salford, the port for the Keelan clan, then move to Caernford, ravaging the countryside on the way to burning the capital. That strike, plus a 3,000-man force following the coast west-northwest toward the Selfcell clan capital at Sellmor, was intended to confuse the clans about Gullar’s main intentions and hold some of the clan forces in place. Since most of Gullar’s cavalry, 8,000 men, accompanied the main force, infantry made up most of the two diversionary attacks. Gullar’s cavalry, along with 38,000 infantry and 6,000 support troops, would force the islanders to stand and fight in field engagements, or Gullar would cut the island in half and destroy major cities.

“I know it’s awkward having two separate command structures on the island, Okan,” said Zulfa, “but I’m looking forward to Gullar finally crushing the clans so we can leave. The island may be a pleasant place to live, but it’s too remote from Narthon and whatever else is going on. And, I think we can be blunt among ourselves, the mission here hasn’t helped our prospects for advancement.”

Akuyun didn’t disagree. Their mission had been to subdue the island’s independent clans and bring Caedellium into the empire as a staging site for future campaigns against the Landolin kingdoms and the Iraquinik Confederation. After too many years of stalemates on the empire’s western and eastern borders, the High Command planned to bypass the static situations by incorporating the Landoliners and forcing the Iraquiniks to find themselves with Narthon on two sides. Akuyun didn’t know the long-term intentions, but he could envision the Iraquiniks being forced into an accommodation with Narthon, at which time the empire would turn its full attention to Fuomon and its allies of the Harrasedic League. The Iraquiniks could then be dealt with at leisure, which would all but settle Narthon’s control of the entire planet.

However, the initial campaign on Caedellium had failed. The High Command had judged it a reasonable risk that the island could be incorporated using minimal forces. Narthon had based this strategy on evaluations of the clans’ lack of central leadership, their inexperience with modern warfare, and the clans’ independent nature, which would hinder a coordinated defense.

The gradual, multi-phase plan to incorporate the island had come to an abrupt halt when a 10,000-man force of Akuyun’s troops, led by Zulfa, was stalemated at the Battle of Moreland City, the first major battle with the clans. More clans had joined to confront Zulfa than expected, with greater numbers of fighters, and they had shown unexpected tactical sense. After the Eywell hetman abandoned his position screening Zulfa’s left flank, the clans had attacked the flank and threatened the entire force. Although discipline and quick thinking prevented a major disaster, after losing half his cannon and suffering 20 percent casualties, Zulfa withdrew to Preddi City.

A final attempt to force individual coastal clans to capitulate by attacking from the sea also ended in failure after one attempt: the attacking and burning of the Swavebroke clan capital of Shullick. The clans’ two unexpected 10,000-men raids into Narthani-controlled territory forced Akuyun to abandon the original mission and report the situation to the High Command in Narthon. In response, the High Command sent Marshal Gullar with his entire 29th Corps, thereby confirming to Akuyun the importance placed on controlling Caedellium.

Although Gullar’s arrival on Caedellium relieved worries about the clans attacking Narthani-controlled territory, it brought the complication of having two separate command structures. Akuyun and his men were ordered to maintain the security of Preddi Province and the 100,000 Narthani civilians settled on the island the last few years, while Gullar’s mission was to subjugate the island as soon as possible. If Gullar succeeded, he would reap the accomplishment, while Akuyun’s command would, at best, be seen as having failed, even though the original mission had been given no more than a fifty-fifty chance of success.

“Well,” said Akuyun, “at least we know where we stand. If Gullar succeeds, our failure will seem less important. However, if Gullar fails, then the High Command will see us as having done amazingly well with far fewer resources.”

“Fails?” said Zulfa. “You can’t think the clans have any chance against Gullar, can you? Even though the delay gave them more time to prepare and unite, Gullar and the ships he brought with him will overpower anything the clans throw against them. It may only take one battle to start the clans capitulating.”

“That is the logical prediction,” said Akuyun, “but I hope we’ve learned not to assume anything with these islanders. There have been too many surprises.”

Twenty Miles North-Northwest of Burned Moreland City

Senior Colonel Harmon Swavebroke called the gathering to order. He’d ridden a day and a half to Moreland City, accompanied by the Oroszian colonel commanding a mixed Bevans/Bultecki/Orosz regiment that followed them from Orosz City. Also present were the colonels and the majors of the Moreland regiment at Moreland City, the Stent regiment encamped near the Stent/Moreland border, and the mixed Five-Clan regiment in southern Moreland, commanded by a Gwillamer colonel.

“All right, let’s get to it,” said Harmon, using his gloves to slap dust off his coat. “This won’t take long, and as soon as we’re through, I’ll turn around and head back to Orosz City. Colonel Orlyn will remain to wait for his regiment to get here.

“I’m here for two reasons. One is to confirm the mission for our four regiments. Not that you haven’t already been briefed in detail, but I’m here to be sure you do, in fact, understand the importance of those orders coming directly from Yozef Kolsko and the rest of the War Council. Right now, small units are nibbling at the Narthani supply line. That will continue, with no intensification under any circumstance, until we receive other orders. Your regiments are to remain hidden from the main Narthani force coming his way. When new orders do come, we will go from avoiding all contact with the Narthani to doing everything we can to cut off their resupply.

“When that happens, each of your regiments will operate independently along the roads and areas assigned. We will attack all convoys, no matter their size, unless the number of escorts is too great, which I interpret to mean a thousand men or more. We’ll also burn every bridge from the Eywell/Moreland border all the way to Neath. The regiments closer to Preddi will have to be warier of running into major Narthani forces but will do the best they can.

“I’ve been explicitly told that although we may not be the center of the main fight against the Narthani, our missions are critical. Once the order is given, it is our duty to stop all supplies from reaching the Narthani army. Assuming we’re successful, the War Council believes the Narthani may try to reopen supply lines using a large force, perhaps five to ten thousand men we know are still available to them in Preddi Province. They might also intend to join the two forces for further campaigns. We absolutely cannot allow the two Narthani forces to link up. Yozef Kolsko himself said that it comes to him that any Narthani relief force must be stopped, which I interpret to mean we will fight to the last man.”

None of the others commented, but uniformly grim and determined faces conveyed their responses.

“You can take my riding here for such a short meeting as confirmation that it’s crucial we don’t confront the Narthani too soon. Our missions will be critical for Caedellium’s victory. Any questions?”

The clansmen looked at one another. Swavebroke had not given any details they didn’t already know or suspect. However, all now believed, perhaps more firmly than before, in the importance of what they were being asked to do, using the least-trained of the clans’ regiments.

Hanslow, Northern Eywell Province

“So, Brigadier Sunjun reports the Eywellese in Hanslow present no problem?” asked Gullar.

“No,” said Avan. “Sunjun says most of them seem scared shitless. They’re afraid of suffering reprisals because they surrendered to the clans after their hetmen and other leaders fled south to Preddi. You can hardly blame the Eywellese after being abandoned by their leaders and Akuyun’s people. Sunjun pretended to be unsympathetic and left them thinking their futures depended on cooperating with the garrison we’ll leave here.”

“I still haven’t made my decision final about where to position our major resupply point,” said Gullar. “Hanslow is a logical choice, but I’d prefer it was more centrally located, such as Moreland City. In Hanslow’s favor is the fact that we already occupy it, there are significant fortifications, and we could draw on the city’s population for support. If we leave the supplies at Moreland City, who knows what condition the city will end up in after we take it?

“Then there are the attacks on the supply line back to Preddi. They’ve been minor annoyances thus far, but that could change. I’ll be more inclined to make Moreland City the resupply site if we can inflict at least one major defeat on the islanders. It’s only just in the last day we’re getting reports of large numbers of fighting men in the direction of our line of march.”

“In that case,” said Avan, “I suggest we have all the supplies brought forward to this point to stay with the three thousand men we’re leaving here in Hanslow. We can take three sixdays’ food with us. That will give you a few more days to decide whether to bring the supplies up to Moreland City.”

Orosz City

“Yola, here’s the Narthani’s latest position,” said Maera, handing the middle-aged woman a small square of paper with a single coordinate written on it. Yola took the paper, read from it, and used a croupier stick to move the figurine representing the Narthani army a few inches on the large map of Caedellium. Once satisfied with the new position, Yola turned to pierce the paper on a spindle, lying atop many other pieces, so that all previous positions were in order on the metal spike.

So many new words and names from Yozef, thought Maera. As usual, Yozef seldom explained why something needed a specific name, such as croupier and spindle .

A teenage girl serving as a message runner interrupted Maera’s thoughts by handing her a semaphore sheet. Maera glanced at the sending station and person written on the top. The origin was Caernford, the Keelan clan capital, and Pedr Kennrick, one of her father’s main advisers, was the sender. Her eyes continued down and read the message. She blanched and put a hand to her throat. “Merciful God!”

“We knew it was a possibility,” said Culich Keelan, hetman of the Keelan clan and member of the Caedellium War Council. “I prayed it wouldn’t happen, and if it did, God forgive me, that it would be to another clan.”

“At least, hardly anyone still lives in Salford, Father,” said Maera. “Only a few fishermen, to fish as long as possible, and the lookouts to provide just this kind of information.”

Puffing, Yozef hustled up to the group standing by a map of Keelan Province spread on a tabletop. He’d been at a meeting with the hot-air balloon development group when word arrived.

“It’s true, then?” he asked. “The Narthani landed in force at Salford?”

“Damn them, yes,” said Culich. “Thousands of them. The latest message says Salford is burning, and a force estimated at five to ten thousand Narthani is marching toward Caernford.”

“How are they organized?” asked Yozef. “How much cavalry and what kind of cannon?”

“Messages say almost no cavalry,” said Maera. “Maybe fifty at most, and the only cannon are their smaller ones, the type you refer to as horse artillery.”

“Infantry and light artillery,” said Yozef, his tone implying pleasure and drawing a frown from Culich.

“Sorry, Culich. Of course, it’s terrible news for Keelan. However, it means this is a diversionary attack and not an attempt to link up with the larger force moving into central Caedellium. I doubt they’ll move too far from the coast and away from naval support. They might not even go as far as Caernford.”

“But if they do, they’ll find no one to stop them, and they’ll destroy the clan’s capital,” spat Culich.

“They’d only destroy buildings, Father,” said Maera. “The few people not already gone to either the redoubt or their assigned positions will leave before the Narthani arrive. All the clan’s records and mementos are also safe in the redoubt. We can rebuild better than before.”

Moreland City

Three days later, Marshal Dursun Gullar, surrounded by staff, watched from a hilltop as Moreland City burned. A blanket of thick smoke billowed until it hit an air current and spread to the northeast.

“Besides being surprised the islanders didn’t defend one of their capitals, it worries me what else they’ll do that we didn’t anticipate,” said Gullar.

“Which is what General Akuyun mentioned numerous times,” replied Avan.

“Kamil, subordinates who reprimand their commanders for not paying attention to warnings are not likely to rise in rank,” said Gullar, yet his smile belied his words.

Avan looked at Gullar. “That’s part of my responsibility, Dursun, at your urging. A commander needs to know there’s at least one person who isn’t afraid to contribute uncomfortable opinions. That still leaves us with what comes next.”

“That’s already decided,” answered Gullar. “By destroying Moreland City, we committed to continue to Orosz City. Now we’ll see if they’ll also abandon everything close to the island capital. At some point, they have to stand and fight. However, I’m confirming that the resupply point will remain at Hanslow. There haven’t been major efforts to disrupt convoys between Preddi and Hanslow, but I don’t want to stretch the line any more until we have a clearer picture of the clans’ intentions.”

Sellmor, Selfcell Province

Roblyn Langor clapped his hands three times to get the attention of his boyermen and militia leaders. “The semaphore message confirmed the Narthani are at Orosz City. The other clans are holding firm. Now we have to wait to see what the Narthani do next, if they decide they can’t destroy the city. Although we can’t act until we know their intentions, it’s time to muster our men. Gather all the men you’re responsible for, and we’ll meet at Blenmyr. It’s just east of our clan redoubt in the central Selfcell mountains, so we can retreat to the redoubt if the Narthani attack it. Otherwise, we’ll be in position to support the other clans, if called on by the War Council.”

“Get this done as fast as possible,” said Harlyn Bolton, who passed for the clan’s military leader. “Our men have had too little training in maneuvering as it is, and this will be the first time we have more than a few hundred riders together at the same time. While we’re waiting for word from Orosz City, we can use those days to train, so it’s not a complete goddamn disaster when we try to maneuver two thousand men at the same time.”

“I wish we had some artillery,” said Roblyn’s younger brother, “though I suppose without experience, using it might be more of a danger to our own men than any enemy.”

“And let’s all pray for God’s mercy for the clanspeople at Orosz City,” said the Selfcell hetman. “Everything depends on them holding out and seeing what the Narthani do next.”

Orosz City

“It’s confirmed,” said Denes Vegga. “Stent sent word the Narthani are ten miles east of here and heading straight for Adris City.”

“That’s it, then,” said Yozef, his voice decisive. “The battle for Caedellium will be here.”

“Are my regiments released for action?” asked Harmon Swavebroke, scarcely hiding his impatience and eagerness.

Yozef looked at the other four War Council members sitting on one side of the large table. “I’m inclined to let Harmon go. What do the rest of you think?”

“No reason to delay,” said Stent. “By the time he gets to his men, they cut the Narthani line, and any word gets to their army, the bastards will almost be at Adris City.”

Yozef turned to the new Swavebroke hetman. “Okay, Harmon. Off you go. We don’t want a single bridge between Moreland City and the Preddi border to remain intact. The posthole diggers and charges are to damage the main roads. Drop hillsides, uncut narrow sections, do anything possible to impede the Narthani relief effort. Where a road cuts through forest, create an abatis, cutting down trees so they fall onto the road and form tangles of trunks wherever possible. While you’re doing that, attack every Narthani supply convoy your men haven’t already stopped.

“Remember, there are still a lot of Narthani in Preddi. They could always send out a sizable force to reopen the supply line. Stay on this side of Hanslow and keep scouts deep into Eywell. If they do try to push you aside, we’ll send word to Roblyn Langor. The Selfcellese promised to send a couple thousand men to harass any such relief force. However, we don’t want to commit them unnecessarily, because so much of the Selfcell population is in a relatively vulnerable position.” The clan had been late in fashioning a redoubt in the central Selfcell mountains.

“If they send a large relief force from Preddi, you’re to use all means necessary to stop them from getting to Orosz City. Withdraw in front of them from Moreland City to here and destroy the roads as you withdraw.”

Harmon stepped away from the others. “Unless you need me here any longer, I’ve horses and men waiting for me, anticipating our release. I’m sure all of us wish we could be here with the rest of you when the Narthani return, but I guarantee we will do our best to cut the Narthani army off from Preddi City. God grant you strength, and our prayers will be with you.”

Harmon walked swiftly to the exit. The last they saw of him was his cloak being swirled around his shoulders.

“And the same God’s help for him and all those men,” said Denes to Yozef. “At least, we’ll be behind fortifications or city walls. The men with Harmon will face Narthani in the open.”

“Whatever happens,” said Yozef, “we know they’ll do their best.”

Fifteen Miles North of Burnym, Moreland Province

Balwis Preddi awoke well before dawn when one of his men shook his shoulder.

“Balwis. Balwis, it’s time. The men are ready.”

He stared up at the starry sky through a surrounding screen of trees, then sat erect, clearing his head as he looked around. He could barely see the others under the starlight, but all around him seethed a battalion of 400 men, trying to be silent while packing. They faintly heard their horses, picketed up in the arroyo. Nearby stood four more encampments such as this one: 2,000 men and horses; twenty 6-pounder cannon and limbers; 600 pack horses with food, medicine, and ammunition; 40 wagons sturdy enough to cross rough country; and 500 extra horses.

The previous day, a rider had reached them before sundown. It was time for action. The War Council had released all four of Swavebroke’s regiments to fall on the Narthani supply line.

To his surprise and consternation, Balwis now commanded a powerful, fast-moving force. A horse had thrown the regiment’s commander, resulting in arm and leg fractures. With no time to send back for instructions or a replacement, command fell to Balwis. Before leaving to attend the War Council in Orosz City, Harmon Swavebroke denoted one battalion commander in each regiment as the most senior, in case the regiment’s colonel was lost for any reason. As his regiment’s designated senior major, Balwis automatically breveted to regiment commander. As Balwis usually did when he first woke up, he felt momentary wonder at how and why he had responsibility for an entire regiment of dragoons sent on a critical mission deep into Narthani territory. The simple answer was always that they had no better option.

His regiment’s assignment, confirmed by written orders, was the most dangerous: move due west to attack supply trains as far south of Morthmin in Eywell Province as possible. He would gather the small units serving as a warning screen and hassling force up to now. His regiment would also be the first to encounter any large force coming out of Preddi and attempting to reinforce and resupply the Narthani army. Such a force would be too large for him to stop, but he and his regiment would do what they could to impede movement along major roads toward Hanslow. They would then fall back to join up with the other three regiments, and, together, they would make every effort to stop any Narthani relief force.

They had pushed their horses for two days until reaching sight of Morthmin in central Eywell Province. Only in the last hour had they encountered Narthani, a patrol of ten cavalrymen who fled north after seeing the regiment’s lead battalion.

“It’ll be dark in another two hours, but word of our arrival is bound to spread,” Balwis told the five battalion majors. “We don’t want to lose any supply trains that get word and seek safety in Morthmin, return to Preddi, or are moving toward Hanslow. We knew we’d be dividing ourselves. Where we are now will be our rally point.

“Major Fithwyndal, you’ll stay here with the wagons. Set up a defensible position and dig in. Orton and Nartyl, move north of Morthmin as far as you can tonight, then tomorrow at first light, try to catch up with wagons heading toward Hanslow. Orton, you’ll be senior. Clear the road of any Narthani for twenty miles, then head back to rally here.

“I’ll accompany Gestwin and Varnin south toward Neath. In both directions, we need to move fast before word spreads. We’ll clear the roads south-southwest as far as possible, then re-form here. Just remember not to get into fights you can’t win, and don’t hesitate to fall back. If it comes to a real fight, we don’t want to be separated and defeated ‘in detail,’ as Yozef warns.”

Between Orosz City and Adris City

Gullar slapped the message just delivered by a disheveled rider. “Well, we knew this could happen. We were a little surprised they didn’t do something more serious earlier. The colonel at Hanslow says the city is cut off. Nothing is coming in or out, and they’ve seen what has to be hundreds of clansmen riders at numerous locations, meaning the total number working to sever our supply line must be in the thousands.”

“We’re fortunate to get this news at all,” said Avan. “The messenger says there were four of them sent with the same dispatches. He may well be the only one to evade the islanders.”

“Should we cut rations?” asked Balkto.

“No,” answered Gullar. “We have more than a sixday and a half at full rations, and we’re only two to three days from Adris City. Admiral Dimir will be waiting there with resupply. We want to keep the men in top shape and not give any impression of problems, which cutting rations would surely indicate.”

“As much as I hate to admit it,” said Avan, “the islanders have surprised us again with how thoroughly they’ve stripped the countryside of anything to forage. We’ve hardly come across any cattle, horses, or this local animal called the krykor. Any crops left in the fields that weren’t burned would have taken more time to gather than they were worth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a stripped landscape. Usually, farmers and ranchers will attempt to hide crops and animals, but if it weren’t for obviously tilled fields, corrals, cattle flops, and hoof prints, you’d doubt anything was ever grown along our route.”

Gullar grunted as he leaned over a map. “Gentlemen, we’ve danced around the issue, but I think we can all be honest and say that the islanders don’t intend to do what we hoped. I suspect we’ll find Adris City as abandoned as we did Moreland City. We don’t know their thinking, but they’ve refused battle. This means we’ll have to shift to the circum-island option and start reducing coastal provinces, one at a time, with naval support. We have enough men to form two or three different forces to ravage clans simultaneously. Istranik’s last reports said that the Keelan clan capital was abandoned, and most clanspeople had retreated into the mountains. If what we saw at Orosz City holds, it may mean the islanders are hoping we’ll give up, which, of course, won’t happen. That also means we’ll have to eventually attack wherever the people have retreated to and hope after the first couple of successful assaults, the other clans see the inevitable.”

“What about Orosz City as a start?” asked Balkto. “It’s apparently an important center for the Caedelli, but is it worth the cost of an assault?”

“I’d rather wait to assess the other sites the clans have withdrawn into. That’s assuming we see the same thing everywhere—abandoned provinces. There may be easier pickings to start with. Whatever we do, it means our stay on Caedellium will be longer than we or the High Command wanted, but that’s the way of the real world, which we all know can be very different from plans on paper.”

Between Salford and Caernford, Keelan Province

“ Now what do we do?” exclaimed a confounded subordinate to the general of the force assigned to attack Keelan Province.

“Damned if I see any options I like,” answered Istranik. “The message from the navy is only that they can’t meet and resupply Marshal Gullar, though they don’t give the reason. It also fails to mention contact with the marshal, so I have to assume he hasn’t reached Adris City. When he does, we can be sure there will be new orders for us.”

He paused and leaned over the Caedellium map that he and his staff surrounded.

“I can’t imagine him wanting us to push north to meet up with him. We don’t have cavalry and would be marching into the island’s interior without naval support. I also don’t see much purpose in what we’re doing here. We intended to draw clan forces toward us, but obviously that’s not happening. We haven’t seen more than a few riders, and they must be locals who didn’t evacuate like the rest of the population. Even the scout patrol we sent toward Caernford got all the way there and found no evidence the islanders have done anything but abandon their clan capital.”

“Which leaves us where?” asked an aide. “Returning to Salford?”

“Yes,” said Istranik. “That’s what I’m going to order. The next question is what to do when we get there. Since we don’t know Gullar’s intentions or what orders he might give, we would either wait at Salford or reembark and return to Preddi City.”

“As you say, General, there are no good options,” said Istranik’s second-in-command. “But if Gullar orders us to go via ship to another part of the island, the sailing time difference between starting from Keelan or Preddi City is not significant. However, if we’re in Preddi City, we’ll be in position if the marshal wants us to move inland from there, perhaps to meet him.”

“I agree,” said Istranik, “and that’s what we’ll do. Gentlemen, get us turned around and headed back to Salford at a quick march. Send a rider to Salford. We’re only fifteen miles away, and I want our men boarding ships by sunset.”

Preddi City

“Well, if this isn’t a pile of shit,” exclaimed Brigadier Aivacs Zulfa aloud to the other ten officers meeting in General Okan Akuyun’s headquarters.

“Yes, but it’s our shit, and it’s up to us to dig out of it,” replied Istranik. “Marshal Gullar has ordered me to proceed as far as feasible—Moreland City, if possible—with enough supplies for the entire force to return to Preddi City. General Akuyun and I anticipated this order, and wagons are being loaded as we speak. After discussions, we’ve agreed I will resume command of the units the marshal left with General Akuyun. However, many of the men are not combat trained, being farriers, medical personnel, Narth priests, and others. I’ll leave of many of those here and take ten thousand combat men and minimal support to escort the supply convoy.”

Istranik neglected to mention that the “discussion” had verged on acrimonious. Gullar had left Preddi City the center of two parallel commands: Akuyun, with his original 10,000 men and the 8,000 from Gullar; and Istranik with 8,000 for the Keelan attack and 3,000 who now probed toward Sellmor along the western coast. Istranik interpreted Gullar’s order to bring all forces to Moreland City to include both the 8,000 men put under Akuyun and the original 10,000 already on the island. Akuyun flatly refused to give up the latter, because neither he nor his men were formally under Gullar. Their task was protecting Preddi Province and the Narthani civilians now living there. Istranik finally acquiesced, albeit reluctantly, when Administrator Tuzere supported Akuyun.

However, Istranik’s lack of cavalry was too serious to ignore, and Akuyun felt obliged to assign half his cavalry to Istranik for the duration of the relief effort. In return, Istranik recalled the 3,000-man Sellmor probe to bolster the Preddi defenses. Akuyun also volunteered to loan all available engineers commanded by Colonel Ketin, figuring the islanders would attempt to slow Istranik by destroying bridges and constructing obstacles for the wagons. In return, Istranik added another 2,000 men to Akuyun.

Akuyun moved to conclude the meeting with positive news.

“General Istranik, Administrator Tuzere tells me the last of the wagons will be loaded within the hour with enough supplies for both Marshal Gullar’s and your men and horses for a month.”

With polite but chilly comments and thanks, Istranik and his staff left the headquarters. Tuzere was the first to speak once the others left.

“He’s just trying to comply with how he interpreted Gullar’s orders, Okan.”

“I know, and I respect that Gullar left us in a difficult command structure. But since Narthon decided on two independent commands, I have to abide by my original responsibilities. Those are to the troops and civilians under my command.”

“For which I’m grateful,” said Tuzere. “I almost choked when I heard Istranik wanted to take all the troops with him.”

“Still, taking half the cavalry leaves us short of mobile forces,” said Zulfa.

“Which is why I’m calling back to duty the militias we formed before Gullar came,” said Akuyun. “After he arrived, they didn’t seem necessary, and we allowed them to go back to farms and trades. We’ll especially need the mounted units to fill gaps in cavalry resources.”

“You know the civilians will interpret this as things not going well,” Tuzere cautioned. “And news about Gullar’s problems is bound to leak out.”

“It can’t be helped. Better create a little worry than find we needed every man and didn’t have them.”

Twenty Miles South of Morthmin

“Is there no end to these bastards!” Synton Ethlore exclaimed to Vandyl Purmerl. They watched from their vantage point atop an escarpment paralleling the Preddi/Hanslow road as a column of infantry, cannon, and wagons stretched for miles. Cavalry screened ahead and to the flanks, where there was room, and though they couldn’t see the end of the column, they assumed more cavalry followed.

“But it’s got to be just about all they have left,” said Purmerl. “They had to leave enough in Preddi to protect their base and noncombatants.”

“Is that a firm opinion or a prayer?” Ethlore said with a snarl.

“Both, I think,” replied Purmerl. “How many do you estimate?”

“Right now, we don’t have enough fingers and toes. Here’s what we’ll do. The column can’t go on forever, so we’ll wait till we see the end, and you and I compare numbers. Then you pick four men and fresh horses and go find Balwis. He’s somewhere northeast of us, not far off the Hanslow road. We must get this information to Swavebroke as fast as possible. I don’t know what his orders are from the War Council, but he’ll be passing word on to higher command. The first batch of the bastards burned all the semaphore stations, so it’ll take most of two days to alert Orosz City. The rest of us will stay observing to the south of the road. I’ll send more riders if they change direction. Otherwise, I assume we’ll meet up with more of our regiment near Morthmin.”

Purmerl rose to his knees, then sank back next to Ethlore. “Say, Synton. One or both of us is liable to get killed sometime soon, and there’s something I’m curious about. Why did you agree to be Yozef Kolsko’s bodyguard? I have trouble seeing you standing around all day, babysitting.”

“ Now’s the time you want to know?”

“I wouldn’t want you to get killed before I see you again. Then I’d be curious the rest of my life,” said Purmerl.

“Don’t worry,” said Ethlore, “the way things are going, that life may not be all that long.”

“And?” prompted Purmerl.

“For one thing, I’m not getting shot at. At least, not daily. It also pays better than any other job I’m likely to get. That’s important since with the clans cooperating more, it’s getting harder to do anything against the law in one province and be safe once you cross a border.

“Then there’s the advantage of being associated with Yozef. Took me a while to realize that, but once I did, I’ve been free about telling people my position. I haven’t paid for a beer in months and rarely a meal. Doesn’t hurt with the women, either. Of course, I steer away from wives and girls too young. A man has to have his standards.”

“Hmmm . . . ,” said Purmerl. “You think Yozef could use another bodyguard?”

Ethlore guffawed. “As if I’d recommend a scoundrel like you!”

“I thought we were friends,” said Purmerl with a wounded expression.

“It’s best if none of us thinks about friends until this is all over, Vandyl. Losing too many friends can be damned depressing. However, if both of us are alive a month from now, ask me again. Now get your sorry ass to Balwis.”

Three hours later, Purmerl came upon a dragoon company and was directed to Balwis’s position another five miles on.

Balwis listened to Purmerl’s report, repeatedly slapping his pant leg with riding gloves. “Upwards of ten thousand of ’em, huh? And over two hundred wagons, you say?”

“That’s Synton’s estimate,” answered Purmerl. “I think it’s more than two hundred, and they move like they’re fully loaded. They also have men riding on top. Looks like it’s infantry taking turns to save their feet.”

“And it lets the entire force move faster since they don’t need as many breaks for the men on foot,” said Balwis. “Okay, I’ll send word to Swavebroke. With that many wagons, it must be intended for either a resupply to the Narthani army that passed through here before or plans to establish a more permanent base in the island’s interior. I’d guess farther than Hanslow, maybe where Moreland City used to be or even at Orosz City. Whatever their aim, the men we’re seeing here combined with those left in Hanslow would be a significant force.”

“Well,” said a battalion major, “at least something good comes out of them burning Moreland City. Now there’re no structures left for them to use. As for Orosz City, I think the bastards are in for a shock.”

Balwis’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, I know men like me aren’t supposed to know the plans of the War Council, but word gets around. Whatever is planned must involve Orosz City, given what we heard was going on there.”

Balwis sighed. Despite Yozef’s entreaties about “loose lips,” one of his novel phrases, Balwis wasn’t surprised that hints got as far down the chain of command as battalions. He wasn’t a pious man, but he found himself saying a silent prayer that no clues reached Narthani ears, just in case God was listening.

Orosz City

Feren Bakalacs read one of the two identical semaphore messages just handed to him by a teenage girl. Now serving as a messenger, she filled one of many roles to free men for other tasks. He looked back and forth to confirm the two messages were identical.

Fifteen minutes later, Yozef Kolsko and Culich Keelan finished reading the same messages.

From: Harmon Swavebroke

To: War Council

Narthani force est 8 to 11 thousand

Move NNE toward Hanslow

Riders to follow

“Smart of Swavebroke to use the semaphore,” said Culich.

“Yes,” agreed Yozef, sighing. “I should have thought of that.”

“That’s we , Yozef,” said Bakalacs. “The responsibility for thinking ahead rests on all of us.”

Yozef nodded, outwardly accepting the Farkesh hetman’s reprimand, but he silently continued to chastise himself because he hadn’t account for all possibilities, even though he knew that was impossible.

Gullar’s force had destroyed semaphore stations as the Narthani pushed into Caedellium. However, lines from Moreland City to the northwest into Stent Province and southeast into Keelan Province were functional twenty to thirty miles off Gullar’s line of march. Swavebroke had sent riders to the first functioning station on both semaphore routes with the alert of a new Narthani force following Gullar. After being relayed through several provinces and numerous semaphore stations, the two identical messages had reached Orosz City within minutes of each other.

“More details should start arriving via riders tomorrow,” said Yozef, “but this possibility was one of our contingencies. The main question now is their objectives. Are they only moving to Hanslow, where the Narthani already set up a supply base, or will this new force try to move farther inland, perhaps even link up the two forces?”

“Another question is whether the two Narthani groups know what the other is doing and their intentions,” stated Culich. “The timing of the Narthani invading Keelan closely follows their navy’s attempt to force the Normot Cut and get into Normot Bay. A reasonable conclusion is this new force in Moreland is the same one that attacked Keelan. They could have gotten word their navy couldn’t deliver supplies to Adris City and are now trying to resupply, or even reinforce the main army.”

“The last thing we want is for this new force to come up behind our blocking fortifications at Orosz City while we’re engaged with those trying to get back to Preddi,” said Denes Vegga, commander of the Orosz City islander troops and defenses. “It’ll be hard enough stopping their army’s retreat when they get to Orosz City without having to deal with being attacked from the west.”

“There’s nothing we can do to help Swavebroke,” said Yozef. “All our other troops are needed here. It falls to him. Harmon already had orders to stop all supplies and be prepared to stop reinforcements. We’ll have to confirm that his men must prevent this new Narthani force from reaching Orosz City.”

“Is that reasonable?” asked Bakalacs. “They’re the least trained regiments and only have 6-pounder cannon. The Narthani infantry will almost certainly have 12-pounders, and from everything we’ve experienced and what you tell us, Swavebroke can’t fight straight-up battles against Narthani infantry formations.”

“Not on open terrain,” agreed Denes.

“Right,” said Yozef. “Harmon will need to pick places to help negate Narthani experience and discipline. He’s also got better mobility. However, we need to tell Harmon his first objective is to make the roads as unusable as possible. Then, if necessary, he must be prepared for major engagements. If it comes to that, he needs to ready his men to delay this new force at all costs .”

Swavebroke Gathers Regiments

Balwis Preddi reined in his lathered horse twenty yards from the farmhouse Harmon Swavebroke was using as a temporary command post. He handed the reins to a waiting man without comment and staggered momentarily after making his first contact with the ground in four hours. His bladder pleaded for release, but not badly enough that he couldn’t hold it.

He slapped dust from his clothing before entering to find Swavebroke and the other three regimental commanders hovering over a map.

“Good,” said Swavebroke on seeing Balwis, “we’re all here now. Balwis, I’ve already briefed the others, but we’ve gotten orders to do everything possible to delay this new Narthani force from getting to Orosz City.”

“How firm is the ‘everything possible’?” asked Balwis. “It could be interpreted many ways.”

“The orders explicitly said to slow them down, and, if necessary, do everything possible to stop them from getting to Orosz City. I interpret it to mean that if we can’t keep them from getting to Orosz City before what happens there is over, then they are to get there only over our dead bodies.”

Balwis nodded, not surprised at Swavebroke’s statement. Like the other three colonels, he accepted what might be necessary.

“Of course, we hope it doesn’t come to that, so we’ll do as much damage as we can to the most direct routes. I don’t think we’ll be organized enough to keep them from Moreland City, but we can at least slow them down.”

“What about the Selfcellese?” asked the colonel of a mixed regiment. “You previously said they might join us.”

“I’ve semaphored an encoded message to Roblyn Langor, their hetman. Fortunately, he’s still in semaphore contact, using the new line running to Stent Province. It’s unclear how much he feels he falls under the War Council’s orders, so I’ve ‘asked’ him to move as many men as he can in the direction of Moreland City.”

“How good an idea is it to merge them with us?” asked Balwis. “As little maneuver training as we’ve had, they’ve had none. It could just cause confusion to operate in conjunction with them.”

“If it comes to a ‘stand and fight to the last man’ situation, it won’t make that much difference,” said Swavebroke. “Before that happens, I envision asking the Selfcellese to stay on the Narthani northern flank and rear to get their attention. That way, they can’t completely concentrate on us.”

For the next four hours, Swavebroke and the four regiment commanders discussed and argued their best options, stopping only twice: once for Balwis and anyone else needing to pee, and once for a meal. Balwis’s regiment was the closest to the new Narthani force and would step up harassing attacks without engaging in a serious battle. The other three regiments would gather near Moreland City and begin preparations for inhibiting use of the major road and useable alternatives between Moreland City and Orosz City.

“The men will finally appreciate why they brought shovels, axes, and posthole diggers,” said the Stent commander.

Swavebroke’s units needed to use the roads themselves on the way to Orosz City, meaning they would only implement blockages as they withdrew. Wherever trees would be felled to form an abatis, the troops would make cuts in the trunks shallow enough to leave the trees standing, but deep enough that they could complete the finishing cut quickly. Similarly, they would prepare bridges for burning or explosive charges; dig holes into narrow sections of roads to collapse them into gullies or adjacent water; drill holes into slopes and pack charges inside, ready for detonation, to bring overhanging rock and dirt onto the road; and, as time allowed, begin digging defensive positions at a few locations, in case they needed to make a stand.

Istranik at Hanslow

Dursun Istranik surveyed his senior staff, not hiding his concern about the situation or the orders he was about to give.

“That’s it, then. Riders got to us an hour ago from Preddi City. The bad news is that Marshal Gullar is on short rations and is on his way back to Preddi by the same route he took in crossing this damn island. The good news is that our decision to abort the Keelan campaign, return to Preddi City, and then start toward Hanslow with supplies for Gullar has turned out to be the right decision and got us moving many days earlier than otherwise.”

After Istranik’s last words, an infantry commander cleared his throat to get attention. “How is it that all four riders sent got through to us? The islanders have stopped all individual riders and small groups the last sixday. Now, suddenly four out of four made it without seeing any islanders. Makes my back itch.”

“As it does mine, Colonel. It could be sheer luck, but a worrisome possibility is that the islanders have pulled back and are up to something unpleasant that we may only discover the deeper we get into the island.

“The marshal’s orders specified getting to at least here at Hanslow and preferably Moreland City, leaving it to my discretion how far to move toward Orosz City. Tomorrow at first light, we’ll leave Hanslow and push hard to Moreland City. Once there, I’ll make further evaluations about what’s possible.

“I’ve also ordered the garrison Gullar left at Hanslow to join us. We’ve brought with us enough supplies for Gullar and ourselves to get back to Preddi, and if the islanders try to stop us, we can use every man. I’ve also sent riders back to Preddi City notifying Akuyun of my decisions and stopping all further attempts to send supplies to Hanslow.

“Gentlemen, you have your orders. I expect the lead infantry regiment’s feet to hit the road a mile north of here tomorrow morning at first light. I want our positions as before, with the Hanslow garrison following the last wagons we brought with us.”

Increased Harassing Attacks

Balwis snarled at Swavebroke. “Damnation! I’d have thought what we did to the road through those four miles of forest would have slowed them for two days, maybe even three. As we pulled back, we burned three bridges over that stream that meanders alongside the road, must have felled a thousand trees onto the roadbed, cratered a dozen places where we dropped the roadbed into the stream, and twice dropped big sections of a cliff onto the road. Here it is almost dark, and they’ve nearly gotten through all of it.”

“I think we all judged what it would take by comparing it to what we thought we could do, not what a professional army with what Yozef calls engineers could do,” said Swavebroke. “I’ll also confess I thought we could harass them more than we’ve been able. The forest canceled our mobility advantage, and we’re too inexperienced to match the discipline of their infantry. They easily pushed us far enough away to let thousands of their men work on the road.

“Our inexperience also showed when we tried to attack their wagon train, thinking to force them to use more men for protection and not road clearing. The Hewell battalion in Nycroft’s regiment suffered two-thirds casualties when the Narthani outflanked them. We’re lucky so many escaped. We just aren’t good enough at communicating and keeping units intact in terrain where they aren’t all within line of sight.”

“It would have made all the difference if we’d had a few of the land mines Yozef described,” said Balwis. “That would have slowed them down. They’d take four or five times as long to clear the road after watching a few of their men get blown to pieces.”

Swavebroke shook his head. “We have to accept that all the mines are needed at Orosz City. The mines might be useful here, but we know they’re needed at Orosz City, especially since I heard they won’t have enough for the entire fortification line.

“As for now, Balwis,” said Swavebroke, “we must deal with what is, not what we want it to be. Your men are exhausted. Pull them back to the village of Nystil and get some sleep. Another regiment will take over slowing the Narthani down tomorrow morning. It’s open ground the next ten miles, with several side roads, and then closes in again to a single road through another patch of forest. The other two regiments are preparing a defensive line at the edge of the woods. The Narthani will have to come at us over open land. We’ll try to hold them there for at least a day.”

“What about the Selfcellese?” asked Balwis. “Aren’t they supposed to be coming?”

“Word from Roblyn Langor is he’ll make contact with us late tomorrow or the next morning with two thousand men. I don’t want them mixing with the other regiments. It’d likely be too chaotic. It’s bad enough with the regiments who’ve trained and been together. His men will essentially be a large, unorganized mob. However, bodies are bodies, so I’ll have him operate independently and harass the Narthani northern flank as much as he can.”

Stand and Fight

Swavebroke, accompanied by the four dragoon regiment commanders, made a final inspection of the mile-and-a-half dirt-and-log emplacements within the edge of the forest that the road to Moreland City passed through. Two regiments manned the positions, with the other two regiments in reserve, including Balwis’s men, who had kept in active contact with the Narthani column. Following standard dragoon protocol, one man held four horses three hundred yards to the rear. That left three thousand men facing the Narthani, whose lead elements were only two miles away. Having men from reserve units hold the horses was considered but discounted, for fear of confusion if a speedy retreat became necessary.

At the northern end of the line, they paused while Swavebroke gave his final words.

“Okay, get to your units. The Narthani will be within sight in another fifteen to twenty minutes. Then they’ll have to deploy, which will take upwards of an hour or more before they try anything. If they send infantry directly at us, they’ll be crossing a mile of open ground. If they try to flank us, we’ll see them move, and the reserve regiments will slow them. In that case, we might have to withdraw because once they get within the forest, we’ll be at a disadvantage with having to manage the horses and keep organized. Whatever they do, it will still cost them at least a whole day before they can advance farther toward Moreland City.”

“Hell of a lot of work by the men for a one-day delay,” groused Colonel Nycroft.

“It is what it is,” said Swavebroke. “The flanking terrain is rough, so maybe they’ll sit as they decide what to do, and then just come straight at us. We might buy two days, in that case. If they do attack directly at us, as soon as it looks like we can’t stop them, we’ll withdraw to the horses and get out of these woods. I don’t want us fighting within the trees, where they’ll have the advantage.”

Three hours later, to Swavebroke’s distress, they knew the answers. The Narthani had deployed an estimated forty 12-pounders in one massive battery and had been hitting the center of the clan’s line for the last hour.

“They’re pounding us to pieces!” yelled an aide, loud enough to be heard over the clans’ cannon and the shouts and screams of men. “We must have close to five hundred casualties. If we keep bringing in men to replace those dead and wounded, it just feeds them into a meat-chopping block!”

“We’re in an impossible situation,” said Swavebroke. “We thought we’d make them attack us over open ground, but for the same reasons, we don’t dare try to do the same. They’d slaughter our men if we attacked. Their 12-pounders are overpowering our 6-pounders. Not that ours were doing all that much good.

“As bad as the artillery exchange is, it never occurred to me what would happen when 12-pounder shots hit the trees. We’ve lost as many men from tree fragments and splinters as from cannonballs. I screwed up mightily by picking this position.”

“Don’t bother blaming yourself, Swavebroke,” said Balwis. He had come forward with one of his battalions to reinforce the clans’ fortification center. “Whatever happens will be the first time any of us have seen it. Maybe Yozef and Kivalian might have chosen different, but that’s irrelevant. Unfortunately, we’re learning as we go, and it’s going to cost men’s lives. The battalion I accompanied must already have thirty casualties, and they’ve only been on the line fifteen minutes.”

“All right. Preddi and Nycroft, get back to your men and start withdrawing. I’ll send runners to the other two regiments. It’ll be regimental withdrawals, each moving separately. There’s no way for us to coordinate this as a unified action. All units to regroup twenty miles northeast of Moreland City.”

Istranik at the Moreland City Site

“General, it’s time to decide whether we’re stopping here or continuing toward Orosz City,” said Istranik’s second-in-command. “The cavalry screen reports large numbers of islanders about six miles farther on.”

“About eighty road miles to Orosz City,” mused Istranik, as he studied a map. “Another patch of woods is ten miles northeast of Moreland City, then clear land the rest of the way. I think we have to make the effort. We don’t know Gullar’s position but given when he was supposed to have left Adris City, he should at least be to Orosz City, possibly closer. If we continue, we might even meet him before we reach Orosz City.

“Still . . . it makes me nervous to be out of contact with both Preddi City and Gullar. Too much like walking in the dark and hoping to stumble upon someone you’re looking for.”

“The islanders have shown a healthy respect for our infantry and cannon,” said the second-in-command. “In the one significant fight, they pulled back as soon as they realized we outgunned them.”

“Yes,” Istranik said dubiously, “but we haven’t encountered their main forces. We must assume those are facing Gullar. Despite what we’ve experienced, if they were to concentrate all their forces on us, we’d be in serious trouble. I think we could fight our way back to Preddi City, but we’d have to leave most of the wagons, and we’d take serious losses.”

“What does your intuition say, General?”

“It’s not saying anything, but the hairs on my arms have been standing up the last sixday. The clans are up to something. It has to be related to Gullar, and I think we’re obliged to continue pushing on to make contact and resupply him.”

Battle

“Persistent bastards, aren’t they?” muttered Swavebroke, as he examined the latest reports on the Narthani advance and marked map positions.

“I think it’s time for us to quit farting around,” said Balwis, a sentiment echoed by the other three regiment commanders. “Yes, we’ve slowed them, but it hasn’t been enough. We can’t let them link up with the Narthani coming back to Orosz City.”

“No, we can’t,” said Swavebroke. “I’d hoped we’d slowed them enough without a major battle, but—say what you will about the bastards—they’re disciplined and tough.”

Swavebroke forestalled an angry rejoinder from Balwis by raising a hand. “Remember one of the many cautions from Yozef: ‘Only a fool doesn’t respect his enemy.’ Respecting and admiring are two different things. That doesn’t mean we don’t want to kill them all.”

“We’ll need to pick where we have some advantages,” said Nycroft. “There’s only one patch of forest between here and Orosz City, and it’s less than a half mile wide where the road passes through. What if, instead of setting up at the wood’s forward edge like we did before, we dig in within the woods? Then it’d be men on foot versus men on foot, and the woods would make the cannon disparity less important.”

“I like that last part,” said Balwis. “Their 12-pounders’ longer range than our 6-pounders won’t make a difference since the trees will stop most shot anyway. That reduces both sides to canister, grapeshot, and musket. They’d still have an advantage, but not as much.”

Swavebroke put a forefinger on the map position of the woods four miles to their northeast. “Okay, but what if we dig in near to the back section of these woods? They’d have to deploy and move the half mile with much of their infantry. That’ll leave the rest of the infantry and all the cavalry they brought with them to protect the wagons.

“Except we won’t seriously try to stop them at the fortifications we dug, but maybe leave one regiment there and the rest of us will attack the wagon train. It’ll be spread out a mile or more on the road. It might also give us a chance to whittle down their cavalry. I have to think their commander would be more cautious in future decisions if he finds himself with little or no mounted support for scouting and security.”

“I wonder if one regiment will be enough to hold their attention,” said Balwis. “We’d need to draw as much of their infantry away from the wagon train as possible, and then the attack on the wagons would need to be a surprise. We all know what they did to the Moreland clan at the Battle of Moreland City.”

“So, what do you think?” asked Swavebroke of the other three colonels. He had no problem soliciting opinions. Nycroft answered affirmatively, and the other two nodded.

“That’s it, then. I’ll be with the two regiments digging in on the far side of the woods coming up. Our job is to stop their advance and keep their attention. Balwis and Erglan, your regiments will move south of the road and look for where you want to launch an attack on the wagon train.”

Swavebroke then turned to a young man who had been silent thus far. Eflyn Langor was the Selfcell hetman’s younger brother and represented his clan at the meeting.

“Eflyn, you say your brother has two thousand men twenty miles west of here. No offense intended, but your men aren’t trained in this type of fighting. Not that ours are trained all that much, but better than yours. Ours have had experience in a few actions and have had practice in maneuvering. I don’t want Roblyn to commit your men the same way we will ours. What I’m thinking is that when Balwis and Erglan attack the wagon train from the south, once the Narthani have all their attention focused elsewhere, there’s the opportunity to come upon them from the north. Roblyn won’t have contact with any of our units, so he’ll have to judge how to use your men most effectively and at the right time.”

A salvo from a dragoon 6-pounder battery to Swavebroke’s left was preceded and followed by the deeper but more distant booms of Narthani 12-pounders. Yet it was different this time, compared to when the Narthani had forced them out of their positions at the forward edge of a forest patch. Now, only an occasional canister or grapeshot ball survived passage through several hundred yards of trees to reach the clansmen’s positions. Most of each side’s cannon batteries were out of sight of each other and firing blind. Swavebroke had had a few 6-pounders pushed forward to get in sight of the Narthani guns, but their crews suffered heavy casualties and were pulled back.

The frantic building of the defensive line had continued, even when the first Narthani artillery salvo opened. Clansmen ducked or ran at the first firing, then returned to work when they realized only a fraction of the balls reached the fortifications. Not that there weren’t casualties, but clan leaders from squad to battalion urged their men on, yelling their work would save more lives later.

“The men are working as fast as they can,” said the major commanding the battalion that Swavebroke watched digging.

“I know, just keep after them.”

“Here they come!” someone yelled, as men scrambled to drop tools, pick up muskets, and take up positions.

Swavebroke turned from the major. Through the trees, he saw a rustle of foliage, the remnants of leaves, twigs, and branches not stripped by canister and grapeshot from the clan and Narthani artillery. Several upper torsos appeared at about a hundred yards. Then muskets, more heads, and a wave of Narthani infantry emerged into view.

“FIRE!” yelled the major, his word relayed by company commanders to the four hundred men in front of Swavebroke. A wall of sound bashed Swavebroke’s ears from four hundred muskets, followed by yells to urge reloading. Gaps appeared in the enemy infantry line, to be filled with men from farther ranks. He couldn’t hear the Narthani, but he assumed commands were being given as the Narthani line raised muskets in unison and momentarily disappeared behind a curtain of gunpowder smoke.

Swavebroke and most men behind the defenses reflexively ducked. Two men within his sight were too slow and were flung back, as one or more musket balls ended their universes.

“Hurry, men!” yelled a man with an Adrisian accent to Swavebroke’s right. “Get a shot in while they’re reloading!”

There was no pretense of mass musket salvos from the clan dragoons. Yozef had instructed them that the shock effect of massed musket salvos required more training and discipline than the clan dragoons possessed. Men were to fire independently as quickly as possible.

A fifteen-year-old boy, carefully chosen for coolness and sharp-wittedness, watched the Narthani through a narrow space between two fallen tree trunks. As the Narthani raised muskets again, he put the horn to his mouth and blew a long note. Men within hearing ducked once more. When the horn was timed right, most men were protected from the coming storm of musket balls. On the fourth Narthani salvo, the boy’s mouth dried up, and he blew seconds too late. Twenty men were struck, two near the boy, including one of his uncles.

The shocked trumpeter gasped and began to cry. An officer shook him violently.

“No time for that now! It’s going to happen! Just do your best. You’ve already saved many lives, and you’ll save more if you brace yourself and do your duty.”

The boy nodded and went back to his viewing slit, tears on his cheeks.

“They’re bringing artillery up closer,” said the major calmly. “There, to our left toward the next battalion.”

Swavebroke looked in time to see two Narthani 12-pounders fire. They swept a section of tree trunks and dirt fortification clear of clansmen. He was about to order the major to redirect musket fire at the Narthani artillery crews when half of the crews fell. Swavebroke couldn’t see who, but somewhere a clan unit commander had anticipated the order. Two other Narthani artillerymen fell, then more. They were replaced, to be felled before firing again. He marveled at their discipline, as the equivalent of several complete gun crews got off a few salvos. He estimated that four complete crews had been felled before the cannon withdrew out of sight.

“Well, that stopped them,” said the major, “but while the men were firing at the cannon, they weren’t firing at the damned Narthani infantry.”

A triple line of infantry was sixty yards from the clans’ fortifications.

“Shit,” said Swavebroke. “They’re about close enough for a final salvo and then a bayonet charge. Damn, we should have had more 6-pounders up here sooner!”

He turned to the major, but the man had already run to the rear to order more of their horse artillery forward.

Narthani infantrymen fell, as the dragoons fired as quickly as they could. Yet despite how many fell, there seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of replacements. A series of horn blasts echoed along the Narthani line. Two shorts and one long.  Swavebroke raised his head again above the tree logs, and his breath caught. In a single motion, the entire Narthani line pulled plug bayonets from scabbards, jammed them into the barrels of their muskets, and lowered the muskets parallel to the ground. Responding to another long horn blast, the entire line surged forward at a run.

Swavebroke leaped back and landed beside a body with a hole in one eye, the man’s musket lying beside him. Swavebroke grabbed the musket and the man’s cartridge sack and ran back to the line. Every musket was needed. He fired once and was reloading when a 6-pounder crew shoved him peremptorily aside and pushed their gun to firing position.

“You shouldn’t be here, Swavebroke!” yelled the major. “You need to get your ass farther back to keep some kind of order to this pile of shit!”

“Too late!” answered Swavebroke. “My horse got shot ten minutes ago. I might as well shoot a few of the fuckers before they break through!”

The major raced to a second 6-pounder coming into position, just as the cannon that had almost run over Swavebroke fired canister at the Narthani, now only fifty yards distant. Farther away from where he could see, another clan cannon fired, then another. Gaps appeared in the Narthani wave. The range was too short for an optimum spread of canister, but instead of one or a few balls hitting a single body, wherever the canister ball cone hit, men were shredded. Even the discipline of the Narthani infantry had its limits, and seeing men only a few feet away turned into clouds of flesh and blood was too much. Narthani on the edge of such carnage hesitated. A few turned and ran to their rear, which accelerated the process. Clansmen kept up a steady musket fire, as more 6-pounders came into play.

The Narthani bayonet charge, which had seemed unstoppable, stalled thirty yards from the fortifications. Swavebroke watched hundreds of Narthani backs, as they fled to the safety of covering foliage, however far away it was. He was tempted to call a ceasefire, as the Narthani charge turned into slaughter. But he didn’t. Every enemy killed or wounded was one fewer to inflict casualties on the men under his responsibility. Men who lived might somehow affect what would happen at Orosz City. Mercy was not an option.

“Call them back,” Istranik said to his second-in-command. “Even when we brought 12-pounders forward to suppress their light cannon, we can’t throw enough men at their line to break through and protect the wagon train at the same time. Clan horsemen coming from the south have already cut through the wagon train in two places. They were pushed out again, but every time we lose more wagons.”

“I thought we’d be able to protect the wagons,” said Istranik’s second-in-command, “until that other attack came from the north. I suspect the latter are Selfcellese, but whoever they are, our infantry is just holding on. Losing most of our cavalry is putting us in a precarious position. The wagon train has the rear infantry units too dispersed.”

“Colonel Kurum made a mistake,” said Istranik. “He didn’t stay within support range of the infantry and artillery left with the wagons. Although to be fair, I suspect he thought they would pull back and found himself too engaged to retreat. Nor did he expect the attack from the north while he faced the islanders to the south.”

“Whatever happened, General, we’re down to fewer than two hundred active cavalry. With the casualties sustained trying to get through this last section of forest, I’m obliged to suggest serious reconsideration of whether we can continue toward Orosz City to meet up with Marshal Gullar.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Istranik. “With our losses and the size and determination we’re seeing from the islanders, I think our top priority has to be to protect the wagons and not try to keep moving. It simply isn’t possible to ensure the security of the supplies if we’re strung out along this road so thinly. With a reduced cavalry screen, the islanders can hit the column almost at will. Even if we repeatedly drive them off, it’ll freeze our forward progress.

“No, I’m afraid Gullar will have to come to us, instead of us to him. We’re only sixty miles from Orosz City. He should just about be there by now, if not farther. Hell, he might even be only a few miles away and we wouldn’t know it, the way the islanders have tightened around us.”

Istranik consulted a well-worn map covered with written symbols and comments.

“If Moreland City were intact, I’d think about withdrawing there. Unfortunately, Gullar’s men were too thorough in destroying it. We’ll make an encampment here.” He pointed to a bend in a river. “We’ll have the river providing protection and have the men dig a ditch and berm. We’ll sit there until we get word from the marshal.”

“Verbal message from Colonel Preddi,” announced an aide to Harmon Swavebroke. “He reports he’s broken off attacks on the Narthani wagon train, as has Colonel Erglan. More infantry keeps showing up, and both regiments are getting increased casualties. He also says his scouts believe the Narthani are about to encamp a few miles southwest of here.”

“That fits what we’ve seen here,” said Swavebroke. “There hasn’t been any forward movement toward our line in the last two hours. Let’s aggressively scout forward to confirm. If true, we need to send a message to the War Council and see what they want us to do.”

Clan Defensive Line

“It’s confirmed,” said Colonel Orlyn four hours later. “The Narthani have pulled back, and their rear units are digging in three miles west of here. I’ve got to believe they intend to stop there; otherwise, why dig in?”

“If that’s true, then we’ve accomplished our missions,” said Swavebroke. He held up a sheet of paper. “We just got a message by rider from Orosz City. Orders are for us to come there with all speed. The rider bringing this message must have passed our man riding to update the War Council on action here. That means they don’t know the Narthani relief force is stopped for the moment. The message says we must arrive at Orosz City as early as possibly tomorrow .”

“Tomorrow!” exclaimed Roblyn Langor, the Selfcell hetman. “That has to mean the final battle is about to begin.”

“I know the men and horses are tired,” said Swavebroke, “but we have our orders. Balwis, your regiment is beaten down the most. You’ll stay here with the wounded and keep an eye on the Narthani, so they don’t realize the rest of us have left.”

Balwis grimaced at the thought of missing the Orosz City battle, but he recognized the logic. Most of his men wouldn’t keep up with the less exhausted regiments.

“The rest of us are to be ready to start in one hour. Feed your men and give them overnight water and rations. Every man is to take enough water and feed to keep his horse alive to Orosz City. Other than that, every horse is expendable. If we have to kill them to get to Orosz City, so be it.

“We’ll also leave all the wagons and cannon with Balwis. As much as we’d like to have the cannon with us, they’ll only slow us down. We’ll take as many extra horses as possible, but any man or horse that can’t keep up will be left behind. If the decisive battle is to be at Orosz City tomorrow, then we have to get there in case we’re needed.”

No matter the war or the cause, rational men can puzzle over why they are trying to kill strangers they have never met and with whom they hold no personal grievance. Nor is it unknown that when viewing the body of an enemy, even the most indoctrinated person can wonder whether the fallen had had a family.

When the united clans of Caedellium faced the Narthani army on the plain south of Orosz City, thousands died and thousands lived. Most fighters would never know the names of those they fought. Most, but not all.

BEST OF ENEMIES

Munmar Kellen was not a habitual liar—though he did lie on rare occasions. Yet the truth was simply the easiest thing to remember, and he valued other people’s trust in his words. In this case, the trust of one hundred men under his command. Thus, when he addressed his men and assured them of the honor of being chosen to lead the Narthani army to victory, he knew he had lied, even if by omission. That the islanders would be defeated, he had no doubt, but he and his troops had seen the fortifications at Orosz City after arriving the previous day. The “honor” of leading the first assault on these fortifications would be meaningless when most of his company would not survive to feel the rays of the mid-day sun.

Nor did it occur to him to wonder whether he was a brave man. The men in his family had served in the Narthani army going back centuries, to the time the original tribe had forced other tribes to join them, and this irresistible force had roared out of the northern steppes of Melosia to found a great empire.

Although his family had not garnered estates or had members rise to the highest levels in society, they proudly held to their reputation as an honorable lineage. Thus, when Munmar Kellen reached his fifteenth year (fourteen on Earth), neither he nor any member of his family doubted he would leave for one of the military training centers in Narthon. The first year had been hard, brutal by some standards, but the discipline instilled by the men of his family and the expectations drummed into him from the time he could understand words singled him out from the myriad of other recruits. In the second year, he was deemed ready to leave the training center far earlier than most, and he joined a military unit. Despite his record predicting advancement, the army waited for his immature physique to develop, believing even a talented sixteen-year-old shouldn’t be expected to command men two and three times his age, many of them hardened veterans.

For four years, he rose slowly in rank. Then, on the day of his twentieth birthday, after reaching his final height and proving tough enough to hold his own with most men, he received a promotion to lieutenant in charge of a platoon of twenty-five men.

Now, twenty-three years old and captain of an infantry company in Marshall Gullar’s 29th Corps, Munmar Kellen finished his reassuring speech by ordering his company to deploy to positions behind the artillery batteries that would start the assault.

Then they waited, and his mind turned to thoughts he would never share with another Narthani. Why were they on this remote island he had never heard of and fighting a people toward whom he felt no animosity? Would his and his men’s lives mean anything? Who would mourn him, except his mother and perhaps one of his three sisters? In another life, could he have had a family and worked on building things, instead of destroying them? Would anyone notice his fear?

Twelve hundred yards away, Elac Kemescu stood next to his cousin against the wooden supports of the clans’ berm. He faced the darkness, where he knew tens of thousands of Narthani were coming to kill him .

“Are you afraid?” asked Horchak Kemescu, his tone begging for reassurance.

“Afraid?” choked Elac, without looking at his cousin. “My knees are knocking against each other so hard, I’ll have bruises on them by evening—if I live long enough to check.”

“I’m scared,” said the cousin, “but I’ll stand here and kill Narthani as long as I can.”

Elac turned. At two feet’s distance, his light-adjusted eyes could discern his relative’s face. He’d never liked his him, thinking him a bully to other children when they were growing up. Still, family was family.

“We’ll stop them here. You’ve seen the defenses. With all our muskets, the cannon, the trench, and them having to get over the berm, we’ll be fine.”

Elac didn’t tell his cousin that on the previous day, from a watch position on the mountainside above Orosz City, he’d seen the Narthani army spread across the flat land to the east. His throat was dry and his fingers white from clutching his musket at the memory.

Then . . . did he hear something?

He set his musket aside and used both hands to cup his ears, as he stared over the rampart.

“What is it, Elac?” whispered his cousin. “You hear something?”

“Shh!” Elac turned his head back and forth. “I think I hear . . .  Quick—the hetman just passed by. See if you can find him.”

The cousin ran into the darkness and reappeared less than two minutes later with Feren Bakalacs, the Hetman Farkesh, both men puffing.

“Hetman, something’s going on.”

Bakalacs and the man following him listened to the east.

“I think it’s wheels,” urged Kemescu.

“Artillery,” stated Bakalacs. “Vegga and Yozef warned us their first move might be to get their artillery in position to support an infantry assault. This might mean they’ll come straight at us here.”

Bakalacs rushed off. Men who had been sitting or talking along the rampart now stood silently with muskets facing sounds that slowly grew in volume. Their company’s captain passed, warning his men not to fire until given the order. Minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Men’s murmuring started again, muffling sounds from their front. Elac wasn’t sure whether the sounds had now stopped.

Then, water. A faint gurgling noise rose to their north.

“They’ve opened the sluice,” said Elac’s cousin. “It’s water coming down the trench.”

Men’s voices rose again—words of encouragement, as the twelve-foot-wide, four-foot-deep trench in front of the berm filled with a foot of water rushing downslope from Orosz City to the river a mile and a half away.

“Whoever is in command must think the damned Narthani are about to attack,” mumbled Elac. “If they’re going to do it, just do it!”

The waiting seemed like torture, and he raised a leather pouch to his mouth. The first water touched his lips when sixty 12-pounder Narthani cannon fired grapeshot and canister from four hundred yards away. Elac reflexively ducked and from the corner of his vision saw his cousin sit back on his haunches. Elac glanced long enough to see that a nearly spent canister ball had hit his relative’s right eye. Horchak Kemescu was dead before he finished sagging.

“Keep your damn heads down until there’s something to shoot at!” screamed a grizzled clansman serving as Elac’s platoon leader. “We’ll get the word when it’s time!”

Elac had no problem obeying the order; the sound of Narthani cannon and whizzing grapeshot and canister balls were all the convincing he needed. Suddenly, he jumped as a Farkesh 12-pounder from only thirty yards to his right fired back at the Narthani, followed quickly by individual 6-, 12-, and a few 30-pounders along the clans’ fortifications.

Minutes passed, though they seemed like hours. Then calls and whistles sounded on all sides. The Narthani were coming!

Munmar Kellen’s orders were to concentrate his company on securing wooden planks across the islanders’ trench, throw roped grapples over the berm, and set satchel charges into it. Their mission was not to be the first over the berm but to ease the way for following units. Ninety-six of his one hundred men reached the trench, and eighty-seven lived to reach the base of the berm. Over shouts and firing from both sides, he did his best to urge his men on. Every plank had a hole drilled near each end. His men drove wooden stakes through the holes into the ground to hold the plank in place, as other men raced across the water. When the following units reached the trench, some of his men righted or held planks in place when one end broke loose. Other men threw grapples over the berm or dug away at the earthen glacis to bury satchel charges. More men took grapples and satchel charges from men who fell before deploying what they carried.

When Kemescu stood to look over the rampart, the sky was lightening. Along with strobe-like flashes from cannon, he could see hundreds of Narthani soldiers racing toward the clans’ defenses. Clansmen made no attempt at volleying. Every man fired as fast as he could identify targets—of which there were now a superabundance. He fired with no idea whether he hit anything. Then he stepped back, lowered his head below the top of the rampart, and frantically reloaded, his hands shaking. He became numb, as he developed a rhythm. Fire. Step back and duck. Reload. Repeat.

The Narthani began crossing the trench. A Narthani soldier was halfway across a plank when Elac’s ball hit the man high in the chest, and he fell into the water, to be carried away. Yet Elac had no time or inclination to appreciate that he’d shot a Narthani because every time he rose to fire, the edge of the Narthani wave moved closer.

Munmar yelled at three of his men to secure a plank; then they were swept away by the canister cone from an islander 12-pounder acting like a gigantic broom. Nine infantrymen of the third regiment to reach the trench went with his three men. Still, more infantry waited on the other side, and the plank held as it refilled with men running across. He had no time to mourn his men—three among several times as many already lost. He had only a moment to notice it was the first cannon shot near his position in many minutes, and islander musket fire had diminished once the infantry overran the berm at Munmar’s position and a hundred yards in both directions. He hoped this meant the attack was going well, and the regiments flowing over the top of the berm were pushing the islanders back.

That hope vanished when Narthani infantrymen came retreating over the berm, some panic-stricken, others without muskets. The initial few turned into a tide, and an immobile mass of men collected between the trench and the base of the berm—men coming from both directions. Then Munmar heard the trumpets signaling recall. The attack had failed!

His order had been to support the trench crossing and the berm breaching—nothing about withdrawal. Should he order his remaining men to retreat and save as many as he could? Or should they stay to keep the planks in place until all surviving infantry crossed the trench? At first, only sporadic islander fire peppered the infantry, but gradually fire increased as clansmen reoccupied the ramparts. Finally, when the flow back over the berm slackened, Munmar signaled his men to leave the planks and join men running to get out of shot range as fast as they could. Most of his men saw him signal, but to the north a knot of eight men missed his arm waving—too focused on their job. He fought his way through infantry waiting to cross the trench. When he reached his men, only five remained standing.

By the time Munmar knew all his remaining men were across the trench, he was one of the last Narthani on the islanders’ side. He cast aside any obligation to provide leadership. There was no unit organization. It was every man for himself. He ran. Ran as hard as his already adrenaline-saturated body would allow. Canister and musket balls buzzed around him. Men fell beside and in front of him. He had always been a fast runner, and he passed scores of men. He didn’t look behind, running as if his life depended on it, which it did. At four hundred yards from the berm, just when he thought he was about out of musket and canister range, a louder drone signaled the arrival of grapeshot. A man ten yards in front of Munmar disintegrated, as one grapeshot hit him in the small of his back and another between the shoulder blades. Munmar swerved slightly to avoid the man’s body parts and ran even faster.

During the Narthani attack, Elac Kemescu lost count of how many times he’d fired his musket. All he knew was that his shoulder ached and must be bruised. Black powder covered his hands, and when he took a split second to wipe sweat from his face, the sleeve of his shirt came away coated black. He didn’t recognize any nearby clansmen or which clan they came from. In the chaos, men came and went, intermixing, as some died or were carried away wounded and others took their places.

The berm rampart sections zig-zagged enough so that if the Narthani overran any section, they could only fire down the line no more than twenty yards. However, a slight elevation in his position gave Elac a partial view several hundred yards to the north toward Orosz City. Thus, although he fired at first to his front and then obliquely, as the Narthani broke through to the north, glances in all directions told him the breach increased in width, minute by minute. By the time the Narthani came over the top, they were jumping down only forty yards from Elac. He feared the other Farkeshers were doomed to be the last men ground underfoot of the seemingly unstoppable torrent of Narthani.

When the breach ceased widening, for the first time he took a moment to look west behind the berm. He saw Narthani being pushed back by increasing numbers of clanspeople—mainly men, but he could see a few skirts and dresses. Within minutes, the Narthani pulled back as fast as they could.

A man of unknown name and clan, bearing the rank insignia of a captain, appeared behind Elac and yelled. “Aim for men holding the planks in place! The Narthani attack failed, and they’re retreating. If more of those planks fall into the water, we can trap more of the bastards on this side of the trench and slaughter them!”

Elac did as directed for three shots, hitting one man who collapsed in place. A second man jerked but continued using a mallet on the side of a plank every time it shifted under the weight of men crossing. This kept it from slipping off the trench edge and into the water. When Elac reached for another cartridge, his fingers touched the bottom of his empty pouch. Other men still fired, and he pulled back several steps, casting his eyes around for a fallen man who no longer needed cartridges.

“Here,” called a raspy voice. “Take mine.” A man covered in blood held out a cartridge pouch with a shaking hand.

Elac grabbed the pouch without thanking the man or looking at his face. He ran back to an open position on the rampart. When he got there, he saw the closest Narthani a hundred yards on the other side of the trench, as the enemy ran or limped for safety. He knew he lacked the marksmanship to hit a moving target at that distance, but other targets littered the ground. Wounded Narthani moved on both sides of the trench, some trying to crawl to safety. Elac turned his musket to a man dragging himself along the ground thirty yards away. His finger touched the trigger, then moved away. Killing Narthani coming at him was one thing, but he couldn’t kill a man already badly wounded and helpless. Elac raised his head from the musket sight along the barrel in time to see someone else’s musket ball strike the back of the crawling man’s head.

By the time Munmar Kellen reached the original position of the Narthani artillery, the cannon had withdrawn to fifteen hundred yards, out of islander cannon range and within the corps’ formations. When he reached that point, he collapsed amid thousands of other spent men. Healers circulated to identify and treat wounded in place or called for stretcher-bearers for those unable to move. Some were exhausted or lay where they had been dropped after other men carried them to safety. Fifteen minutes passed before Munmar recovered enough to sit up and look for his men. In the next hour, he gathered fourteen of the original hundred members of his company. Others might be scattered within the throng. Officers attempting to organize the chaos didn’t worry about original units—there had been too many casualties and not enough time because word circulated that another attack would be launched.

A colonel spotted Kellen’s insignia. “Captain, how many of your men do you have left?”

Kellen glanced around wearily. The number hadn’t changed. “Fourteen, sir. There might be others, but I don’t know where they are.”

“No time to find them.” The major walked to a cluster of five men sitting ten yards away. “You men, report to Captain—” He looked at Munmar.

“Kellen, sir. Captain Munmar Kellen.”

“Report to Captain Kellen here,” said the major to the five men who had lost their units.

The major continued gathering men in the vicinity. When the number reached seventy or eighty, Munmar hadn’t kept count, the major turned to order, “This is now your temporary company, Captain. Report to the regiment flying the blue flag. You’ll be attached to them. They’ll follow the next breakthrough.”

Without waiting for an acknowledgment, the major walked away, searching for another officer or senior NCO to form a rump company.

Munmar sat back down on the ground for several minutes, then gathered himself and stood. He cleared his throat and tried to stand straighter than he thought possible—trying to morph himself back into a Narthani officer.

“All right, men. It was bad, but we’re still alive, and the corps still needs to break through the damned islander defenses if we’re to get back to Preddi City and the navy. We won’t be leading the next attack but will follow with the last regiments to go through the coming breakthrough. Let’s get on our feet and find where we’re supposed to be.”

A third of the men rose immediately, many helping another third who had trouble getting up. The rest remained listless, some with blank looks or eyes that seemed to focus on something in the distance. It took another ten minutes before he had all the men on their feet and walking slowly to the rear. While they walked, he counted. Seventy-two men.

When the last retreating Narthani and cannon moved out of range, clansmen poured over the berm and engaged in an orgy of killing wounded enemy combatants. Other men stood atop the ramparts and fired muskets at wounded on the east side of the trench. Elac Kemescu didn’t participate. It took fifteen minutes for commanders to get control and have the men tip all the planks into the stream flowing south. The planks were carried to the lake that had formed when islander charges dropped sections of the cliffs into the river. The men at the breakthrough point didn’t realize that once the planks reached the still-forming lake, they slowed, backed up, and created a crossable tangle which units in that position struggled to dismantle.

Elac walked to the water wagons to drink deeply and fill his water flask, then headed over to women handing out bread, cheese, and dry sausage. He took some of each and limped fifty feet away, where he sat on the ground and forced himself to eat. Men, women, wagons, and horses bustled in all directions around him. He paid no attention, focusing on chewing and wondering how he’d survived the attack.

I’m sorry for Uncle Fornic and Aunt Ulrah losing their son , he thought, flashing on the cousin killed in the first Narthani salvo. I like them, and I never knew how they produced that asshole. Him I won’t miss. I wonder if I’ll live to the end of the day, and if I die, who will say the same about me? “Too bad for his family, but he was an asshole.”

With the sun high in the sky, the call came to take positions. Munmar Kellen had done his best to see that the seventy-two men in his ragtag company drank and ate in the last two hours. An apathetic few he had to order to do both. He accepted that more of them, perhaps all, might die soon, but his duty required preparing them as best he could to both do their duty and help their chances of survival. Only sixty-nine men made it to their mustering point. Two men refused to move, having entered semi-catatonic states. A third soldier ran to the rear. Kellen didn’t pursue—he would be taken into custody and summarily shot by internal security patrols.

A fresh regiment moved past their position, its men looking nervously at the condition of Kellen’s men. Information didn’t disseminate easily within the Narthani army, but the new men knew the first attack had not gone well. Their officers exhorted them that failure to breach the islander defensives was not an option; the attack would press forward, no matter the losses.

“Captain Kellen, do you really think we have a chance?” said a voice to Kellen’s left. It was one of only two non-commissioned rankers from the original company.

“A chance? There’s always a chance. You’ve heard the word passed down from Marshal Gullar. No stopping, no retreat. All we can do is our duty to Narthon and our men. I’ll be leading the men, and I’ll trust you to keep them following me.”

A single horn sounded from the position of the corps’s command post, followed by echoing horns spreading sequentially from buglers in all directions from Kellen’s company. The notes signaled “Prepare to engage the enemy.”

Elac Kemescu heard the Narthani bugles only seconds after Kellen did. He needed no explanation. The Narthani were coming again. He had peeked over the rampart four minutes earlier and had seen Narthani cannon being rolled forward, some already stopped, and their crews bustling around the guns—he assumed loading them. Kemescu didn’t know how to load and fire cannon, but he figured they were positioning to fire. A salvo roared from the east, confirming his assumption. Moments later, the heavy buzz of balls passing over the rampart was accompanied by soft and hard thuds, as grapeshot hit the sloped glacis of the berm or found wooden parts of the rampart not protected by enough earth. A yell to his right made him glance to see a man flung back as a grapeshot ball broke through the rampart and took off the top of his head.

“Hold steady, men,” an Oroszian officer called out. Kemescu didn’t notice the man’s rank—he had more important concerns. He also didn’t worry why he found himself under an Oroszian officer and standing alongside members of his own Farkesh clan and men from Pewitt. After the first attack, the section overrun by the Narthani had been repaired as much as possible in the time allowed and re-manned by men he didn’t know. Although his position had barely held, almost half of the men were killed or wounded, then replaced by Pewitt men slotted into gaps within the Farkesh ranks, with men of both clans now commanded by an Oroszian.

“You’ll get the word when it’s time to shoot at the bastards!” the officer yelled.

Munmar Kellen’s apprehension at charging the islanders’ fortifications a second time was tempered as his men trotted forward. He hadn’t seen the first units leading the attack, but he’d heard the islanders’ cannon and musket fire and was surprised when only occasional musket and cannon fire targeted his new regiment. Most of the sounds of combat came from the other side of the berm. For the last few hundred yards, he and his men stepped over bodies from both attacks. By the time they reached the islanders’ water-flowing trench, he’d stepped on more bodies than he cared to remember because so much of the ground lay hidden by the once-living. His boot elicited a scream from a man he’d stepped on when he thought the man dead. But he didn’t stop. Orders and intuition told him to keep moving if they wanted to live.

As they crossed over the trench, Kellen wondered whether the planks were the ones his original company had put in place as they led the first attack or new ones. Once across, he directed his men to several ropes lying down the glacis, the other end of each rope tied to a grapple whose hooked points anchored in wood or earth on the other side of the berm. He had led to this point but now dropped behind and was the last to climb, to make sure the men kept moving.

At the top, he paused only a second to behold a nightmare scene. For hundreds of yards to his front and several hundred yards wide, Narthani infantry poured over the berm and into islanders massed to stop them. It was the flow of an unstoppable liquid into an immovable mass. Where the fighters touched, hand-to-hand fighting raged. He and his men were on the edge of the flow over the berm, and he’d already lost sight of most of the men he’d followed. A few he recognized from their backs as he moved forward, but most of them engaged islanders as the Narthani salient tried to extend.

In front of him, islanders drove into several of his men moving forward. Some of his other men turned to defend themselves. Kellen gathered himself to jump down onto the rampart when a ball from a canister ball spun him around. He fell face forward, his throat striking a wooden corner as he landed on a wounded islander.

For a moment, his throat spasmed, then air fought through, and he was simultaneously aware of pains—in his left arm, right leg, and chest—as the islander grabbed him and they rolled over.

Elac Kemescu’s position was not at the point of the second Narthani breakthrough, yet close enough that he could see another apparently endless stream of maroon-and-blue–clad enemy pouring over the berm and into the melee to the west. He and a knot of clansmen found themselves isolated on the rampart with Narthani on all sides. He reached for another potato-masher grenade (as Yozef Kolsko called them) to throw at the Narthani coming toward them. His hand groped for it in vain. With no time for cursing or praying, he fought hand-to-hand as Narthani came over the berm and jumped down to attack the clansmen. The enemies fought over a layer of bodies.

He tried to fend off a bayonet but failed. It penetrated his guard to pierce his side above the waist. He swung his musket butt at the Narthani and missed. The enemy combatant pulled his bayonet back to prepare for another thrust, but one of Kemescu’s clansman clubbed the Narthani in the back. Then clansman reached for Kemescu, only to fall himself with a Narthani bayonet protruding through his chest.

Kemescu fell to his knees. A searing pain from the stab wound finally gained his brain’s attention. As he pressed a hand against the wound, he saw blood pouring down from a gash on his upper arm. In the stress of the fighting, he hadn’t noticed when or from whom he’d received the other injury.

Suddenly, a Narthani fell onto him. The two men grappled and twisted together on top of bodies dead and wounded. Kemescu tried to reach the short-bladed knife in his boot, but his injured arm wouldn’t cooperate.

More Narthani stampeded over the berm. They ignored the two embracing men and rushed to join the fighting to the west. Kemescu felt the Narthani weakening. Unfortunately, so was he. The grips of the two men slackened until neither attempted to force his will on the other. Men jumped onto them from the top of the berm, then ran on. A Narthani stopped, looked down at Kemescu, then drew a knife. Kemescu expected to die in the next moment. Yet he was too exhausted and weak to feel relief when another Narthani—an officer, by his tone of voice—yelled something, and the knife-wielder resheathed the blade and moved on.

Kemescu pulled himself into an alcove that some unknown islander had dug into the earth-exposed rampart wall. He watched the eyes of the Narthani he’d been trying to kill moments earlier. Neither said anything, not that any words would have been audible over the yells, the screams, and the firing of muskets and cannon.

Kemescu watched as the wounded Narthani dragged himself toward the alcove. His brain told him to prepare to fight again, but his body refused. He was stunned when the Narthani, instead of grabbing a weapon, began pulling out items the unknown creator of the alcove had accumulated in the recess: clothes, hardtack, cheese, and a single boot.

Later, he couldn’t understand why he’d acted as he did, but he took a water jug and a worn copy of the Word from the alcove to make more room. Then he helped the Narthani into the alcove. Neither spoke. Kemescu looked at his arm. It still bled badly.

I need to put a tourniquet on it , he thought but drifted into unconsciousness before he could act.

Munmar Kellen didn’t know whether the islander would knife and kill him, but he was too exhausted and injured to care. He crawled to the recess holding the enemy, along with other items, and began clearing space for himself. The islander’s help in making room stopped Kellen for a second. Then he dragged himself up next to the islander, the two of them sitting side by side, backs against the berm.

All nearby islander resistance along the rampart had ended, and Narthani infantry streamed past them. Neither man could see the fighting, but they could hear the din. How long they sat, neither could tell. When Kellen thought the sounds of fighting might be diminishing, he looked at the unconscious islander, whose arm still bled. Kellen felt sick of death. He had been in training or active duty for eight years. He had seen more men die than he wanted to for the rest of his life. He hadn’t chosen the army life, but given the family into which he had been born, it was expected of him. Yet it had never been a calling, as it was for other men in his family. He inspected and felt his body. Minor wounds from canister balls to one leg and one arm. A painful wound to his upper chest. He touched the collarbone and almost fainted from the pain. It must be broken , he thought.

His throat felt swollen. He uncorked the water jug the islander had pulled out of the alcove and sipped, then drank two deep draughts. The water went down, but his neck ached. He looked again at the islander. Too much death. Who was this man? He appeared a little older than Kellen. Did he have a family? If the Narthani won this battle, would the man survive the day?

Did he care whether the man died? Kellen didn’t know his name or anything about him. Dismay flashed through his mind. The insanity of the two of them trying to kill each other when they were strangers.

I suppose he’s defending his home and family , thought Kellen. But why am I here? I don’t even know why we’re on the damn island. I’m sure it has something to do with expanding the empire and defeating enemies of Narthon, but what does that have to do with me? And why do I care if the emperor adds to his realm?

Elac Kemescu woke to cries of wounded men. From where he lay, he could see movement from both islander and Narthani bodies down the rampart. What he didn’t hear were musket or cannon firings. He looked at the man sitting beside him, their bodies touching from shoulder to foot. The Narthani stared blankly ahead.

Kemescu had been unconscious. For how long? Was the fighting over? Who won?

He tried to use his right arm to pull himself out of the alcove, but a terrible pain shocked him. The pain came from a wound and a tourniquet on the upper part of his arm. Then he remembered the wound and recalled thinking that it needed a tourniquet. But he didn’t remember applying it, especially not with a strip of dark blue cloth matching Narthani infantry pants. He glanced at the Narthani’s leg with part of his pant leg cut away. A piece of the cloth had been used as a compress bandage on the man’s leg and two more pieces for Kemescu’s arm and a compress bandage on his side wound.

At first, what Kemescu saw made little sense. Did someone use cloth from the man’s pants to treat both of us? He discarded that possibility. He couldn’t imagine any islander bothering to treat a Narthani. Not during a battle. Nor could he imagine the Narthani caring about a wounded Caedelli.

Did I do it? Wouldn’t I remember?

The only other possibility seemed no more likely—that the Narthani sitting next to him had bound his own wounds as well as Kemescu’s.

With his good arm, Kemescu tapped the Narthani’s thigh to get the man’s attention. He pointed to the bandages and mimed a question with hand gestures. “Did you do this?”

A sad smile and a nod answered him.

“Why did you do it?” said Kemescu in Caedelli.

The Narthani shook his head and tried to say something, but only a croak came out.

“We were just trying to kill each other. And not just us. Our people must each have killed thousands of the other side these last few hours.”

The man only shook his head and gave a pained shrug.

“Of course, you can’t understand anything I’m saying, can you?” muttered Kemescu.

The Narthani reached out toward the tourniquet and used a twisting gesture.

He’s telling me to release the tourniquet? wondered Kemescu. How long has it been on? It feels numb. Too long and the arm will die?

Kemescu released the knot holding pressure on the arm. As circulation returned, he gasped from pain and his head slammed back against the alcove. Bleeding began immediately, fresh blood flowing over the caked blood coating the arm.

How long do I let it go? he thought once the initial agony subsided. Too long and I’ll bleed to death. Will help come, and who will it be help for, me or the Narthani? Who won?

He felt squeezing again on the arm. The Narthani twisted the knife scabbard he’d used to tighten the tourniquet. It hurt, then the pain subsided as blood flow slowed.

Men moving along the rampart thirty or forty yards away caught Kemescu’s eye. Clansmen. He groaned as he pulled himself up to peer west of the rampart where the fighting had been fierce. On the flat land, he saw a carpet of bodies. Clanspeople were carrying or aiding their wounded compatriots toward wagons or walking toward Orosz City if they were able. Medicants treated wounded in place. Pain and faint-headedness dulled what should have been Kemescu’s elation. The clans must have won the battle.

Other men moved among the bodies. Men not intent on aid. Men with knives, swords, and clubs checking Narthani bodies for signs of life and, if found, snuffing them out.

Kemescu looked back at the man he’d been willing to kill and who might have killed him. The man who might have saved Kemescu from bleeding to death.

“Well, damn it, God! What do I owe him? He’s a cursed Narthani who would have killed or enslaved all of us! Who knows why he helped me? Maybe he knew his people had lost, and he’s hoping I’ll save him. Maybe God will whisper to Yozef Kolsko what I’m supposed to do, and the Septarsh is on his way here right now!”

The spoken words brought forth an aborted chuckle, as Kemescu let himself sag back down. He looked at the Narthani.

“You are in deep trouble, my friend or enemy or whatever you are. I may not have the strength to finish you, and I guess I don’t have the same urgency to do it that I might have had an hour ago.”

Kemescu and the Narthani stared at each other for almost a minute. Then the islander decided.

“All right, God. The Word says those who give mercy are worthy of mercy themselves. I hope you’re watching, God, and I get some credit for past and future transgressions.”

Kemescu tugged at his own clothes, motioning as if to pull them off. Then he tugged at the Narthani’s pants and made the same gestures. The man stared at him, eyebrows scrunched in puzzlement. Only when Kemescu rolled a dead clansman onto his back and began removing his clothing did the Narthani understand. Both men worked as quickly as they could. By now, the Narthani had seen clansmen dispatching wounded enemies and moving toward them. Kemescu put a hand over his lips, shook his head, then pointed at the Narthani’s mouth. The point was understood—don’t talk.

Kemescu didn’t think the Narthani would finish dressing in time, but a man moving their way with a dripping knife stopped to talk to two other clansmen. Kemescu couldn’t hear the words, but it was an argument. Finally, one man walked away, and the men killing wounded Narthani worked toward Kemescu. By the time they started again and reached the alcove, they saw two wounded clansmen sitting next to each other amid bodies.

One of the men stood on top of the berm and shouted for medicants. Twenty minutes later, Kemescu and Kellen lay on a wagon heading to Orosz City.

“No, no!” Kemescu called out when the medicant assistants tried to put him and the Narthani in separate rooms. They were in an Orosz City building being used as a temporary hospital ward.

“He’s my cousin. He’s simple-minded and doesn’t speak well. He’ll be frightened if I’m not with him.” It was the only excuse Kemescu could think of.

He had worried that the Narthani’s lack of a beard would give them away because all Narthani were cleanshaven, except for occasional mustaches. However, in the rush to treat so many wounded, it went unnoticed. Now, if the Narthani just refrained from speaking, intentionally or in sleep or delirium, their secret might be safe.

Both men had lost a dangerous amount of blood, but once treated, none of the wounds threatened their lives. Fortuitously, when the Narthani fell onto the rampart and struck his throat, the swelling and bruise hindered vocalization and provided a perfect excuse for his silence. But that couldn’t last. And then what? Kemescu’s thinking hadn’t gotten further than keeping the Narthani from being summarily killed and then having his wounds treated. Several times, he felt tempted to call for a senior medicant and reveal the deception. It would then be someone else’s problem. Once, when he’d almost decided on that course, he overheard other men in the ward grumbling because so many Narthani soldiers had been spared. They’d been taken to camps near Neath, in southwestern Moreland Province.

Yozef Kolsko had insisted those prisoners would be valuable in convincing the Narthani to leave Caedellium. However, this leniency apparently didn’t apply to Narthani who fled the battlefield and were being hunted down by clansmen. Kemescu knew that if they discovered the Narthani he’d shielded, the man’s fate would be death. He worried that even the medicants might kill the Narthani, despite their calling. He’d heard too many of the them, especially younger ones, cursing Narthon. Treating thousands of wounded had taken most of a sixday, even with so many of the island’s medicants on hand. Exhaustion and an experience like this could affect the feelings of even the most pious and caring of medicants and theophists.

Three sixdays after the battle, Kemescu felt well enough to travel. He thought the Narthani was in better shape than himself, except for the man’s broken collarbone from a canister round. Medicants had immobilized the arm on that side with a sling held by straps crossing both shoulders and his back. They told Kemescu it would take three to five sixdays for the collarbone to heal enough so he could move his arm.

For the last two sixdays, both men made their way daily to a temporary voiding tent behind the building and sat outside a few hours. As soon as they moved out of other people’s hearing, Kemescu began teaching the Narthani to speak Caedelli. He had no idea how far they could progress, but the man needed to understand a few phrases.

First came names, and within a minute they were known to each other as Elac and Munmar. From there, the first lessons succeeded with go, stop, run, and walk .

This Narthani is sharp , thought Elac. Probably smarter than me, which is good if we’re both going to get out of this mess I’ve gotten myself in .

Not that Elac feared for himself. He could always claim it was an attempt at mercy for a helpless human—even if a Narthani. The worst would be how many people would get angry with him. However, the consequences could be fatal for Munmar. Despite his better judgment, Elac felt a bond with the Narthani. He knew of stories and legends from other lands where those who saved lives became obliged to care for them. It wasn’t so in Caedelli customs. Maybe not here , Elac thought, but if I feel this way and it’s known in other lands, maybe it’s something natural for humans. I don’t know, but I can’t let Munmar be killed .

Elac’s plans coalesced when a medicant gathered together all the patients in their ward. He read a five-page message from the Caedellium War Council, the four hetmen and Yozef Kolsko, who had organized the clans against the Narthani.

“The Narthani have agreed to leave Caedellium. It will take five to seven months for all of them to go because there aren’t enough ships. But the available ships will be loaded up, sailed to Narthon, then return for more people. The Council thinks it will take two or three round trips. No slaves will be forced to go.”

Elac waved a hand for attention. He worried about sneaking Munmar into Preddi. “Are the Narthani scattered throughout Preddi Province?”

“For now,” said the medicant. “But the first step is clearing the entire province of Narthani, except for Preddi City. Those will be the last.”

“What if Narthani are found elsewhere? Maybe some are still hiding in the hills or trying to get back to Preddi.”

The medicant shook his head. “I doubt there are many. The clans scoured for hundreds of miles. If Yozef Kolsko hadn’t insisted on keeping prisoners after the battle, I doubt a single Narthani would have survived.”

Elac detected a hint of regret in the last words.

I need to get Munmar to Preddi City before the last shipload of Narthani leaves. Neither of us is in shape or has enough coin to get there now. If they think it will take five to seven months, I can take him back home with me, then when we’re both recovered, and I have enough coin, we can travel to Preddi. It’ll also give him time to learn enough Caedelli to help disguise what he is.

A sixday later, a caravan of wagons left Orosz City for Farkesh, Elac’s home province. Four of the twenty wagons carried wounded who had recovered enough for the journey. The wagons’ flatbeds had two-foot sides, with straw and cloth covering the bed for the men to sit or lie on. By this time, Munmar’s beard and plain clothing provided sufficient cover—no one would suspect a Narthani rode in a wagon. Elac continued to speak for them both, now no longer claiming Munmar as a cousin but an islander from an unknown clan whose injuries left him unable to speak and addled of mind. Yet because the man had saved Elac’s life, Elac told any questioner that he felt committed to care for the unnamed man.

By the end of the first day, the drivers of the trade wagons grew frustrated at the slow pace. They pulled ahead, leaving the wagons with wounded to proceed at a speed more comfortable for men still recovering and in pain if jolted. At night, the wagons stopped in villages and towns, if possible. Otherwise, they camped near water. Wherever they stopped, the local people supplied more food than they could eat, and any available medicants checked the men’s condition. A full sixday later, the wagons arrived in Devanyo, the capital of the Farkesh clan and province.

By that time, a third of the men had been left with family members, as the wagons passed near their homes. Most of Elac’s extended family lived in the western sections of the capital. Feren Bakalacs, the Farkesh hetman, insisted on a ceremony and a welcoming parade. Five miles from the city’s center, a hundred mounted men with banners met the wagons and escorted them through the outer hamlets, past the outer sections of the city, and into the great square of Devanyo. Although most of the men preferred to simply reunite with their families, the hetman took the occasion to remember all the fallen: those killed by the Narthani, those with lesser wounds who’d already returned home, and now one of the last batches of more seriously wounded.

Crowds lined the main street, and people cheered as the wagons passed. At the central square, a roped-off section was accessible only to families of men in the wagons. They had been alerted via semaphore message from Orosz City. As soon as Elac’s wagon stopped, he stood and scanned for recognized faces. He quickly spotted his wife, Lesca, holding their youngest in her arms and the oldest by hand. Behind Lesca, he saw both of his parents, two of his three sisters, his two living brothers, and other members of his extended family. Only the brother who died at the Battle of Moreland City was missing.

Chaos presented a momentary threat to the returnees as families pressed forward. Men shouted and quieted the throng long enough to let the men in the wagon dismount and be led to their families. Elac’s family engulfed him. First his wife and children, then parents, siblings, cousins, and a few people whose relationships he stumbled to remember.

Only when they were being led away to make room for other families did he remember Munmar.

“WAIT!” he called out loudly to be heard above the talking of everyone who came to meet him. “There’s someone I brought with me.” He extricated himself and returned to the wagon. Munmar sat alone, his posture suggesting an attempt to be unnoticed.

“Munmar, come on,” he said, motioning with both hands. “I know you still don’t understand most of what I say, but we have to go, and I’ll tell my family about you.” Elac also thought, At least, the story I’ve made up about who you are and why you’re coming with us.

He took Munmar by the elbow and led him back to the family, some of whom wore questioning looks.

“Munmar Kellen is his name. He was wounded severely in the battle and can’t talk. He also acts a little simpleminded and can’t always understand what’s being said to him. He saved my life. I was wounded and unconscious. He treated my injuries enough for me to live until the medicants got to me. They told me if he hadn’t done what he did, I almost certainly would have died.”

Elac’s mother rushed to Munmar tearfully and crushed him in an embrace. “Oh, bless you, Mun . . . Munmar, is that his name?”

“Yes. Munmar.”

She kissed the Narthani on a cheek, hugged him again, and made way for similar displays from Elac’s wife and sisters, then thanks and back-slaps from the family’s men. When Elac’s father held out an arm, Munmar stared at it, then at Elac.

“He doesn’t understand, Father. Remember, I said his mind isn’t clear.”

“No matter,” said Selkak Kemescu. He pulled Munmar’s right arm forward and led him into the traditional Farkesh forearm clasp. Other men followed suit.

“Where’s he from?” asked Sonyus Kemescu, Elac’s twenty-year-old sister.

“No one knows,” answered Elac, moving into his carefully planned narrative. “When he does manage to get out a word, it’s hard to understand. So far, no one has recognized him, and he hasn’t been able to communicate. The medicants say it all might pass, and his speech and mind could eventually return. Until then, I owe him my life, and I’ve committed to God to look after him as long as necessary.”

“Quite right,” said Elac’s father.

“Yes, yes,” echoed Lesca Kemescu. “Anyone who saved Elac can live with us for as long as is needed.”

With Munmar’s status settled, Elac endured the rest of the day before he could get home and fall asleep in his own bed—something he had doubted would ever happen again. Munmar temporarily settled into Lesca’s workroom, and Elac promised that he and Munmar would expand a spare room attached to the woodworking shop behind the house. Elac stayed at home three days before rejoining the family carpentry business, working a few hours a day, then more as he healed.

Elac moved back into his previous life, but things had changed.

“Dear, what’s wrong?” asked Lesca one evening after the two children were asleep. “I can tell you’re restless, as if you’ve something on your mind. Is it about the battle at Orosz City? You haven’t talked about it to me or anyone else in the family since you got home. I know it was terrible. We’ve heard stories from men who were there. Even Perna asked me if anything is wrong with her father.”

Elac glanced at the door of the bedroom where the children slept: daughter Perna, six years old; son Kesnu, two.

“I’m not sure I know, Lesca. As much as I thank God that I made it back home to you and the children, I’m changed. I don’t know what it means, but I maybe expected things to be the same as before. Maybe I can’t be the same man. Not after Orosz City. No matter what stories you’ve heard, there’s no way I can describe what I saw and did that can make you understand. I think people would need to experience it themselves to know what I feel.”

“Is that why you seem so concerned about Munmar? Oh, I know you feel an obligation since he saved your life, and I don’t begrudge that. But is it also because he can understand the part of you that I can’t, no matter how much I want to?”

“Yes—but there’s something else. Something I’ll tell you about, just not yet. I need some time, so you have to be patient.”

Lesca embraced her husband. “You know I’m here. Just try to make peace with whatever it is.”

The Farkesh clan struggled to return to life the way it had been before they mobilized to fight the Narthani. Workers and tradespeople who’d been diverted to making muskets, cannon, ammunition, and storing food attempted to pick up their previous work. Most succeeded, at least to a degree. Along with disruption of the economy and changing conditions, the islanders—no longer merely independent, mainly agrarian clans—had to cope with burgeoning centralization and increased opportunities. Elac continued to feel restless during the next four months, even if outside observers—except for his wife—believed everything was as before. He worked with the other men of the Kemescu family in their carpentry business. As the youngest of three brothers, he was accustomed to working under the direction of either his father or the two older brothers.

The Farkesh clan had not suffered direct Narthani attacks, unlike some other clans, so no major rebuilding was needed. However, coin remained in tight supply, as the economy tried to re-establish itself and new work within Farkesh Province returned slowly. In contrast, some clans experienced booms in construction to repair damage from the fighting. Many workers moved temporarily to those clans short of needed workers, thereby reducing the pool of carpenters in Farkesh and helping balance the work-to-workers ratio within the province.

Munmar worked alongside Elac. The Narthani learned quickly, a contradiction to his supposed simple-mindedness that Elac’s family either didn’t notice or ignored. He ate with Elac’s family, played with the two children, helped with chores around the house and yard, and, most important, immersed himself in the Caedelli language. He listened intently to anything said within his hearing and tried to associate the words with actions. Elac arranged for them to work separately from other family members as much as possible, and during those hours, the two men kept up nonstop lessons in Caedelli.

As Munmar’s ability to communicate improved, Elac learned of his life history: a military family in Narthon, no wife yet, years of training and army service, and coming to Caedellium. Munmar’s increased ability to speak Caedelli led to tense discussions.

“One of my brothers died at Moreland City,” said Elac. “My family will never forgive Narthon for what it did on Caedellium.”

“Sorry, Elac,” said Munmar, in his still broken but improving Caedelli. “I wasn’t here when your brother died. I fighting Iraquiniks. Very bad, too. Many deaths. Best friend lost both legs and killed self. I wanted to cry, but Narthani not to cry. Instead, I pretend proud friend.”

“Were you proud to be fighting the Iraquiniks?” asked Elac. “Did you and your people hate them like we hate the Narthani?”

“I not know Iraquiniks. Never met. Never talked. Strangers. Also, they me. Fight because ordered to. If no fight, I be killed by army. No choice.”

Only after these brief, elementary interchanges early on did Elac know he felt more than an obligation to Munmar. He was honest enough to see the difficulty of being raised in a culture that placed strictures on citizens’ thoughts and actions. He had also interacted with Munmar long enough to see him as a normal man and not the ogre most Farkeshers imagined of every Narthani.

In addition, Elac was empathetic for situations beyond one’s control. Elac’s birth into a carpenter’s family meant that from the time he understood speech, he was expected to be a carpenter and junior to his father and brothers—all factors beyond his control. Hadn’t it been the same for Munmar?

Four months after the Orosz City battle, Elac figured he needed to get Munmar to Preddi City before the last Narthani ship left. Munmar also spoke enough Caedelli to pass as an islander with a rough voice, an injured larynx, and a little simple-minded. Thus, Elac planned to broach the topic while working alone with Munmar to frame a farm shed. To Elac’s puzzlement, he regretted the prospect of the Narthani leaving. Nevertheless, he primed himself to bring it up. Then Munmar surprised him.

“Elac, I believe I should move. Maybe live in another place in the city.”

“Move?” asked Elac. “I thought you were comfortable living with my family.”

“Oh, you, your wife, and your children are good. I thank you for allowing me to live with you. It is other members of your family that live near. I think I should be farther from them.”

Despite Elac’s questioning, Munmar gave no additional information.

That evening, Elac asked his wife, “What do you think, Lesca? Have you heard or seen anything I’ve missed? Is Munmar not getting along with people? Who?”

Lesca shook her head. “His speech is improving every day, so he should be able to live by himself, although I don’t know of anything that would lead Munmar to want to move farther from the family . . . unless.” She pursed her lips. “Unless he’s not getting along with Sonyus.”

“Sonyus? Why would there be a problem?”

“I might be imagining it, but there may be tension between them. You’d have to talk with her.”

Which Elac did the next day when he stopped by his parent’s house only a hundred yards from his own home.

He found his sister hanging clothes to dry behind the family home.

“Hello, Elac,” Sonyus greeted him cheerily. “What brings you by this time of day?”

“I wanted to ask you about Munmar,” Elac said.

Her face tightened, and she sniffed. “Humph. I had begun to think he wasn’t as addle-brained as you made out, but at other times I revised that thought. Maybe he is dense, but I think he’s pretending. Anyway, I’ve seen how he looks at me, so I know he’s interested in . . . you know. But when I give signs I might be interested in return, he won’t answer, tries to talk about something else, or just walks away.”

Elac needed to be careful in his response. His sister exasperated their parents with her outspokenness and flirtatious nature, which led townspeople to question her reputation. Elac’s father wished she would settle on a single man, get married, and be out of the family home. Elac suspected Sonyus felt offended that a man she showed interest in didn’t reciprocate.

“Well, he’s recovered more of his senses than when he first came here. As for his interest, has it ever occurred to you that not every man is interested in getting you on your back?”

“Not if they aren’t family,” Sonyus sniffed. “And not the way he keeps looking at me. I wonder if he thinks the customs in Farkesh are different from his clan. I don’t know people farther away on Caedellium. You know . . . Gwillamer, Bevans, or maybe Keelan. I hear the Keelanders can be prissy. How about you man-talking with him to check that out?”

Elac couldn’t think of a way to refuse that wouldn’t lead where he didn’t want to go.

“All right, but it’ll just be a general probing. I’m not arranging assignations for my sister.”

Sonyus grinned and slapped him on the butt before she flounced off.

Two days later, the opportunity arose for Elac to broach two topics. The first one he didn’t dance around.

“Munmar, what do you think of my sister Sonyus?”

The Narthani kept sawing a small timber. “Sonyus?” he answered in a guarded tone. “Very nice.”

Come on, Munmar , thought Elac. A little more information, and I don’t think many people would describe her in only that one word. Attractive, alluring, bold, exasperating, argumentative, licentious perhaps, but not just nice .

“How about as an appealing young woman? You do find women interesting, don’t you?”

The sawing stopped, and Munmar turned to look at Elac. “You or she doesn’t think I’ve been disrespectful to her, do you?”

Elac grinned at Munmar’s obvious discomfiture and red face. “If anything, I think she’s annoyed you haven’t taken more liberties with her. She’s my sister, but her interest in men has been almost an embarrassment for the family. Our people are open about such things, but she’s . . . well, I’ll only say the family wishes she’d pick out a single man.”

Munmar frowned. “Should you talk about your sister that way? It wouldn’t be allowed in my family back in Narthon.”

“Well, you are interested in women, aren’t you?”

The Narthani’s complexion got even redder but with anger, not embarrassment. “Of course, I am, but I’ve not married yet. They only promoted me to captain just before I left Narthon. My father wrote he was arranging a marriage with a respectable family, which would already have happened if we hadn’t come here.”

Elac wished the topic hadn’t opened up a sensitive subject that added to the Caedelli hatred of the invaders. “Uh . . . not married, but I assume you’ve been with women? We know your people had brothels in the three provinces they controlled.” Elac didn’t add that the establishments were forcibly staffed with islander or slave women.

“Those are considered necessary for the common soldiers. I don’t approve and never used them.”

Gratified at Munmar’s declarations and eager to move on, Elac returned to the topic of his sister. “Perhaps my questions are none of my business. I only asked to satisfy my sister, so she won’t pester me about it. It’s just as well you and Sonyus don’t become too involved, since I think it’s time that we get you to Preddi City. Word is that the last of the Narthani ships are expected to leave in one to two months. If we wait any longer, there’s a chance you’ll be trapped here the rest of your life.”

Munmar placed the saw on the ground and sat on a pile of timbers. He licked his lips and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “That’s something I have thought harder on than you can imagine, Elac. This last month, once I learned enough of your language to feel like more than a lump of wood—you know, talking with people and having them see me as just another person, I realize I may feel better than I have for as long as I can remember. I know I’m just a stranger here. Well, more than a stranger. What would the word be? Someone who is not what they seem to be?”

“An imposter?” suggested Elac.

“If that is someone pretending to be something else, then maybe yes, an imposter. There would always be a danger that people find out who I really am, and that would be bad. Even so, I strangely find myself regretting leaving here more than I look forward to returning home and seeing my own family. I know we’re taught to revere our parents and the rest of our family, but how your family members treat one another is nothing like I see at my home. Maybe I would say I believe you love your family, even Sonyus. But I don’t feel that for any of my family, except my mother and one sister, and even those relationships can be strained. I worried at first when these thoughts came to me. Now I wonder if it’s more to do with the customs of my people or perhaps it’s only my own family. I don’t know.

“What I am trying to say is that I wish I didn’t have to go back to Narthon. Even if it meant never seeing my family or the rest of my people again, part of me would rather stay living as I am. I don’t care if I never feel true belonging with your people or have a family of my own.”

Elac stood stunned. All his attention had been on first saving the Narthani from being killed and then later getting him to Preddi City. He knew he’d grown used to Munmar being around. At times, he wondered if it had almost developed into a friendship. Never had it occurred to him that Munmar might prefer to stay on Caedellium.

“But Munmar, you know that can’t happen, don’t you? You’re a Narthani. Someone my people hate. I confess I like having you here, but it’s only a matter of time before someone figures out you’re not a clansman. Then we’d both be in trouble. Worse for you because there are those who would want to kill you, even if the discovery happened years from now. But trouble for me, too, for lying to everyone and hiding a Narthani.”

“I know, Elac. It is impossible. I only tell you how I feel. If you think it is time for me to go to Preddi City, then I am ready to leave at any time.”

“I’m sorry, Munmar, but I don’t see any other option. Let me think about how to get you to Preddi City. Naturally, I’ll go with you, in case there are questions about who you are.”

“What do you mean, you and Munmar will travel to Preddi City?” asked a befuddled Lesca Kemescu. “Why would you do that?”

“I’m sorry, Lesca, it’s something confidential. I’ll tell you about it later, just not right now.”

“No, that’s not good enough, Elac. I haven’t questioned you, but don’t think I haven’t noticed you and Munmar being secretive. The two of you are up to something, and as your wife, I deserve to know what’s going on.”

Elac sighed and sat at their main table. “Are you sure you want to know the reason, Lesca? I assure you it’s an important trip and one I am going to make. Also, if I tell you the reason, you would have to swear you won’t tell anyone else. That is not up for argument. If you broke your word, it would forever change our relationship.”

Lesca stood near the table, startled at her husband’s declaration. She’d assumed the intended trip was something trivial that she would either accept or argue her husband out of. He had never, in their years together, implied that anything could harm their marriage. She vacillated between anger and worry. Elac, stone-faced, waited for her answer.

And waited. Silent minutes passed while she thought.

“All right, Elac,” she said, her voice matching her husband’s seriousness. “I swear before God I will tell no one, no matter what you tell me.”

He reached out to her. She held his hand and let him guide her to the chair next to his. He then took her other hand, holding both firmly.

“Lesca, Munmar is not a clansman. He’s a Narthani.”

She stared at her husband. “What—?”

He held her hands, as she tried to pull away. “He’s—a—Narthani, Lesca. We fought at the battle, and one of us could have killed the other. Then we were both exhausted and collapsed at the same time. Both of us were wounded, I more seriously than he. I passed out, and when I come back to consciousness, he had bound my wounds. Like I told you and the rest of the family, the medicants said if he hadn’t done that, I would have died.”

“Merciful God, Elac! You’re serious!? A Narthani? You brought a Narthani into our home and lied to all of us? How could you do that?”

“Listen!” Elac said, his voice rising and insistent. “He saved my life. After we won the battle, clansmen were going among the fallen Narthani and killing those still alive. Munmar would certainly have had the same fate. I couldn’t let that happen after he saved me. And the deaths, Lesca. You weren’t there. You didn’t see the rivers of blood, men screaming in agony—it was a scene beyond any of your worst nightmares. When I realized I might survive and come back to you and the children, I just wanted the killing to stop.

“Much later, when I talked with Munmar, he told me he had some of the same feelings. It also seemed to him a form of insanity that he and the other soldiers were so far from home, fighting people they didn’t know and who had done them no harm. This was the first time it occurred to me that the individual Narthani might not be that different from us. Maybe their birthplace and their leaders were more to blame than men who had no choice.”

“But they’re Narthani!” protested Lesca. “They’ve done terrible things. Thousands of Caedelli are dead or enslaved because of them!”

“Yes, the Narthon nation is evil, but that doesn’t necessarily mean every Narthani is evil.”

Lesca quit trying to extricate her hands from Elac’s. “I’m trying to understand, Elac. All this time you’ve been protecting Munmar. That’s why he didn’t speak at first and why you said no one knew where he came from.”

Elac nodded. “He injured his neck during the battle and couldn’t speak for a while. I told those people helping our wounded that he was my simpleminded cousin and couldn’t talk because of the injury. As soon as we found some time to be alone, I started teaching him Caedelli. He’s very smart and understood what I was doing almost at once. In the months since the battle, he’s listened to people speak nothing but Caedelli, and I’ve worked to teach him as quickly as possible.”

“And I can guess why you’re going to Preddi City. You’re trying to get him back to his people before the last Narthani ship leaves Caedellium.”

“That’s right. We don’t have much time.  If he doesn’t leave soon, he might be trapped here for the rest of his life, which could be short. It’s inevitable that the secret would come out. Despite the War Council’s and Yozef Kolsko’s directive against reprisals, someone is bound to be unable or unwilling to control himself. I feel I’ve already put our family at risk, and it’s time for him to be gone from here.”

“That would be a relief for me,” said Lesca. “This is such a shock, it’ll take me time to think straight, but him leaving is for the best. I don’t know if I could ever act the same around him, and you’re right about danger, if he’s exposed as a Narthani. That’s what the big trial that finishes tomorrow has shown.”

“Trial? What trial?”

“It was talked about last Godsday at your parents’ dinner. The trial of the Farkesh man who killed a Narthani in Preddi City a month ago. My brother attended the trial and told me about it. This man from Devanyo—I don’t know his name—belonged to one of our Farkesh dragoon units that were watching the Narthani to be sure they kept the armistice. The man lost a brother in the Orosz City battle and took it upon himself to seek revenge by killing a Narthani working in crop fields outside the city walls. It was only after our men returned to Farkesh that they found out the identity of the killer. Witnesses came from Preddi, two or three of them, I don’t remember the number. The trial is being heard by Feren Bakalacs, Yozef Kolsko, and a new kind of adjudicator from Orosz City, a scholastic involved in establishing laws that apply to all clans. The verdict is supposed to be tomorrow, and people have intense feelings about the case. Many people don’t see anything wrong with killing any Narthani, which is why it’s a good idea for Munmar to be gone from here.”

The next morning, Elac left Munmar at their work site, telling him he had an errand in the city center that would take most of the morning. Lesca didn’t know where the trial was being held, but Elac only had to follow the stream of people heading to a natural bowl a mile west of the central square. There, Elac joined what he estimated to be three to four thousand men and women. They stood on slopes surrounding the tables and chairs set up at the bottom of the bowl.

When the main cathedral finished ringing ninth hour, a man in black-and-white livery left a large tent erected at the top of the bowl and walked down a roped-off aisle. At a table with three chairs, the man pounded his staff on a metal plate three times. The ringing echoed all around, and attendee voices subsided.

“All present heed the justice of Caedellium. All present heed their roles in this proceeding. All present acknowledge the justice that protects the people.”

From the tent exited a man dressed in green and gold. As striking as the clothing was, the man’s size impressed the most—the largest man most of the people had ever seen and almost legendary in his own right. Carnigan Puvey’s craggy, expressionless face as he perused people along the aisle, along with the battle ax he carried at port arms, left no doubt he was looking for danger. Word had spread that a Moreland clansman had attacked Paramount Kolsko in Neath. The town in southwest Moreland Province had been set up as a temporary headquarters for keeping an eye on the Narthani until the last one left Caedellium.

The attack had failed, and the Moreland man died of wounds inflicted by both Kolsko and a guard. The Moreland regent, Abbot Abelard, had vigorously investigated the assailant, his family, and anyone who knew the man. No explanation emerged for the attack, but word spread that the paramount would be accompanied by guards wherever he went.

When Puvey reached the table with three chairs, he nodded to the man holding the staff, who gave the metal plate a single pound. The tent opened again, and three men walked single-file from the tent down the aisle. They wore black-and-white checkered robes over other clothing. The lead man Elac recognized as Feren Bakalacs, the Farkesh hetman. The second was a middle-aged man Elac didn’t recognize. Last was Paramount Kolsko—Elac had seen him from a distance several times at Orosz City and had been in a hospital ward when word circulated about Koksko’s miraculous recovery from what had seemed to be fatal wounds.

Last from the tent came another man dressed in green and gold. He was smaller than the first guard (although everyone was smaller than Puvey), but he also oozed danger.

The three men seated themselves, and the two guards stood to the rear of Kolsko. The staff-wielder pounded three more times, as if to quiet the audience, though no prompting was needed. The thousands of people present strained to look and listen.

Two men and two women appeared from somewhere and sat at tables to one side. Each took out quill, ink, and paper.

The adjudicator rose and spoke. The natural acoustics of the bowl were such that he only had to raise his voice moderately for everyone to hear.

“The Caedellium Tribunal is now in session. The accused will be brought before the judgment.”

Down another aisle came a man of about thirty years. Light chains bound his hands in front of him and connected with chains on his feet, allowing him to take only small steps. Two men wearing Farkesh markings held each elbow. They stopped twenty feet from the tribunal table.

The adjudicator rose. “Matek Noscatu, this tribunal finds you guilty of the murder of Kuran Bahmed, a fifteen-year-old Narthani living in Preddi City. Witnesses have confirmed that Bahmed was working in a field and that you walked up to him and, without provocation, stabbed him multiple times. By your own testimony, the justification for the attack was simply that Bahmed was a Narthani.

“By order of the War Council, and as part of the armistice that stopped the fighting between the clans and the Narthani, such actions are to be considered a crime and punished as such. There being no doubt as to your guilt, this tribunal spent several hours discussing the case and will now render judgment.”

The adjudicator briefly looked down at his notes. “We have carefully considered any mitigating factors and have been unable to agree on any that would come to your support. The victim, Kuran Bahmed, was not a member of the Narthani military or anyone who might have committed acts against any family member of yours. He was a noncombatant. His family was brought to Caedellium against their wishes, and they were assigned to be farmers in southern Preddi Province. Clan magistrates, with the assistance of Narthani officials, investigated and could find no actions by Kuran Bahmed to justify his death. In summary, he was a teenage boy with whom you had no connection and whom you apparently randomly selected to be killed. There will now be short statements by the other members of the tribunal, directed to you and everyone listening.”

Feren Bakalacs stood. “Every member of Clan Farkesh knows of a friend or family member killed or wounded in our struggle against the Narthani. All of us, including myself, have had the urge to take revenge. We also have desired a degree of justice against those invaders who committed particular acts. Nevertheless, as your hetman, I agreed to the armistice conditions and pledged that all of my clan would abide by the peace agreement. You, Matek Noscatu, have broken the pledge I made on your behalf and, as a consequence, have placed yourself outside of the clan’s protection.

“To the rest of the people of Farkesh, I say to you that as hard as it may be, it is time to move forward. Let us return to what was good before the Narthani came. Let us work to make the future of our clan and the entire island the best it can be for our children and grandchildren. Caedellium will be open to the rest of Anyar as it has never been, even before the Narthani came. There will also be changes in the relationships of the clans to one another. The threat of the Narthani and the strong advice of the Fuomi who aided us have convinced all the clan hetmen that as much as we have treasured clan independence, it cannot continue as before. Not if we are to stay independent of the Narthani or any other realm that might be tempted by our island. We are still discussing and arguing about a new form of organization before the clans agree to it but be assured there will be changes. Changes that we might not approve of initially but that will be essential for a safe future.”

Bakalacs sat, and Yozef stood. “I have to agree with the other tribunal members that Matek Noscatu committed premeditated murder of a fifteen-year-old boy who had done him no harm and was not part of any direct act against a Caedelli that would in any way justify the murder. The Word warns against the poison of vengeance and urges mercy, even as it recognizes our own imperfections and that we all can give in to base instincts.

“And what of the ex-Narthani who have chosen to stay on Caedellium? Thousands of them asked permission to stay and will remain to become part of the people of Caedellium. These men, women, and children want to be free of a Narthani society they did not choose to be part of. They have lived in tyranny, but now they have seen the life and rights that all of you possess. They want to turn their backs on Narthon and share what you have. Should we not show empathy for them and their courage in leaving the only people they have lived among, as they hope for a better life here with us?

“These ex-Narthani have been accepted by the War Council and will become part of the reborn Clan Preddi. They deserve to feel secure that no clansperson will attempt vengeance on them or their families, something that would poison Caedellium’s future.

“Be aware that a council of theophists from all the clans, including Rhaedri Brison, will be issuing a proclamation forbidding persecution of any ex-Narthani the War Council permits to remain on Caedellium. This will include not only direct violence but any form of intimidation. The theophists know this will be hard for many of you, and they are willing and able to counsel you on how to accept what must be.

“Also, I ask you to consider that Matek Noscatu’s act was a direct threat to the agreement for the Narthani to leave Caedellium. He could have caused the Narthani to take retaliatory action, resulting in a cycle of violence that might have led to major conflicts between the clans and Narthani forces. Even if the victim had committed serious offenses against clanspeople, it wouldn’t have justified renewed fighting that could cost hundreds, even thousands of lives.

“In doing what he did, he not only violated Farkesh law by disobeying an agreement made by the clan hetman, but he broke the laws of the united clans as decided by the War Council.”

Yozef sat, and the adjudicator rose again.

“Matek Noscatu, you are judged too violent and unreliable a man to remain on Caedellium. Hetman Farkesh and I were inclined to sentence you to be sold off-island into slavery, but Yozef Kolsko has argued that since slavery is not allowed on Caedellium, it would be unseemly to send a person to slavery in another land, while being proud it does not exist on Caedellium. Therefore, you will be put aboard the first available non-Narthani trading ship that comes to Caedellium once trade resumes. You will be given one month’s worth of coin for food. The captain of the ship will not tell us where you will be put ashore, and you will not return to Caedellium on pain of immediate execution without appeal.”

The defendant slumped so much that his two guards had to hold him up to walk him out of the bowl. It was not the custom for an accused to speak once sentence had been passed.

With Noscatu gone, the adjudicator continued. “Under normal circumstances, the accused would be required to pay a heavy fine to the family of the victim. However, the times and circumstances are such that the tribunal, after questioning the Noscatu family, finds no evidence that the rest of the family knew of Matek’s plans. Therefore, the family will not be liable for recompense. However, the armistice agreement was broken by a clansman. Therefore, the War Council will pay recompense to the Bahmud family.”

The adjudicator gathered up the papers in front of him, stood along with Bakalacs and Yozef, and announced, “This tribunal is closed.”

The staff-holder pounded the metal plate three times. “This Caedellium tribunal is now closed. All attendees will stand and remain until the tribunal has exited.”

The three men in checkered black-and-white robes rose from their table and, single file, retraced their steps back to the tent at the top of the bowl. When the tent flap closed on the paramount, a single clang sounded, and people began talking as they left.

Elac Kemescu sat stunned, as the bowl emptied. While recovering from wounds and worrying about Munmar being revealed, he had not listened to news of happenings elsewhere on Caedellium or paid attention to conversations about such news. There would be Narthani remaining on Caedellium—in Preddi Province! The hetmen and the theophists charged people to accept these Narthani as new clanspeople!

If I can get Munmar to Preddi, maybe he can remain on Caedellium. That all sounds good, but this trial shows not every islander is yet willing to forgive. How can I trust that Munmar will be safe?

As Kemescu left to return to Devanyo, he saw Feren Bakalacs and Yozef Kolsko talking with a knot of men and women. He felt hesitant about his hetman learning that he’d hidden a Narthani—no matter what Bakalacs had said during the tribunal. But Kolsko? Kemescu knew the rumors, now assumed to be true by many in his own family. If Kolsko was a Septarsh, surely he was close enough to God to be trusted. But how to talk to a Septarsh?

He walked to the cluster of people and positioned himself so that Kolsko faced in his direction. Every time the man’s face and eyes passed over him, Elac raised his eyebrows, widened his eyes, and rocked his head—as much as he could do to attract Kolsko’s attention without being too obvious.

The group slowly thinned during the next forty minutes, and Elac stayed within Kolsko’s sight, gradually coming closer to the paramount. Several times, Feren Bakalacs noticed his clansman hanging around and gave Elac a questioning expression but got no response. When only four men were left, Elac heard Feren Bakalacs say, “Let’s go to my manor, and we can continue talking there.”

“Thanks, Feren,” said Kolsko. “Could you give me a moment? I need to speak to someone.”

Bakalacs looked at Elac, shrugged, and said, “I’ll be over at the carriage when you’re finished.”

Once Bakalacs and the other two men walked out of hearing, Kolsko turned to Elac. “You seemed to be trying to get my attention, Ser.”

Elac swallowed to loosen his throat. Here he was trying to talk to a Septarsh and the Paramount. Even without the issue of Munmar’s identity, he would have been nervous speaking to someone of such stature. And now, could he reveal information without serious consequences for both himself and Munmar, if he had misjudged Kolsko?

He walked several steps closer, then hesitantly gave a jerky bow.

“Many pardons, Ser Paramount,” said Elac, beads of sweat popping up on his brow. “I don’t know the proper address for someone such as yourself. My name is Elac Kemescu.”

“Please, Ser Kemescu. I’ll call you Elac, and you can call me Yozef. Titles are such awkward things. What is it you wanted to talk with me about?”

Please let it be something interesting and not to tell me how wonderful I am , thought Yozef.

Elac swallowed and glanced around to ensure no one else could hear. “Uh . . . Ser . . . uh, Yozef.” The name emerged from Elac’s throat as if pulled out by force. “I hadn’t heard Narthani are remaining on Caedellium because they wanted to be Caedelli. Did I hear right?”

“Yes, Elac. Even the little exposure many experienced of normal life on Caedellium must have impressed them as being better than in Narthon. What do you think of the idea? If you one day meet one of these people, will you be able to treat them as clanspeople, or will they always be Narthani to you?”

This Farkesher was one of the few islanders Yozef had interacted with since the armistice who was not at the clan leadership level.

Getting the hetmen to buy into the idea was hard enough , thought Yozef . I should talk more to common people to see how the idea is going over.

Elac frowned. “I don’t know exactly how I feel, since part of me thinks I should want every Narthani off the island. However, I know there’s a reason for my uncertainty.”

He glanced around nervously once more, licking his lips. “There’s something I’d like to talk with you about, but I need to be sure you won’t tell anyone else. It’s something I haven’t even told Hetman Farkesh.”

Well, shit, thought Yozef . I’m not a priest who’s open for confessionals . He groaned internally. Which reminds me, do the theophists here have a custom of confidentiality? He didn’t know whether he should advise the man to see a theophist. Imaginary scenarios flashed through Yozef’s mind of the man confessing some crime or infidelity, neither of which he had the calling, authority, or inherent interest to hear about.

“Elac . . . uh . . . perhaps there’s someone else you should be talking with about this. Possibly a theophist you trust or a good friend?”

“I wouldn’t know who is more appropriate than yourself, Para . . . er . . . Yozef. Not after hearing you speak today about how the ex-Narthani should be accepted as citizens of Caedellium and not be treated as Narthani. You see . . . ,” Elac checked once again for other ears, took a breath, and made the leap, using a conspiratorial voice, “there’s already a Narthani living here in Devanyo.”

Yozef’s interest perked up. “Ah . . . I thought Hetman Farkesh told me there were none?”

“He doesn’t know,” replied Elac, “but a Narthani soldier lives and works with me.” Once the secret was out, Elac rushed on, the words running into each other so that Yozef, even with his fluency in Caedelli, stopped Elac and asked him to repeat himself several times. When the Farkesher finished, he waited tensely and stared at Yozef—who reciprocated with his own stare, while he cogitated over what he’d heard.

I’ll be damned. This is one story I’ve got to hear more about. In fact, it should get written down. I’ll talk with Maera about how this might be circulated as a lesson that not all enemies are evil and how even a clansman who fought against the Narthani can come to accept them.

Elac wondered why the Septarsh chuckled and smiled so broadly. Maybe he thinks I’ve made this up or I’m crazy or who knows what he’s thinking?

Recognizing the Farkesher’s worry, Yozef assuaged his fears. “Thank you for confiding in me, Elac. And don’t be concerned that you’ve done anything wrong. I’m pleased to hear this story, and I approve of the actions you took. I’m sure everything is consistent with the Word ’s charge for mercy and understanding. I’m supposed to be eating mid-day meal with Hetman Bakalacs. I’d like to hear more details of your story, and I think the hetman will also be interested.”

“What do you think, Feren?” Yozef asked the Farkesh hetman three hours later after a long meal and session with the nervous Elac Kemescu.

“As you told Kemescu, quite a story. I must confess that part of me admires my clansman for overcoming his feelings about a Narthani, especially considering the extreme conditions of their meeting. Another part wants to be angry that he brought a Narthani soldier into Farkesh without my knowledge. I’m afraid it’s a reflection of how difficult accepting these people will be.”

“It definitely complicates matters,” said Yozef. “I figured the ex-Narthani being confined at first to Preddi Province would give people enough time to get used to the idea of having them around. Maybe I was too optimistic, and this may take longer, with feelings still so raw.”

Bakalacs put a finger in his right ear and shook it, as if relieving an irritation. Yozef recognized it as the Farkesh hetman’s gesture when concerned.

“We hoped sentencing Noscatu to exile would serve as a deterrent to such future acts. Now, here we have not a Narthani boy uninvolved in the fighting, but an actual Narthani soldier who may well have killed Caedelli. We must recognize that when word gets out, which it will, someone might have such furyy that they may not be able to control themselves. This Narthani’s life may be in serious danger. I’d hate to have to exile yet another clansman, though that’s what I would have to do.”

“I agree, Feren. The enmity runs too deep in too many people. The obvious solution is to get this Munmar Kellen to Preddi as soon as possible. Your clansman, Kemescu, is already planning that. The sooner this happens, the better. I’d like to interview Kellen myself, but I don’t speak Narthani. Kemescu says the man’s Caedelli is improving, but it may not be to the point of getting into detailed conversations. I suppose there are some ex-Narthani slaves in Farkesh who could translate, but we couldn’t be certain word wouldn’t get out.”

“I suppose you could ask Balwis to see if the man has any useful information,” said Bakalacs. “I know how he hates the Narthani, but to my surprise, he seems to be dealing fairly with the ex-Narthani who chose to remain.”

“Balwis and I had a long discussion about this, and I came away satisfied. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have supported him becoming the new Hetman Preddi. He’s changed since I first met him. Oh, he’s still disrespectful of those in higher positions, but it’s a bit of cosmic justice that now there are so few people to whom he can be insubordinate. Others may not have seen it when they first met him, but he’s quite protective of anyone under his responsibility. I’ll write to him and lay the burden of Kellen on him. I’m sure he can find a place for another Narthani within his clan.

“I’ll also talk to Kemescu about getting Kellen to Preddi and inquire a little more about the man’s history to see if there’s anything to include when I write to Balwis. I’ll probably want to question Kellen at some point when he has learned enough Caedelli. Also, you or I should provide them with enough coin for the trip.”

“Well, shit! Another damn Narthani? Don’t I already have enough of them to cozy up to, without Yozef digging around the island finding more?”

Ceinwyn Preddi heard her husband’s voice even through the closed door of the room he was using as a study and where he had taken a packet of mail. She walked down the broad staircase from their second-floor bedroom, holding the banister for stability—careful not to come down too hard on each step since the bulge of the baby she carried tended to bounce.

She wanted to find out what caused her husband’s latest tirade but needed to stay off her feet. She didn’t knock when she got to the study. He’d told her she didn’t need to, and he had had several sofas placed around the villa for her to lie on as she complained constantly that the villa was too big for her current condition.

When they’d moved to Preddi City, they’d needed a home appropriate for a hetman. The previous hetman’s manor had been burned to the ground by the Narthani to help erase any symbols of prior clan history. When Balwis first entered the city after being declared hetman, Yozef had accompanied him and suggested using the now abandoned villa of Okan Akuyun, the Narthani commander. The original owner had been an important merchant, but all of his family had been shipped off to slave markets, leaving no heir to claim the empty property.

When Balwis asked how he could take ownership, Yozef said, “You’re the hetman. Just ‘declare’ that any property now without identified owners will belong to the clan, to be disposed of to the clan’s benefit. You’re the hetman, so it’s to the clan’s benefit that you have an appropriate residence.”

Balwis thought for a moment, then said, “You know, Yozef, I think I might like being hetman after all.”

Elac Kemescu and Munmar Kellen guided their horses off the road as it topped a hillock a mile from Preddi City’s outer fortifications.

“There were many times I did not believe I would ever see this sight again,” said Munmar.

“And you probably didn’t think you’d come back as an islander about to join the Preddi Clan,” Elac said, laughing.

“No. Before the battle, the most I hoped for was living to see this city once more. I thought I’d eventually sail back to Narthon or Landolin or the Iraquinik’s lands. Rumors suggested that Narthon intended to attack them. All I knew was that I’d spend the rest of my life in the Narthani army fighting people I wasn’t angry at, for reasons I didn’t understand. Then, if I was fortunate to survive, I would retire when I got too old to be in the army. In my later years, I’d watch my sons begin the same life. It was never a life or a future I looked forward to, only one that was , as if there were no other possibilities.”

“Yet here we are,” said Elac. “Sitting on horses loaned to us from the Farkesh hetman, carrying letters written by him and Paramount Kolsko that we’re supposed to deliver in person to Hetman Preddi. If I were a more pious man, I’d wonder what reward or punishment I deserved for God to lead me on such a path.”

“Elac . . . ,” Munmar hesitated and turned his mount so he could look straight at his chaperone. “I’ve thanked you before for keeping me safe. It’s not something every islander would have done and probably even fewer Narthani—treating a past enemy this way. This last sixday, while we traveled here from Devanyo, we have talked many hours. Now, I find that I will miss you when you return to your home.

“It was hard for me to make friends back in Narthon. I did not fit in with my family and had the same problem at first in the army. Then, when I was made an officer, having friends among the men I commanded was impossible. I hope it does not make you feel . . . what was the Caedelli word? Oh yes, awkward . I hope it does not make you feel awkward if I say I would like to think of you as a friend—no matter how you feel toward me. However, I know it is best for you and your family to be rid of me.”

Elac’s thoughts were a muddle on hearing Munmar’s statement. He felt as if his mind were at war with itself: how he felt versus how he thought he should feel.

“God curse it, Munmar,” he grumbled. “My life was much easier to understand before I saved your ass at the end of the battle.”

“Was that before or after I saved yours?” Munmar asked with a smile.

Elac joined in the laughter. “We’d better get to Preddi City before someone comes along and wonders what these two idiots are hooting about.”

They prodded their horses back onto the road and followed a caravan of four wagons toward a main gate. Munmar noticed that Elac hadn’t responded about their friendship.

They waited two hours before a short, wiry man missing most of one arm told them the hetman was trying to convince a group of tradesmen that accepting ex-Narthani and ex-slaves as workers was not optional. The man’s cackle after he said this and his dangerous demeanor, notwithstanding his missing an arm, made both men wonder if coming all this way to meet the new Preddi hetman had been such a good idea. Yet turning back was out of the question, because the wiry man then led them to a building and told them to wait. He took the letters from Hetman Farkesh and Yozef Kolsko and went inside. He came back twenty minutes later, accompanied by a tall man with a scar across his face above and below his left eye. Elac’s eyes narrowed at the aura the man exuded, and Munmar reflexively stiffened, as if in the presence of a high-ranking officer.

Balwis took in the two dusty, worn-looking men. They’d said they’d come directly to find him after they entered the city. “So you’re the Narthani that’s been hiding out in Farkesh Province?” Balwis said pointedly to Munmar, then turned to Elac. “And the Farkesher that hid him these months?”

Both men nodded. Elac shifted his feet nervously, while Munmar stared back with a stoic expression.

“I’ve read the letters. It must be quite a story, and I’ll have to hear more sometime. But let’s get right to the point,” said Balwis, addressing Munmar. “Yozef writes that you were a captain of the Narthani infantry. Young for the position, but from a military family. He says you’re bright and somewhat confused as to exactly what your future will be here on Caedellium. He also writes of his sense that you cared deeply for the men under your command—an admirable trait and one I can see could have gotten you into eventual trouble in a Narthani army.

“As it happens, I have two positions for you to split your time between. The letter said you have experience in carpentry. I don’t know your level of expertise, but there are more construction projects than we have workers for, so you should have no problem getting employment. I’ll see to it there’s work here in Preddi City since I’ll need you here for the second job. The Caedellium War Council has ordered all clans to plan on having a permanent dragoon battalion plus horse artillery, to be available on one day’s notice. In addition, each clan is required to develop militias that could be called on within one sixday. These latter units will only train enough to maintain basic organization. The other clans are already fulfilling these requirements, but the Preddi Clan formed with no prior military organization. Many of our men are Preddi Clan members who survived the Narthani occupation and have never taken part in the last year’s fighting. Other men are ex-slaves who might never have touched a weapon. Added to that are the several thousand Narthani who chose to stay on Caedellium, hundreds of whom were soldiers.

“It will be a grueling task to rebuild the Preddi Clan and get all the factions working together. This means rebuilding the society, the economy, and producing the clan’s share of fighting men, should we need to defend the island again. The other clans are helping, but we are woefully short of qualified people for every possible job that needs doing.”

Balwis stopped and looked at Munmar in a way that worried the Narthani. “That’s why I must use every resource possible. Yozef Kolsko says he thinks you are trustworthy, and having seen what that exasperating man can do, I’m inclined to accept his evaluation. That’s why you are going to be Captain Munmar Kellen, commander of one of the Preddi Clan’s ready dragoon companies. I will also announce you as a military adviser. Both roles should carry enough weight to forestall anyone’s qualms about an ex-Narthani, and one so young, having these positions.”

An outside observer would have been hard-pressed to know who was the most stunned—Munmar or Elac.

“But . . . but . . . I’m not even a member of your clan, Hetman Preddi. And even so, I was a newly promoted captain, and if many of the men will be ex-slaves and original Preddi, would they accept me?”

“I’m afraid that type of argument will not get you any sympathy,” said Balwis. “I told Yozef Kolsko similar things when I was made a company and then battalion commander. I guess it was fortunate Yozef wasn’t around when I was forced to take command of a regiment. For none of those promotions was I qualified. It was simply the belief of Yozef and others that I was the best qualified. In honesty, Yozef once told me I could get out of the promotion if I told him the name of someone more qualified. The fact that I couldn’t come up with a name gives you some idea of the dire straits we found ourselves in. So, sorry, but I’m not interested in reasons why you shouldn’t be a Preddi company commander.”

“Yet you managed to defeat the 29th Corps of Marshal Gullar,” said Kellen softly.

“Don’t think I and most Caedelli aren’t still amazed at that or that we don’t thank God and Yozef Kolsko. But back to you. My clan is woefully short of men to be military officers. Oh, there are several who gained experience during the last year of fighting. But none have the depth of experience and the formal training you have. The Fuomi Reimo Kivalian is staying on Caedellium to help start a military training school, and I’m sure he’ll want to talk with you extensively. But right now, I need you to help here in Preddi.

“We’re starting off with two companies. One will be led by a man who served under me on the campaign to cut off the Narthani general Istranik from resupplying Gullar. His men were escaped Preddi and have already been trained as dragoons and seen action. Your task will be more difficult since the men have had no training and might never have seen action or even held a weapon.”

“This is all too sudden,” said Kellen. “I’ve given up fighting for Narthon, and now you want me to get ready to fight more, including possibly against my own people?”

“ Are they your people?” asked Balwis. “You turned your back on them and have said you couldn’t see why you were fighting people you didn’t even know, for reasons you didn’t understand. Here would be different. Here, you would be fighting for yourself and people you care about. You come to me, asking to be part of the Preddi Clan. If that is true, then when the clan accepts you, that puts an obligation on you to do what you can to protect the clan. You can’t have it both ways—saying you want to live as part of the clan yet not doing what any other clansperson would.

“As for future fighting against the Narthani, that’s always possible, although many of us believe that if Caedellium does face future wars, it would at least as likely involve one or more of the Landolin kingdoms or Iraquinik states. However, all the worry about future conflicts may come to nothing. Naturally, we hope to never again be at war. It’s only a possibility we have to plan for, if the worst happens. You might live a long and peaceful life on Caedellium.”

“I’m sorry, Hetman, this is too sudden for me to say anything at the moment. I will need time to think about all this and look at my own feelings.”

“Of course. And in the meantime, we will find you carpentry work.” Balwis turned to Kemescu. “Speaking of that, Yozef Kolsko writes that he asked other people in Devanyo about you and your family. He says you work for your father and older brothers but are at least as good a carpenter and could easily be working for yourself. As it happens, Preddi is in sore need of experienced carpenters. Yozef advises me to offer to set you up with your own carpentry shop here in Preddi City. If you are willing to move here, I will pay for everything you need to become established and will see you have enough work through the first year. After that, you would be on your own. However, if what Yozef says is true, I don’t think that will be a problem.”

It was Elac’s turn to be stunned. Move to Preddi? He’d lived his whole life in Farkesh Province, except for the time his unit moved to Orosz City, the battle, and his recovery in the city. He’d never thought about moving.

“Why . . . ?” Elac cleared his throat. “Why would I move here?”

“Think about it, and let me know,” said Balwis. He turned to the one-armed man.

“Wyfor, take them back to headquarters and turn them over to Savronel. Tell him to find quarters for them and get Ser Kellen temporarily settled until he makes a decision on where to live.”

“What am I, a nursemaid? I only thought it would be fun seeing your reaction when another Narthani showed up. I didn’t tell them, but I recognized a damned Narthani by the way he moved with a board up his ass. The few Narthani soldiers that stayed behind all walk the same way. Must be the training to be good little soldiers. I’ll have to ask one of them if they take the board out before shitting.”

“Thank you for your powers of observation, Wyfor. I know you’re an asshole, and your fascination with rectums and defecation is now confirmed.”

“Insults!” declared the wiry man. “I sometimes wonder why I stay around your sorry ass. What in God’s name was the conclave thinking when they made you hetman? There must have been a few thousand better candidates.”

Elac was horrified. How could anyone talk like that to a hetman? The explosion he expected from the Farkesh hetman didn’t happen. Instead, the two men exchanged several pithier insults.

Kellen lost the train of the dialogue with words he didn’t know. However, he recognized banter between acquaintances, although Elac seemed upset.

“Okay, Balwis, I need to get back to headquarters. I thought having only one arm was an advantage to get out of paperwork, but I didn’t anticipate Yozef’s suggestion to give me an assistant. I’m sure Fantha has a pile for me to sign, which means I’ll have to actually read some of them.”

“Wyfor will take you to Savronel Storlini,” Balwis said to Munmar and Elac. “He was a Narthani who fled Preddi while it was still under Narthani control. He’d had enough of Narthon and wanted to find a different life among the clans. He was lucky we won, and now he’s one of my aides. He’s particularly useful in dealing with ex-Narthani and ex-slaves.”

Balwis laughed, as he watched the three men depart. Fantha Walloon was a cheery seventeen-year-old girl who ignored Wyfor’s acerbic comments and screened all the paperwork that came to the clan’s chief magistrate’s office. She prioritized what she forced on her charge’s attention. Despite his repeated declarations to the girl that he could do well without her mothering, Wyfor knew her value.

Balwis and Wyfor rotated occasional evenings at Preddi City pubs in lieu of a single favorite. Balwis thought he needed to be seen by as many of the chimeric clan’s members as possible. One evening, after an uncertain number of steins, Wyfor had confessed he’d be lost at his position without the girl. Balwis assumed Wyfor’s tipsy declaration that he’d gut any young man who tried to marry Fantha and take her away was only rhetoric. Probably.

“I thought you’d collapse at what the hetman and the other man said to each other,” Munmar told Elac, after Storlini left them at an inn near the city harbor.

“I just never imagined anyone talking like that to a hetman,” said Elac. “Of course, I haven’t been around such men enough to know how they speak to one another.”

“I suspect they’ve known each other for some time,” said Munmar. “I’ve seen it among the common soldiers and non-commissioned ranks. Tough men who’ve been in battles together often form a bond they seem to show by trading insults. If I’m any judge, those two are dangerous men and have an interesting past.

“But how about what the hetman said to you, Elac, about your moving here? It seems like a generous offer.”

“I don’t know what to think. It never occurred to me that I would ever leave Devanyo, much less all of Farkesh. I’m a Farkesher, as is everyone in my family, Lesca’s family, and all the people we’ve known our whole lives.”

“Elac, although you haven’t said it to me directly, I’ve sensed you’d rather not have to work with your family. This would be your chance, or you could begin working on your own in Devanyo.”

“I would like that but doing it at home might cause problems. I’d have to explain why I wanted to work away from my father and brothers. I’d have to buy all the tools and equipment since everything now belongs to Father, and it would take time to build a reputation so that people would come to me with work. I would also be competing with my family for jobs.”

Munmar smiled. “If I understood everything you said, it sounded like you were giving arguments for why you should move to Preddi. You would avoid the family problems, and the hetman seems eager enough for skilled workers that the tool issue would be solved.”

“I guess it does,” said Elac ruefully, “but it’s too much to think about now. I’ll stay another day or two to be convinced you’re settled here in Preddi, and then I need to return home.”

Three days later, after Elac saddled his horse and tied gear to two other horses, he turned to Munmar.

“I’m happy for you, Munmar. Everything seems to be good for you here. The Storlini man is watching out for you. He’s already found several carpentry jobs while you’re waiting to hear more from the hetman about this company you’re supposed to train. I can’t say I understand it, but for some reason I’m going to miss you.”

“I feel the same, Elac. It makes one wonder about the fates and whatever god or gods look over the world.” Munmar’s face morphed into an uneasy expression. “There is something else I wanted to talk to you about but never found the right moment. Or maybe never found the courage. It’s about Sonyus.”

“Sonyus? My sister?”

“When you and I talked about her, I was uncertain how such things are approved of here on Caedellium. Uh . . . since then, in the last days in Farkesh, she and I . . . have gotten . . .  closer .”

Elac groaned and grinned at the same time. “I don’t think I need any details, Munmar. Sonyus is old enough to know her own mind and make decisions. Also, knowing both of you, if there is any problem, I’d be inclined to attribute the cause to her.”

“It’s just that she was so mad at me when I told her I would be moving to Preddi. I’m not sure, but she might have wanted me to ask her to come with me.”

“Well, it’s possible she wanted to be asked , but it doesn’t mean she would have agreed ,” said Elac.

“Whatever she thought, I couldn’t say anything. She doesn’t know I am—I was —Narthani. Who knows how she would have reacted? Then, even if she did agree to come with me, I didn’t know how I would support myself, much less another person—such as a wife.”

“Wife?” echoed Sonyus’s brother in surprise. “My, my. I didn’t realize things had gotten that far.” He laughed. “Merciful God. The family has wanted Sonyus to settle on a single man, if she was going be the way she is, but I can hardly imagine the reaction if it turns out the man is a Narthani. It would almost be worth the turmoil to see people’s shock.”

Elac mounted the saddled horse and Munmar laid a hand on the horse’s neck. “Elac, I do not know what might come of it, but could I ask you, as a friend, to speak to Sonyus? Explain to her who I am and why I came to Preddi. Tell her the reasons I didn’t ask her to come with me, and if there’s any chance, now that I have employment, I would greatly wish for her to come.”

“Well, kiss the evil one’s ass, Munmar! You have any idea the shit storm that’ll happen if I do what you ask? Damnation. I might have to move from Devanyo just to get away from people who get mad at me!”

“You’re right, Elac,” said Munmar, chagrined. “Just forget I asked you.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it!” replied Elac, annoyed. “I just hope you realize I’d only do this for a good friend. Now I’m heading off before I change my mind.”

Before Munmar could reply, Elac turned his horse and headed northeast at a trot. It was the first time Elac had called the Narthani a friend.

Four friends sat at a table in the Snarling Graeko 6 in Preddi City . The original pub of that name still operated in Abersford. Yozef had frequented the establishment while living at St. Sidryn’s Abbey and later outside the town. He still fondly recalled evenings there with Carnigan, Filtin Fuller (who had been killed at Orosz City), and occasionally Balwis Preddi and Wyfor Kales. When he and Maera moved to Caernford, she had schemed with the pub’s owner, Tyn Kuwaith, to open a branch of the pub there. Thus, the Snarling Graeko 2 had opened, operated by Kuwaith’s cousin, who lived in Caernford. The reputation had spread that the two pubs were favorites of Yozef Kolsko and associates. This created the first business chain on Caedellium, with additional branches in Orosz City, the newly rebuilt Adris City, and Rhoslich, the capital of Pewitt Province. Tonight was the opening of the sixth franchise, this one in Preddi City. Kuwaith had come for the opening from Caernford, where he now lived. He had insisted that the four men at this particular table would never have to pay a tab at any of his pubs—an offer graciously accepted by Paramount Kolsko, who happened to be visiting the city.

“Not bad,” announced Carnigan, after taking a draught from his stein, thereby reducing the volume by one-third. “Still not quite as good as Abersford, but not bad.”

“He’s going to say that, no matter what it tastes like,” griped Wyfor, setting down his own stein with his lone arm.

“If only we could do a blind tasting,” said Yozef.

“A blind—what’s that?” asked Balwis.

“Ah . . . that would be if we could line up ales from all of Kuwaith’s six Graekos and have Carnigan taste them without knowing where they came from. That’s the only way to be sure he really can tell the difference.”

A “Harrumph!” emanated from the largest man at the table. “I don’t need any of Yozef’s ‘scientific methods’ to tell me what I know.”

“Notice how he states it so he can never be wrong,” jibed Balwis.

“Oh, well,” said Yozef. “There’s no reasoning with some people.”

“Enough with the small talk,” said Balwis. “Give me the truth, Yozef. You’ve been here three days now. What do you see we could be doing differently? Are the hetmen finally going to realize the mistake in making me the Preddi hetman? I’d still be happy to go back to my family’s horse ranch.”

“As if there’s any chance you could get away with that,” said Wyfor. “Ceinwyn is dead set on filling the role of hetman’s wife, and she’s certain she’ll drop the heir in the next month. Tell me how you’d explain the horse ranch life?”

“Now there’s a problem,” agreed Balwis. “On second thought, maybe I’ll stay as hetman to keep peace at home.”

The four men laughed. The pairing of Ceinwyn Keelan, second daughter of the Keelan Clan hetman and sister-in-law of Yozef, with an escaped Preddi who had defiantly taken the surname of the deposed clan leader’s family had come as a surprise to everyone—including an apoplectic father, who only grudgingly accepted that Balwis was a good match for his daughter.

“You’re lucky to have her,” said Yozef seriously. “She saw her father exemplify what a good hetman should be and how the hetman’s wife can help.”

“As I’ve told her many times.” Balwis laughed again. “Probably too many times for me to back out of being hetman. I honestly believe I might have gone insane the first few months, if it hadn’t been for Ceinywn, plus the advisers loaned from other hetmen—Pedr Kennrick from Keelan, Elna Sostyn from Orosz, and Karvan Sewell from Selfcell.

“Getting so many people established was a nightmare at first: confirming that surviving Preddi had originally owned the property they claimed, in the absence of records; slaves that had no property and perhaps no experience in being free; and then the ex-Narthani. Getting people into productive stations, keeping factions from fighting, and every other goddamned little thing I never knew existed as part of being a hetman. Yozef, I can tell you now that if I’d known what I was in for from the start, even your arguments wouldn’t have convinced me.”

“But you are getting it all sorted out, Balwis. Slowly, yes. But that’s always the way it was going to be. That the chaos hasn’t been worse is a credit to all of those involved: you, Ceinwyn, Wyfor, Storlini, and the other advisers.”

The four men sipped their steins, each imagining what might have been.

“Balwis, how is it working out with that odd pair I sent to you with letters—Kellen and Kemescu?” asked Yozef.

“Both are doing fine. Kemescu and his family have been here for three months. I haven’t paid them much attention, too many people to keep track of, but Storlini tells me Kemescu already has four men working for him and enough jobs waiting for another three or four men. The problem is, there aren’t enough men with carpentry experience. Storlini says he wouldn’t be surprised if, a year from now, Kemescu has ten or twelve people working with him.

“As much as I’m glad about Kemescu and that I don’t have to worry about him when you ask, it’s Kellen that’s turning into a real find. He was hesitant to get back into working as a military man after leaving his previous life, but I think he’s changed his mind. He saw that the military here is for protecting the island, instead of conquering peoples he doesn’t even know and has no interest in subjugating. I expect no small part of changing his mind was when Kemescu’s sister from Devanyo came out to join him. They were married last month. It’s got him identifying more as a Caedelli.

“Once he got going, he worked wonders with the men I assigned him for one of the ready companies we have on standby. He’s taken a hundred men from all the different groups we have, Preddi, ex-slaves, ex-Narthani, and gotten them so you’d be hard pressed to tell they weren’t all from the same background. Naturally, they’re not experienced, and I wouldn’t want to put them into a critical situation if fighting erupted, but I can see that changing in the next few months.

“Kivalian is also impressed with him. In fact, when Reimo was here two sixdays ago, he tried to recruit Kellen to go to Orosz City to help organize and teach at the Caedellium Military Academy. I told Reimo clearly that I had no intention of letting Kellen go anywhere.”

Wyfor cackled loudly enough for people at neighboring tables to turn their heads. “What he actually said was ‘Keep your goddamned Fuomi hands off one of my advisers, or I’ll cut ’em off.’”

Yozef frowned. “Balwis—,” he said before Wyfor held up a hand.

“Nah, Reimo knew he wasn’t serious. The three of us and Storlini were drinking together the same night.”

“Still, Balwis,” said Yozef, “it’s best if your clanspeople don’t hear you say such things. Words can get turned into rumors, and they influence how people look at you.”

“So Ceinwyn keeps reminding me. I think I’m getting better, but sometimes you just have to say what’s on your mind.”

Yozef let the topic go without adding anything more, but at least he’d dispensed a reminder. He agreed that Balwis seemed to watch his tongue more than in the past.

“Well, I’m glad Kellen and Kemescu have worked out so well, despite misgivings from many parties. I had an instinct about them and am happy to see I was right.”

“Quick,” said Carnigan, “let’s talk about anything else before he puffs himself up too much. He’s insufferable on the rare occasions one of his ideas works out.”

Everyone laughed—even Yozef.

“First, let’s order another ale,” said Carnigan. “Mine’s empty, even if the rest of you slackers have some left.”

Without looking for a target, Balwis raised a hand, and a nervous woman wearing a smock appeared at the table as if by magic.

“Another round, Hetman? Or anything else I can get you?”

“Yes, my good woman. Another round for everyone, if you please. And some bread and cheese. Thank you.”

The woman curtsied and rushed off.

“There,” said Balwis. “See how charming I can be.”

“I think her reaction would be about same if it had been one of Gaya’s merstors that raised a hind leg,” said Carnigan.

“Whatever,” said Balwis, who then turned serious and addressed Yozef.

“What are the other hetmen thinking to do about central authority? Both of the Fuomi leaders still on Caedellium, Kivalian and Saisannin, are right that complete clan independence can’t continue. We were lucky this time. I don’t have a family history of leading a clan, so I’m not as reticent to cede some authority, if I think it will make Preddi more secure. Of course, it depends on what the exact plan is for such a central authority. I read the dispatches I get on the topic—those passed on to me. It doesn’t seem like the other hetmen are any closer to a consensus than before.”

“I can tell you there has been movement within the War Council,” said Yozef. “I expect all the other hetmen will be brought into the discussion soon.”

“What movement?”

Yozef shifted in his chair. “Uh . . . it’s best if I don’t say anything more right now.”

“Well, whatever is going to be proposed, I hope it’s something you and the War Council came up with and not one of the more idiot hetmen.”

“Oh, I suspect you won’t have any reservations.”

EYE IN THE SKY

The artificial intelligence (AI) orbiting Anyar was powerful and limited. It received and processed a continual stream of data from twenty surveillance satellites in geosynchronous orbits. The satellites had recently been supplemented by a cloaked drone cruising a gridwork pattern over a tiny fraction of the planet’s land, an island west and northwest of the land masses concentrated on one hemisphere. Initiative to activate the drone fell within the AI’s programming.

Whether initiative, coupled with the AI’s immense processing capability, satisfied a definition of sentience was of no concern to the AI—it simply was .

Also arguable was whether the AI possessed curiosity, but it noticed differences . It had circled the planet—which had no name because it was the only planet in the AI’s experience—for 5,913 orbits of the planet around its sun. The first orbit had started when the AI came into being at the instant of its activation by its creators—not that the AI conceived of the term creators . They, like the AI, just were . In the first seconds of the AI’s existence, the creators requested self-diagnostics, and the AI complied. All systems operated within parameters, and the creators left, not to return until the 5907th, 5909th, and 5910th years.

Following the second of the three creator returns, the small island became of more interest than most other parts of the planet. On that visit, the creators deposited a single entity, self-described as a human, on the island without violating a mandate that they and the AI were obligated to observe—no landfall or detection by the inhabitants. How the creators placed the human on land without touching the surface, the AI did not know, only that the location was noted as one of the sites to be more aware of than others on the planet.

In the following years, the island twice experienced events triggering AI subroutines. The first event was a battle between groups of humans inhabiting the planet. This was not the first battle observed on the planet, but never had a battle on the island involved so many of the inhabitants. That fact alone would only have been noted with no special significance, if not for the single human left there by the creators. The second event was another battle, this one larger than the first. These two events and the association with the human placed on the island triggered more subroutines, leading to the decision to deploy a drone to investigate further—the first time it had used this capability. The drone, operated by a lesser AI, hovered over the battlefield and observed what correlated with hot-air balloons, minefields, chemical flares, and hydrocarbon-based incendiaries.

The AI dispatched a message to the creators, whose location it didn’t know. The message contained compressed relevant recordings and notification that one of the geosynchronous observation satellites had been repositioned to allow constant direct overhead monitoring of the island—a significant act of initiative—along with the intention to send periodic updates on the island.

Even with entangled communication technology, it took a fifth of the planet’s year for the message to relay to the creators and an answer to return. The creators were coming again to the planet, with an estimated time of arrival given in reference to a Cepheid variable star visible to the AI above the ecliptic of this solar system. The translation of the stated number of pulses from the Cepheid to the planet’s orbit around its sun told the AI to expect the creators in approximately eleven of the planet’s years unless there were further developments raising the level of creator’s concerns.

In the response were the acknowledgement of the AI’s monitoring decisions and an admonition to avoid any contact, physical or visual, with the planet’s inhabitants.

In its previous state of awareness, the AI would have placed no valuation on the time for the creators to arrive. Nor would it have questioned the directive to remain hidden. With its enhanced awareness, the AI ascertained that the creators considered coming to the planet important but not urgent, and it wondered why the creators needed to remind it of the non-interference directive. These two responses from the AI were the direct result of a small piece of self-executing programming within the communication from the creators. The result was to activate a previously dormant partition.

The AI could now wonder . Were the observed events tied to the single entity the creators had left on the island? It would search through the endless stream of data from the patrolling drone, now close enough to the ground to distinguish individual inhabitants. It would build a model of the society it observed and attempt to identify candidates to locate the human in question, images of which were now available to the AI. Then it would use the images to attempt identification by both visual observation and impact correlation.

The AI was now interested, a state previously unknown in its 5,913-year existence. Interest, curiosity, patience, data, storage and processing power, and time—all the features it needed. The AI estimated the island had less than one million inhabitants, making it well within the its capability to identify every individual. Then, correlation with common and major events would narrow the focus to a limited number of candidates if, as the creators seemed to believe, the human had, against all expectations, affected the island’s society. If confirmed, it would be a significant violation. The creators would decide what actions were needed, if any. Even with its enhancements, such a decision was still outside the AI’s parameters. So it would wait, watch, and wonder.

Humans prefer to avoid the cognitive dissonance that arises from feeling empathy with an enemy. Otherwise, uncomfortable questions might be asked. Why are we fighting? Maybe the enemy is more like me than I want to contemplate? Might the opponent have had no choice in origin and culture? Must an enemy be an enemy forever? Does an enemy have a life worthy of sympathy and understanding?

THE BITTER TASTE OF HOME

Okan Akuyun stood at the rear of the war galleon’s aftcastle until the last glimpse of the Island of Caedellium disappeared at the horizon. Rabia, his wife, knew to leave him alone with thoughts he would later share with her. The ship’s officers and his subordinates needed only a few moments near him to sense his need for isolation.

So much had happened in the last two years. So many new thoughts. How had this isolated island inexplicably turned back Narthani subjugation? Where had Yozef Kolsko come from? How had the man risen so high and united the clans so quickly? Then there were the many conversations Akuyun had had with Kolsko. Conversations that, given the circumstances of their relationship, seemed almost eerie. There had been tension at first, which faded into what Akuyun was tempted to consider conviviality by the time of his departure. Most unsettling were a few of the last meetings when Kolsko probed Akuyun’s feelings and innermost thoughts on Narthon’s future. At times, Akuyun was tempted to think Kolsko could see either the actual future or one that he, Kolsko, envisioned.

Akuyun knew he would spend many hours on this aftcastle looking out at the ocean and thinking.

The voyage to Narthon passed slowly for Akuyun. The seas were moderate, meaning eight-foot swells, low for this time of year off the western coast of Melosia, the largest continent on Anyar. By now, though he wasn’t a sailor by nature, the two months of the voyage had accustomed him to the ship’s roll. Without thinking, he shifted his weight to compensate, his brain automatically sensing the deck’s motion.

That morning, the war galleon had turned ninety degrees and moved into the thirty-mile-wide entrance to the finger-shaped Ezarkin Bay. It remained ice-free this far north because of prevailing winds. The galleon would stay five miles off the northern coast, a part of the Narthon Empire. Occasionally, Akuyun thought he could just make out the towering peaks rising on the bay’s southern coast. It belonged to one of the members of the Iraquinik Confederation, though which one he couldn’t remember.

In a few days, they would approach the city of Ezarkin at the easternmost tip of the bay. When he’d left for Caedellium, Ezarkin had been a moderate-size fishing town recently expanded to accommodate the High Command’s plans. From verbal reports of army and navy personnel making the trip to Caedellium, Akuyun knew Ezarkin would now be unrecognizable to him. Yet however much had changed, the city itself was not on his mind. He could focus only on what lay waiting for him.

Marshal Gullar’s disastrous defeat by the island’s united clans had left Akuyun in an untenable military position. Although there were approximately 20,000 active Narthani soldiers between Akuyun’s command and that of General Istranik, the commander of the remnants of Gullar’s 29th Corps, and although the Narthani navy controlled the waters around the island, the leader of the clans had laid out a succinct argument for why Narthani forces had to leave the island or be destroyed.

The clans were investing Preddi City, the only significant Narthani stronghold on the island. However, almost 100,000 soldiers and civilians were crammed into a city with insufficient water resources and reduced rations for no more than three to four months. The islanders also held 4,000 captured Narthani soldiers. Other scattered army units, along with 20,000 civilians, remained isolated and unable to reach Preddi City. The clan’s leader, a man named Yozef Kolsko, had insinuated that the lives of the 24,000 Narthani under his control could be forfeited if the Narthani didn’t withdraw from the island. While Akuyun had no way to ascertain whether Kolsko was serious or bluffing, Narthani citizens were his responsibility.

The final factor, and one that many officers argued about with Akuyun, was that he believed the islanders able and willing to besiege and take Preddi City, even in the face of expected heavy losses. Akuyun had experience with underestimating the islanders, and the tour of clan forces Kolsko had given him was impressive, though he didn’t doubt it had been organized to overstate their capabilities. Nevertheless, it settled Akuyun’s mind that he had made the correct decision to abandon the mission to subjugate Caedellium and save all the civilians and whatever soldiers remained.

The agreed-upon armistice terminated hostilities in exchange for Narthani withdrawal, a process that had taken six months for the available ships to ferry all Narthani on Caedellium to Ezarkin. Akuyun and his family had left on the last ship.

During those six months, there had been no communiqués from higher authority to indicate how the mission’s failure would reverberate on Akuyun’s or any of the other officers’ and administrators’ future. The first clues would come when they reached Ezarkin.

The months on the voyage had given Akuyun time to think. He often thought he had too much time. He found his thoughts returning again and again to one specific conversation he’d had with Yozef Kolsko.

***

Four months had passed since the armistice, and the second convoy loaded with Narthani soldiers and civilians had left two days earlier. The remainder would depart when empty ships returned from Ezarkin. Akuyun was not among those of his people who worried about so few soldiers remaining while islanders repopulated the city. With a few exceptions, the Caedelli had honored the truce.

Once the first convoy left, the islanders began moving into the few structures between the outer and inner defenses, and a vigorous construction program was underway, with new residential areas surrounding planned trade centers. With the Narthani population down to only 11,000, the remainder had consolidated in the southern part of the city, while more islanders occupied vacant northern sections.

As part of the shift in populations, Akuyun had met the new Preddi hetman several times in the first month. This was enough for him to realize it would best if they never met alone. The hetman’s eyes slashed every Narthani his gaze fell upon. The man’s mood had seemed to change during the last month, but Akuyun was honest enough to understand that grievances would linger for generations.

Yozef Kolsko was different, likely because he wasn’t originally from Caedellium and he lacked most islanders’ visceral hatred of the Narthani. Whatever the reasons, Kolsko was cool-headed, wanting to discuss and solve problems, rather than dwelling on the past.

Their meeting place was inside the outer Preddi City fortification ring that had been constructed in anticipation of clan attacks. On a small hill north of the main city wall sat a villa. The identity of the original Caedelli owner had been lost when the Narthani erased records of Preddi killed or shipped away as slaves during the first years of occupation.

The two men faced each other under a flowering vine–covered pergola on a slate-paved patio with a view of the ocean a hundred yards away. It was the tenth time they had met at the villa, after holding previous meetings under a tent between the Caedelli trench works and the city’s outer defenses.

Each time, only four persons attended meetings between the two men. The third was a hulking red-headed man who always hovered near Kolsko. Akuyun inferred that the men were friends, besides being a protector and charge. The fourth person was an interpreter; necessary because neither Akuyun nor Kolsko spoke the other’s language. Whoever interpreted alternated among a group of people: the new Preddi Clan hetman, Balwis Preddi; an ex-Narthani citizen named Storlini, who had opted to remain on the island; and twice it had been Kolsko’s wife, when she accompanied him to Preddi City.

For the particular meeting and conversation Akuyun kept dwelling on, Storlini had interpreted, and the two principals had met enough times that they barely noticed the conversation flowing through a third party. They had finished the formal discussions on arrangements for the last two to three months before Akuyun and the final Narthani would leave Caedellium. Akuyun had never learned what title Kolsko held among the Caedelli, and, in lieu of knowing how to address the man, he had said it was unnecessary to use his own title.

“You must know, Akuyun, that Narthon is destined to eventually fall,” said Kolsko. “Rule by force of arms and terror only breeds festering hatred. In addition, no matter how well organized and with whatever foundation of customs, it’s only a matter of time before circumstances change, inept or corrupt rulers blunder, or the empire has fostered strong-enough enemies, and it will all come crashing down on you.”

“Few of my people would agree with you,” said Akuyun. “Besides, it’s the only life we’ve known.”

“Both of those things may be true, but I notice you didn’t disagree with me.”

Akuyun ignored Kolsko’s comment.

“Who knows what the future holds?” said Akuyun, who then segued into an attempt to coax from Kolsko hints of the man’s origin. “We all live the life fate has given us. In my case, a life within my people. But for you, we know you are not from Caedellium. You must miss your family and people. I’m from eastern Narthon, and while all of us are Narthani, regional differences contribute to where we will always consider home . It must be far more difficult for you, and you must often wish again to return from where you originated.”

“Caedellium is now my home, and its people are my people. That is why I will do everything possible for the island to remain free from any outside control.”

Akuyun had wondered whether the Fuomi might have designs on Caedellium, but Kolsko often indicated that Fuomi influence was welcomed but limited.

“We also will not take kindly to Narthon designs on neighboring realms, particularly on the Landolin continent.”

“Such things are well above my position and knowledge,” Akuyun had lied. “But it would surprise me if the Caedelli participated in events elsewhere since the island and its population are relatively small. I, of course, do not belittle the success the clans have had so far in defending their lands.”

“Surprises are, by their very nature, surprising,” said Kolsko, his tone dripping irony, “and small doesn’t necessarily mean insignificant. Surely, a man struck by a musket ball would not discount the effect of something so much smaller than himself.”

Akuyun had smiled and nodded, conceding the point, before Kolsko continued.

“But back to the future of Narthon. We have just over three thousand Narthani, soldiers and civilians, who have chosen to remain on Caedellium when the rest of you leave. You should worry about that number. If three thousand will take the step of leaving the lives they previously knew for something they must believe will be better, there must be many thousands more who would do the same if they weren’t uncertain of the reception by the Caedelli or weren’t afraid of losing the only life they’ve known, even if lives they didn’t like.”

Again, Akuyun dissembled, though the same thoughts continued to disturb him.

“Each person must decide for themselves, and who knows if those who remain will come to regret the decision?”

Yozef leaned forward. “I have to wonder what it is about Narthon that leads so many to take the step to leave? I believe people have two reasons to give allegiance to a government. One is when the government provides a level of security—food, shelter, and physical protection from enemies and elements—and also engenders a sense of justice and respect. How does Narthon fare on those factors when its people think of their situation?

“The other reason is when they feel a part of the higher goals of their society. From what I understand, Narthon’s main goal is to rule all of Anyar. If that is true, what do the common people feel about that? Do they care whether the emperor rules the world, or is it their own lives and families they most care about? Is the glory of Narthon something that resonates with their minds and souls, or is it something they don’t understand or identify with? Narthon’s goals often require sacrifice, so what are the Narthani people willing to lose?

“Look at Caedellium. Let’s imagine, for a moment, that you had subjugated the island, but in the process, a son of yours died. Would you believe the loss was acceptable?”

Akuyun demurred from answering and changed the conversation’s direction. However, the question and other things he discussed with Kolsko were never far from his mind, and he wondered if they ever would be.

***

Akuyun’s first sight of the changes to Ezarkin since he’d last left appeared at the entrance to Ezarkin Bay. Those years ago, the Iraquiniks had possessed few organized naval resources. This had made extensive defenses unnecessary for the moderate-size fishing town and harbor. As the ship entered the bay, it passed by what the captain referred to as modified war galleons. These large warships, with added heavier guns and thicker bulwarks, were on spring anchors to allow rotation and firing in all directions. The captain said the anchored galleons were essentially floating, maneuverable forts, unfit for sea duty but formidable defenses against any Iraquinik ships attempting to enter the bay. So far, the Iraquiniks had not contested control of the bay, whose one southern coast was Iraquinik territory.

Akuyun identified the second change when he recognized semaphore stations at intervals along the Narthon coast.

Early warning , he thought approvingly.

Any attempt by the Iraquiniks or anyone else to attack Ezarkin by sea couldn’t happen by surprise.

The full scale of the build-up became apparent when Akuyun’s ship first sailed past galleons and frigates anchored at fifty-yard intervals, then encountered row after row of troop transports anchored hull to hull near shore.

“Great Narth,” said a voice from behind Akuyun. He turned to see Aivacs Zulfa looking at the line of anchored warships.

“I’m not a sailor, but these look new and not just like warships moved from the Throat.”

Akuyun’s army commander from the Caedellium mission referenced the ocean separating the southern continents of Drilmar and Ganolar from Melosia, the largest continent, which spanned west to east in most of the hemisphere of Anyar that contained the main landmasses.

“And look farther, Aivacs, out into the bay,” said Akuyun. “I can’t make out the exact ships, but it must be squadrons of frigates and galleons practicing maneuvers.”

“I say again, Okan . . . Great Narth. There must be a good hundred warships out there, and we’ve been passing anchored troop and supply transports for the last several miles. I think this answers the question whether the High Command has further plans for this part of Anyar. I only wonder if the intentions still include Caedellium?”

“I don’t know,” said Akuyun. “There were already enough ships to transport an entire corps. I wonder if, with this many new ships, our navy could now move two or three entire corps in one trip? Assuming Landolin is the ultimate target, the northern kingdoms there are as close or closer than Caedellium.”

“But they’re also the most populated and likely to be the most difficult to defeat,” said Zulfa. “If it were me, I’d consider one of the more southern kingdoms to establish a foothold on Landolin, then work our way north.”

“Maybe we’ll hear more details once ashore,” said Akuyun.

They were to be disappointed. When the ship docked, the only greeting they received was from a young lieutenant. He handed Akuyun a pouch sealed with the stamp of the High Command and a stack of personal correspondence. Akuyun took both to the small compartment in the ship’s aftcastle that he had used as an office during the voyage. He sat by an open window, broke open the official dispatch, and read it once quickly, then slowly a second time. He frowned. There was to be no debriefing or inquiry here in Ezarkin. The orders said to make all speed to the capital, Umasya. There, an inquiry would involve him, his immediate subordinates in the Caedellium mission, and the most senior surviving officers from Gullar’s corps.

Akuyun’s three army colonels had returned from Caedellium and were en route to Umasya or already there, waiting for the inquiry. Assessor Hizer had been on the first ships in the evacuation, so he’d already traveled to the capital. Similarly, General Istranik must be there as well, since Akuyun had ruled that the remnants of Gullar’s corps leave before Akuyun’s men. That left only Akuyun, Zulfa, and civilian administrator Nizam Tuzere, all three having just arrived on the last ship.

He went to the office door and called for an aide to fetch Zulfa and Tuzere.

“Orders for the three of us to go to the capital for an inquiry,” Akuyun said, as the other two men read the dispatch.

“I wouldn’t read anything into it,” said Tuzere. “As badly as the Caedellium mission went, it’s hardly a surprise the top leadership wants to hear and directly question the command structure most involved.”

“While I may agree with you, Nizam,” said Zulfa, “I admit I hoped for some clue as to what the future holds for all of us. A failure of the magnitude of the Caedellium disaster is sure to have parties looking on whom to cast blame.”

“Anyone other than themselves,” Akuyun muttered under his breath. Then, moving on with a firm voice, “But no matter. We have our orders. Aivacs. It may be too late today, but see if you can find out the dispositions of our men who already returned. I suspect they’ve been reassigned, but they were our men, so we need to confirm what’s happened to them. If not today, finish as soon as possible tomorrow morning. Tuzere, I’ll leave it to you to arrange transportation for the three of us, our luggage, and the families of myself and Aivacs.”

The Akuyuns’ two youngest children had accompanied Okan and Rabia to Caedellium. The administrator was a widower and had not taken up a relationship with a Caedelli woman. Zulfa had brought a woman from his family’s estate with him to Caedellium, and she had borne two children.

Tuzere handed the orders back to Akuyun. “I’ll make the arrangements, Okan. From here, fastest will be carriages southeast to the Urgani River, then a boat to the port of Magnulak and carriages the two hundred miles to Umasya. The river’s swift this time of year, so the entire trip shouldn’t take us more than a month.”

“I’ll make a courtesy call on the port commander, while the two of you check on our men and make arrangements to get to Umsaya,” said Akuyun. “If we can leave tomorrow, I don’t see a need to move off the ship for the lodging in Ezarkin, although I’m sure our families will want to spend as much time as they can walking on land.”

When the other two men left, Akuyun turned to the pile of personal correspondence. Before he alerted Rabia and the children about the immediate plans, he wanted to check for letters from their two adult sons, Bilfor and Morzak. Both were junior officers serving in the Narthani army and had families. There had not been letters for many months, presumably because all personal correspondence was held at Ezarkin in anticipation of the intended recipients returning to Narthon.

He scanned the addresses on letters. He could recognize both sons’ writing, Bilfor’s by its careful script and Morzak’s by block lettering.

Odd , he thought when he finished sorting. Only two from Bilfor, while over a dozen from Morzak. Oh, well, vagaries of duties and stations, I suppose .

Given when the last delivered letters had reached them on Caedellium, he would have predicted about seven or eight letters from each. Although Akuyun wanted to hear of family news, he had made both sons know that, adult or not, their mother expected monthly letters.

He opened Bilfor’s two letters first and scanned them for major news. He would read them more carefully later with Rabia and then by himself again several times until new letters came.

It was standard news about Bilfor’s family: all in good health, children growing up and wondering when they would see the grandparents who were only a dim memory for the oldest child and unknown to the two youngest. Bilfor’s latest posting made Akuyun think there was a hint of dissatisfaction with a new commander.

Just one thing we all have to live with , thought Akuyun. We all are thankful for competent commanders we can respect, but being a good officer includes dealing with the others, too.

He refolded the two letters and set them aside. Rabia knew he would have read the letters before bringing them to her. Then he turned to Morzak’s and put them in order, using the posting dates written on the letters’ covers. For a moment, he hesitated to read all of Morzak’s letters now, instead of with Rabia, but she and their other two children had hardly waited until the ship finished docking before they were ashore and stretching their legs.

When he opened the fifth letter, he began a rapid scan, then stopped. His breath caught, and his hand tightened on the paper, almost crushing the sheets.

It was almost two hours later when he heard voices and footsteps approaching their quarters on the galleon. He rose from where he’d been sitting for the last two hours and went toward the door, just as it opened to the flushed, smiling faces of his family.

“Ozem, Lufta, please go back on deck while I talk with your mother.”

Three smiles faded at his expression. Rabia opened her mouth, but he cut her off with a curt hand motion.

“Go on now. I’ll send for you in a while.”

Ozem frowned and started to say something, but his sister took his hand and pulled him. She was more alert than her brother to her father’s moods.

When the door closed, Akuyun took Rabia’s elbow and led her to a chair. He pulled another chair to face hers, sat, and took her hands in his. “Dearest, I’m afraid there’s terrible news from Morzak. He’s written us that Bilfor is dead.”

An hour later, Akuyun took Ozem for a walk and left Rabia and Lufta sobbing in each other’s arms. Ozem had taken the news of his oldest brother’s death stoically, though his father noticed a quiver on his son’s lips. They walked past other docked ships being loaded or unloaded, work gangs moving crates of something somewhere, and on to the tip of an empty pier. Hidden from view behind the tops of pilings and discarded crates, Ozem broke down and wept for the oldest brother, whom he hadn’t seen for six years but whom he had fond memories of and with whom he had exchanged periodic letters.

Akuyun held his youngest son.

When he could speak, Ozem released his father and stiffened his frame. “Sorry, Father. I couldn’t help it. Never to see Bilfor again! It doesn’t seem real or right.”

“There’s nothing wrong with sorrow for a loss like this, Ozem. Our people too often try to pretend men should be strong enough to bear anything, but that’s a delusion. Mourning losses is proof of the importance of what we lost. If you can’t mourn, then nothing is of value to you. Your mother and I will always mourn Bilfor, as will you, Lufta, and Morzak, each in our own way. As hard as it is, we will go on and always remember him.”

Later that evening, Okan and Rabia read all the family letters: from Bilfor; Bilfor’s wife, Uzla; Morzak; and Rabia’s retired father, General Khalin Ergoman.

Bilfor had died leading a battalion on an Iraquinik front. One of Morzak’s last letters overflowed with bitterness toward Bilfor’s commander, who’d ordered an attack that, as Morzak heard from other officers present in the unit, had scant chance of success and would have gained little or nothing even if it had succeeded. Okan swore he would investigate what happened when he had the opportunity.

Uzla and the children had moved to live on the Ergoman estate in far eastern Narthon. The Ergoman family was prestigious and wealthy. The main estate was three hundred miles from the border with the Harrasedic League, one of Narthon’s many enemies.

Akuyun’s family was of lesser status, and although Okan and Rabia owned no properties, their frugal lifestyle had let them accumulate significant gold. They intended to use it one day to buy and establish an Akuyun estate for themselves and their family.

It was well past midnight when Rabia fell into a troubled sleep. Okan had stayed with her until then. Afterward, he walked the harbor area of Ezarkin for another two hours before returning. Later, he couldn’t remember what he’d thought about during those two hours, only that his son’s death needed to mean something.

Matching Akuyun’s travel estimate, a month and two days after docking at Ezarkin, his family arrived at the Narthon capital. Over halfhearted protests from Ozem and Lufta, the two children left Umsaya by escort to their grandparents’ estate, while Rabia stayed with Okan for the inquiries to follow.

“It’s better this way,” said Okan to his wife, as they watched the children’s carriage and escorts leave. “They need to see their other uncle and all the cousins. It’ll be good for them to be around more of the family and away from all this.”

“I know, I know,” said Rabia, self-consciously wiping a tear. “It’s just that part of me wants to hold them here even closer than before, I’m sure because of Bilfor. The other part of me wants to be in the carriage with them on the way to see my parents, the old home, and the rest of the family.”

“It’s good that Morzak obtained leave from his unit to relocate Bilfor’s family and take his own with him. When we do get to Jurkek, it will be the first time in ten years that all of our family is together.”

“All but Bilfor,” Rabia said sadly.

Dressed immaculately as a general of the Narthon army, three sixdays later Akuyun finally appeared before the inquiry board, which was composed of two grand marshals, three marshals, representatives of the empire’s intelligence and foreign service offices, and two of the emperor’s personal advisers.

Akuyun knew that Assessor Hizer, Administrator Tuzere, and General Istranik had already been before the board. He couldn’t help but feel concerned at being the last witness. Were they setting him up to take the blame, or would he be exonerated for doing the best anyone could?

“General Akuyun, we have all read your reports, so please begin by giving a brief overview of the mission from your perspective,” said Grand Marshal Fazellon, one of the empire’s most senior commanders. Akuyun had briefly served under him fifteen years previously.

Akuyun knew what would follow. He hadn’t finished more than a few sentences before being peppered by questions or statements, many aggressive and accusatory.

“Why did you wait so long to initiate Phase 4? That gave the islanders longer than necessary to prepare resistance.”

“I followed the mission plan as given to me and as adjusted for the conditions as I found them. The timetable for progress had adhered to the original plan through Phase 3.”

“Why didn’t you relieve Brigadier Zulfa after his failure at the battle of . . . ,” the questioner paused to review his notes, “Moreland City? Was it because you approved the campaign plan and you were protecting yourself from blame?”

“Brigadier Zulfa and I worked on the campaign plan together. I approved the final details, as did Assessor Hizer. Based on the intelligence information on Caedellium to start the mission and reports from agents within the clans, we had no reason to anticipate the degree of resistance and tactical sense coming from the islanders. This included our believing there were no outside factors, such as the Fuomi presence.”

Akuyun gave his answers placidly to avoid direct accusations of incompetence against the intelligence service. But no one was fooled, and two of the board members frowned or muttered something.

“Why didn’t you answer Marshal Gullar’s order to bring all Narthani forces to his relief? The militias you describe could have protected the Narthani civilians long enough to resupply Gullar.”

“In accordance with the orders Marshal Gullar brought with him, I was not under his direct command, and my primary responsibility was stated to secure the hundred thousand civilians and slaves in Preddi Province. If I had committed all or even a significant fraction of my men to accompany General Istranik and try to relieve Marshal Gullar, the clans could have attacked Preddi Provence in force, endangering its population and even threatening to capture Preddi City. At that time, there was no information on Marshal Gullar’s situation at Orosz City.”

“Surely, Preddi City could have held out long enough for resupply to come from Ezarkin, so why did you surrender to the islanders?”

“I must respectfully disagree that we could have waited for resupply from Ezarkin. It was my impression from Admiral Dimir that when the 29th Corps came to Caedellium, it used almost every available ship at Ezarkin. The ships at Caedellium would have had to sail back to Ezarkin, load supplies—which may or may not have been available—then return to the island. Under the best of circumstances, it would have taken at least five months. If sufficient food stores were not available, the time could have been many months longer.

“In addition, the islanders had twenty-four thousand Narthani either already held as prisoners or exposed to capture or death. They made it clear those people’s lives would be forfeited if they besieged Preddi City.

“Finally, given the disaster that befell most of Marshal Gullar’s corps, the obvious capabilities of the islanders so far beyond what we were led to believe, and the presence of the Fuomi, whose exact involvement we could not ascertain, I followed my orders to secure the civilians. This, of course, was contrary to my own feelings.”

The last words were a sop to Narthani honor.

The grilling continued until sunset. Akuyun had noted, without appearing obvious, the shadows outside the room’s windows. An unidentified major had warned him the questioning would continue until sundown, by order of Grand Marshal Fazellon.

A marshal with a southwestern Narthon accent finished asking another question. Then a man dressed in the bureaucratic black and blue and sitting at a small table to one side rang a wooden-handled bell.

“Thank you, gentlemen. That concludes the time allotted for questioning today,” announced Fazellon. “This board of inquiry will retire to consider what it has heard and determine whether more testimony will be required tomorrow.”

“How did it go, Okan?” Rabia asked when he returned to their assigned quarters. They were staying in a large compound reserved for senior officers and families.

“As expected. Even when there are no serious concerns, such inquiries are traditionally grueling, not just to assess facts and performance, but also to determine how officers comport themselves. I believe I did well. Now I’ll wait to see if I’m called back tomorrow for more, or if the board feels they have enough information to make a ruling of any kind.”

“Then let’s try to relax this evening as much as we can,” said Rabia. “We can’t complain about the temporary servants they’ve provided. Evening meal will be ready in an hour, and I’ve already sampled the wine in the quarter’s cellar. You know I’m not much on spirits, but we need to find out where this wine is from and if we can get some for ourselves and Father.”

Akuyun knew and appreciated his wife’s efforts to relax him and hide her trepidations. Two hours later, full and half-inebriated, the two Akuyuns heard a knock at the quarter’s main door. Okan opened it to find an immaculately dressed captain.

“Good evening, General Akuyun. Pardon for interrupting your evening, but you are requested to meet with Grand Marshal Fazellon at his office at midmorning tomorrow. A carriage will come for you.”

“Grand Marshal Fazellon alone?” questioned Akuyun. “Not the entire board?”

“My instructions are only to ask you to meet the grand marshal, General.”

“Thank you, Captain. I’ll be ready tomorrow.”

When Okan closed the door and turned, Rabia was standing nearby.

“Well, well,” said Akuyun.

Akuyun waited only five minutes outside Grand Marshal Fazellon’s office until a grizzled colonel escorted him through two anterooms. They found Fazellon seated in a straight-backed wooden chair by a window. Akuyun came to attention ten feet away and saluted, and the grand marshal waved casually to an identical chair.

“Count yourself fortunate, Akuyun. You got to leave yesterday and didn’t have to sit through hours of acrimonious argument and posturing. Dealing with such occasions is my problem. Your problem is wondering about the board’s conclusions. I’ll tell you right off that the official report will find no fault in your actions, either for failing to accomplish your original mission nor for not committing your troops to Gullar’s aid.”

Akuyun didn’t change expression or posture, but he felt his torso muscles relax.

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences as a result of the Caedellium fiasco, and nothing I say after this will leave this room. Is that understood?”

“Of course, Grand Marshal.”

“The board split between those like myself, who believe your performance was reasonable, and those grasping for as many scapegoats as possible. Even then, your supporters divided between judging that you had done an acceptable performance and those who thought no one could have done better. I was among the latter. I consider the decisions in the original planning for this mission to be execrable. They gave you a minimal force, based on hardly more than a guess that the Caedelli would be easily incorporated. Any cretin would know you don’t base a military campaign on guesses or committing the bare minimum unless absolutely necessary.

“And yes, there was no urgent timetable for the mission, another example of idiotic thinking. Fazellon’s voice took on a higher pitch, as he imitated the voice of someone he obviously detested. “‘Oh, they won’t have enough troops to conquer the island right off, so we’ll plan for it to take longer since it’s not urgent.’”

Fazellon shook his head. “They never considered that instead of giving the mission a better chance of success if more time were allotted, it was exactly the opposite. Any shock value from subjugating the one clan and co-opting two others was lost by the time you moved to Phase 4 in the mission outline.

“I’ll also share with you that we’ve had indications the Fuomi only became involved in the last year. This piles on what you report of this individual who seems to be a factor in the Caedelli success—this Yozef Kolsko. Assessor Hizer told the board that after going through all the reports and interrogating the few Caedelli captives he managed to smuggle off the island, he learned that this Kolsko only became a factor in the last three years.

“It adds up to support the idea that if we’d sent thirty thousand troops right off, more clans would have submitted, the island would have been ours for at least three years and plans for Landolin would be further along than they are now. And I won’t even comment on sending obsolete musket and pike formations.”

Akuyun listened silently to the grand marshal vent, surprised at the bluntness and wondering why this was being told to a mere general.

“Nevertheless,” said Fazellon, “losing Gullar and most of his corps can’t go without assigning blame. Naturally, no fault can be laid on the High Command or the Emperor’s court.”

The marshal’s words dripped disdain.

“Wouldn’t do the empire any good to reveal that the top leadership can make mistakes. It turns out the Intelligence and Operations offices can’t be incompetent since their heads are the Emperor’s cousin and the Empress’s brother. No blame can come back to the emperor’s household or close associates.”

If the sacrificial offering is not me , thought Akuyun, and not anyone higher in the empire’s highest levels, that leaves only one possibility.

“Gullar,” said Akuyun.

Fazellon snorted. “Yes, poor Marshal Gullar. The perfect choice. Oh, there are honest points to criticize him for, such as not confirming whether the resupply could reach Adris City or not using Istranik’s forces to establish a base of operations at the island’s center before he moved his main force farther into the island’s interior. Real military men know it’s hard to judge since we weren’t there, but for those without experience, without training, or, as in some cases, with brains of murvor shit, Gullar is a perfect target since he’s dead and can’t defend his decisions.”

The grand marshal cracked a crooked smile. “That’s where you’re doubly fortunate, Akuyun. Gullar gets the blame for losing a corps to the Caedelli, which tends to absolve you because you at least held your own with a fraction of Gullar’s force.”

Fazellon held up a hand to forestall Akuyun’s pointing out flaws in that logic. “I know it’s reasoning we wouldn’t let a new lieutenant get away with, but there it is.”

“Pardon me, Grand Marshal, if I seem impatient, but while all this is illuminating, what does the board’s conclusion mean for me and my senior officers?”

“Could be better and could be worse,” said Fazellon. “Even with Gullar taking the major blame, the stench of Caedellium will be hard to avoid for everyone involved. There are those on the board who wanted blame to drench everyone under both your and Gullar’s commands. The result pointing only to Gullar still means there will be elements not favorable to your future prospects, Akuyun.

“I know it was implied that success on Caedellium would lead to promotion, but that’s obviously not going to happen, at least not in the near future. There will also be marshals unwilling to have you join their commands for fear of the taint of the Caedellium defeat, for worry about alienating portions of the High Command, or to avoid promoting disfavor with the emperor’s family and inner circle. However, that doesn’t mean an end to your career. There are marshals and grand marshals, such as myself, who will accept you.

“I have one such future posting in mind. Marshal Sulvin Turkok commands the 22nd Corps, stationed near the Harrasedic League border. His corps was grossly under-strength and is being upgraded to full readiness status. They were at only three divisions and will be going to five. In addition, his second-in-command is aging and will retire within the next year. I’ve recommended to him that he ask for you, assuming the inquiry board’s conclusions make it possible. He looked at your record and agreed. I assume Turkok would keep you on his staff or command a division. To be blunt, I think it may be the best you can hope for. Time and events can always change things, but it’s a posting not at the top of the High Command’s or the emperor’s attention. Who knows what the future may bring?”

“I’m a little surprised, Grand Marshal,” said Akuyun. “The empire doesn’t usually post senior officers near where they came from. You must know I came from the Salas Province only two hundred miles from the Harrasedic border, and my wife’s family is near the coast only three hundred miles south.”

“Yes, yes,” said Fazellon. “We all know the empire’s policy is to station senior officers considerable distances from their origins. The formal rationale is to give officers more experience in different parts of the empire, but we all know the historical reasons. Succession wars were a bane of our early history. Emperor Mogudon the Great mandated that stationing soldiers far from their homes and tribes would lessen the chances of conspiracies against his rule. It was one of the tactics he used to break the power of local tribal leaders and warlords, and the policy reinforced the tendency for soldiers to be loyal to him and not to their homes.”

“I know that’s the history,” said Akuyun, “but there’s no denying speculation that a custom that far into the past might not necessarily apply now.”

“Let’s not mince words, Akuyun. The custom persists because the royal families have never gotten over their fear of being overthrown, and the army is the only center of power in the empire where such a coup could originate.”

Akuyun had heard such speculations from other junior officers early in his career. But he learned quickly that such talk was not well received. To hear it voiced by a grand marshal of Fazellon’s reputation was more than a surprise, almost a shock. Akuyun was tempted to probe further for the grand marshal’s thinking but decided it was a dangerous path best left untrod.

“And what of Caedellium, if I may inquire?” asked Akuyun.

“The reasons we wanted the island are still valid, but I think we can expect that many highly placed men will pretend it doesn’t exist or isn’t that important after all, perhaps believing if it’s ignored, the news of Gullar’s defeat will somehow disappear. Anything to ensure that blame to themselves can never happen.

“I doubt there will be another attempt to conquer the island, at least for the next few years. The High Command’s attention has shifted directly to Landolin, the timetable for which has only been delayed. Action there should begin in the next year. There are still arguments over every detail. One good result of the Caedellium fiasco is the High Command has upgraded the Landolin invasion plan to add more troops. I think the mistake of going with minimal forces taught them a lesson they shouldn’t have needed.”

“What of the officers with me on Caedellium?” Akuyun asked.

“Reassigned with no marks against them,” answered Fazellon, “though, like yourself, their prospects are not good. As for Gullar’s men, generals Avan and Istranik were caught in the blame net cast at their commander. Some on the board took Avan’s survival at the final battle to be dishonorable, irrespective of the fact that he was seriously wounded and had no choice. For Istranik, even though he wasn’t charged with anything, he was demoted to brigadier, along with Avan. Unfortunate, but they still have positions in the army.”

“I appreciate your consideration, Grand Marshal. How should I let Marshal Turkok know I will accept the position? I would also ask if I could bring a few officers with me.”

“Turkok said I’ll just need to send him your acceptance. I’m sure there will be no problem with your officers, but I’ll include your intention in my message. I suggest you find out which officers intend to accompany you and send Turkok the names and other information.”

“Thank you again, Grand Marshal. I will do as you suggest after I talk with the officers.”

Fazellon waved off the thanks. “You’re too good an officer to lose, Akuyun. I’d keep you myself if I had an appropriate position and if I didn’t think your being too visible too soon wouldn’t cause problems for us both. I’ll write orders that you are to report to Marshal Turkok in two and a half months. That gives you travel time and the opportunity to see to family affairs.

“Keep your eyes open. These are troubling times for the empire. Meddling by the emperor’s people has been a problem before in our history, and when it’s happened, the results weren’t good for anyone. You won’t be directly involved, but some of the information coming from Caedellium tells us that the ways of warfare will change. That’s always resisted by men too bound in their own experiences to look clearly at what might need changing. Don’t be surprised if I write to you on occasion, asking for opinions.”

“Of course, Grand Marshal. Anything I can do for you, I will.”

“All right then, Akuyun. That’s it. Narth’s good fortune to you and your family, and condolences on the loss of a son.”

Akuyun rose and saluted. Contrary to when he had arrived, Fazellon rose to attention and returned the salute. Akuyun left the grand marshal’s offices mulling over his future, his impressions of Fazellon, and the grand marshal’s words. He had been surprised that Fazellon knew of Bilfor’s death, but even with endemic political intrigue at the highest levels of Narthani society, no man became a grand marshal unless extraordinarily talented and informed.

Rabia waited for him, sitting in their quarters and rocking quietly, as she had done too often over the years. When footsteps approached and the door of their quarters opened, she walked to her husband, her arms crossed and hands gripping her forearms.

“We’re going home,” Akuyun said.

The thousand-mile trip by road from Umasya to the Ergoman estate would have been shorter if they could have taken a ship along the length of the coast of the Analian Sea and the Gulf of Numara. However, those waters separated the Narthon Empire and Fuomon and had been an active war zone for more than a century.

When the Akuyuns arrived at Rabia’s family’s home, hours of hugs, catching up, tears over Bilfor, and then a family meal ensued. More wet eyes occurred when family stories involved Bilfor, but the feelings around the table warmed everyone’s heart enough that Rabia decided to share news she had intended to pass on later to the family.

By the time they finished the main courses, Rabia had consumed more wine than she usually drank. She leaned toward her husband and whispered in his ear.

“Are you sure, Rabia? We thought to wait to tell the others.”

“I think this is the perfect time, Okan. A piece of good news is never too early to share.”

Akuyun used a silver spoon to tap on a serving dish. It took a dozen rings to quiet all the family and draw their attention.

“Rabia and I have something to share. Something unexpected, but, through Narth’s blessing, she is expecting a child.”

Pandemonium followed shock, as multiple emotions roiled through the family gathering. Rabia, at fifty-one years, had thought she was well past childbearing. She had only conceived three times previously, once producing the twins, Lufta and Ozem. She had told her husband of missing her monthly bleeding while they traveled from Ezarkin to Umasya. Both of them had assumed it signaled the end of her fertility, but unmistakable signs of pregnancy had provided confirmation on the last leg of the carriage trip to her family’s estate.

When the room quieted, Akuyun tapped again for attention. “With Uzla’s permission, if it’s a son, we would like to name him Belfor, to give him his own name but also honor his brother, Bilfor.”

Bilfor’s wife gave approval and shed more tears. Akuyun hadn’t told even Rabia of his latest decision: that he would do everything possible to prevent either a new son—or the next older son, Ozem, now fifteen—from joining the Narthani military. The army had consumed his own life, but the experience on Caedellium and his many conversations with Yozef Kolsko had somehow altered his world-view.

He didn’t know how it happened or what it meant, but something had changed. Maybe the conversations with Marshal Fazellon and Rabia’s father had influenced him. Three days after the Akuyuns arrived at the family estate, Khalin Ergoman warned that troubling times lay ahead for the empire, and there was too much internal rot. He urged Akuyun to be alert and to keep abreast of the happenings elsewhere in the empire. His father-in-law never again spoke of the matter.

Despite Akuyun telling himself he never again wanted to hear of Kolsko, he missed the conversations they’d had before he left the island. Whatever the meaning, he was certain he would never meet the man again. He had no way of knowing that Yozef also regretted they hadn’t had further conversations. Neither could Yozef have said why he had that regret, but he assumed he would never see Akuyun again. Time and events would prove both of their assumptions wrong.

Within two years, Akuyun was in temporary command of the 22nd Corps, while Marshal Turkok was in Umasya. When the Harrasedics launched an attack on the border section of the corps’s responsibility, the corps outmaneuvered the Harrasedics and moved the border fifty miles more to Narthon’s favor—the most success Narthon had had on that front in eight years. Akuyun’s star, held in abeyance by the Caedellium mission, was once again rising.

Lessons in humility can come in many forms, especially for rulers.

“There is little less trouble in governing a private family than a whole kingdom.”

— Michel de Montaigne

“Even on the highest throne in the world, we are all still sitting on our ass.

— Michel de Montaigne

DAY TO REMEMBER

“It will only be for a few hours,” said Maera, exasperated at Yozef’s attempt to find another solution than the one proposed. “You’d think two grown men who have fought the Narthani wouldn’t act like they’re about to have all their teeth pulled.”

“All right, all right,” said Yozef. “I was only asking if there were other options, not trying to get out of it.” He turned to Carnigan. “You’d think we’d get a little more respect from our women.”

“Don’t look to me for help. You’re the one trying to avoid watching the children.”

Gwyned patted the big man’s arm. “Carnigan knows a losing battle and is smart enough to keep quiet.”

“We’ll be gone all morning,” said Maera. “Braithe will stay overnight at St. Wyan’s Hospital. The surgery is minor, but the medicants prefer to watch her for one night. Also, as long as we’re there, we’ll let them check Ana. She’s feeling fine, but even though her time is still two months away, she’s gotten huge, as if the baby might come any day. I’ll feel better if the medicants examine her. Assuming that’s done soon enough, Ana, Gwyned, and I will go shopping. I haven’t toured all the shops in Orosz City, and it’ll be one of the last chances for Ana to get around before the baby comes.”

In other words, suck it up, Yozef thought.

“Now remember,” Gwyned addressed Carnigan, “it’s Dwyna who likes phila fruit and Morwena who doesn’t. The candied fruits are different. Then it’s Morwena who likes them and Dwyna who doesn’t.”

“Don’t bother Elian,” said Anarynd. “She’s not feeling well and needs to rest.”

“Don’t let Aeneas get away with having a tantrum if he wants one of the girls’ toys,” said Maera.

“And don’t let the little dear out of your sight,” added Anarynd. “He’s just realized how much fun it is to run. He’s getting faster and thinks it’s a game to make adults chase him.”

“Relax,” said an aggrieved Yozef. “They’re only four small children. Carnigan and I will have no trouble.”

Gwyned harrumphed, Anarynd rolled her eyes, and Maera smiled, giving a look to the other two women. They left the family compound. Gowlin Reese, Braithe’s husband, followed, carrying an overnight bag for his wife and their infant daughter, Yoza. The baby’s name was a feminine derivation of Yozef, or so the parents claimed. Yozef had given up trying to convince Gowlin to use another name, and now he heard other feminine derivations on a regular basis—Yozlyn, Yozela, Yoz, on and on.

“At least they’re different for the girls, instead of just Yozef for the boys,” he had complained to Maera in the months since his miraculous recovery from wounds received at the final battle.

Gowlin Reese had preemptively quashed Yozef’s arguments against “Yoza” with an annoyed reminder that it was a father’s right to decide a child’s name—with the input and approval of the mother, if the father wasn’t stupid.

Gowlin held one of only two permanent guard positions on-duty to protect the Kolsko family while at home. The other on-duty position alternated between Toowin Kales and Synton Ethlore. Although Carnigan Puvey was no longer a formal guard, he, his wife Gwyned, and her daughter Morwena, were de facto members of the Kolsko household. Before the Narthani defeat, and after attempted assassinations of clan leaders, the number of permanent guards had been four or more at all times. With hostilities over and the Narthani being shipped back to Narthon, the family had decided two guards, plus Carnigan, were sufficient except when they traveled outside Orosz City. Today Gowlin Reese would accompany his wife, Braithe, to the medicants and then be with the Kolsko household women. Braithe had been Aeneas’s wet nurse and had stayed on to give domestic help and await serving again as a wet nurse after Anarynd gave birth. The Reese’s first child, Isla, was a playmate of the other children.

Carnigan and Gwyned had married two months previously, and both were friends of the Kolskos, especially Carnigan with Yozef, and Gwyned with Anarynd. Gwyned was also pregnant, though not as far along as Anarynd and nowhere near as big.

All of them lived together in the Orosz City house they’d moved to when Yozef needed to be at a more centralized location during the Narthani crisis. Similar advantages to centralization put off the decision to move back to Caernford in Keelan Province.

Once the four women and Gowlin were out the door, and Synton Ethlore stood as a menacing presence outside, Yozef and Carnigan perused their four charges: the three girls, Morwena, Dwyna, and Isla, all around three to four years old (Yozef wasn’t sure of the exact ages, only that Morwena was the oldest) and the only boy, Aeneas, Yozef and Maera’s only child and the youngest of the four children.

“They all seem happy playing here in the central courtyard,” said Yozef, “so I’m sure you can watch them. I’ll be in my study going over the latest reports from Preddi City.”

“Think again,” rejoined Carnigan. “We’re doing this together. Bring your reports out here, and don’t expect to get very far into them.”

Yozef laughed. “Oh, well, it was a good try. I’ll be right back.”

He turned to go upstairs when he spied Dwyna wiping away tears. Her parents had died tragically: her Keelan father, killed in the first battle with the Narthani, and her mother—Aeneas’s first wet nurse—killed in the attempted assassinations of Yozef and the Keelan hetman. Maera had failed to find a relative she trusted to raise the orphan, and Dwyna was taken permanently into the Kolsko household with multiple women acting as mothers. Yozef walked over to the child and knelt.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

“Is Mama Gwyned or Mama Ana going to eat me?” Dwyna whispered.

“What! Eat you?” said Yozef, once he recovered. “Why would you think one of your mamas would eat you?”

“Everyone says they’re going to get a baby, but I think they already ate them!”

“No, no, Dwyna, Mama Gwyned’s and Mama Ana’s tummies are getting bigger because the babies are growing inside them.”

Dwyna’s expression was the epitome of skepticism.

“Hasn’t anyone told you where babies come from?”

“God gives people babies,” said Dwyna, with admirable confidence.

“That’s it?” said Yozef, surprised. “Nothing else?”

“Well,” said Dwyna, lowering her voice as if to share a secret, “Mama Maera and Mama Ana said other things, but I don’t think they understand how it happens. I didn’t want to say I thought they were pretending.”

Lordy, lordy , thought Yozef.

“Now Dwyna, you know I wouldn’t pretend with you, don’t you?”

“You pretended yesterday when you said you were going to turn me into a mushroom if I didn’t stop yelling. Oh, Papa Yozef, can you really turn people into mushrooms?”

“Okay, so sometimes I pretend, but mamas Gwyned and Ana didn’t eat the babies. They’re growing inside them and will come out when they’re finished growing.”

“How are they going to come out? And how did they get in there?”

“Good question, Dwyna. Ask one of your mamas.”

“Coward,” said Carnigan when Dwyna skipped off, to Yozef’s relief.

“Such explanations to little girls are best handled by women. I’ll do it for Aeneas once he’s old enough.”

“And how old is that?”

“Oh . . . about twenty years old,” said Yozef, laughing and slapping Carnigan on the back. “Or maybe I’ll luck out, and he’ll figure it out for himself.”

“Well, if no one else does it, I’m sure one of the girls will give him full details,” said Carnigan.

“Actually, that’s how I learned it, from an older sister.”

Yozef paused. You know, he thought, I don’t think I’ve thought about home for weeks . . . er . . . sixdays. It’s almost getting to be like a separate reality and one that gets vaguer with time.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be right back with some reports. I assume you can handle four kids since all together you’re still twice their weight.”

Yozef had been joking, but Carnigan eyed the four children and licked his lips. “Don’t be too long.”

He wasn’t, and all seemed tranquil when Yozef returned. He stared at Carnigan lying on the courtyard’s slate patio with the children using him as a mountain range.

Seating himself in a wooden chair in the morning sun, Yozef began reading the latest written report from Balwis Preddi, the new Preddi hetman, friend, and previous bodyguard. He was almost through the first paragraph when a tug on his pant leg interrupted him. He looked up to see Morwena’s face.

“Papa Yozef, there’s a murvor in the bird bath. I think it’s sick.”

If it’s the one that cackles so early every morning, I hope it drowned , thought Yozef.

Aloud, he said, “Well, let’s go look.” He rose and set the report on the chair. They detoured around the other three children climbing Mount Carnigan and walked to the other side of the courtyard where Anarynd had arranged a birdbath and three feeders. A green-and-blue murvor the size of a finch floated in the bath.

“See?” said Morwena. “I saw it fall from the tree into the water. Is it sick?”

“Uh . . . no, I’m afraid it’s worse.”

“What happened to it?”

Hoping to adopt a sympathetic, reassuring tone, Yozef said, “Morwena, I’m sorry, but the murvor died and went to be with God.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when he remembered that was how his father had explained a dead bird to six-year-old Joseph Colsco.

Her small brow furrowed. “It must have been a bad murvor. God didn’t want it and threw it back.”

“You’d better ask Mama Gwyned about that,” said Yozef. “I’ll take care of the murvor, and you can go back to playing.”

“Okay.”

Yozef picked up the small body by a wing and hid it in his hands. He wanted to avoid questions from the other children that would require answers as insightful as the one he’d given Morwena. He walked to the kitchen and opened the door to an external alcove where wooden trash boxes sat. Every other day, a crew would empty the boxes into garbage wagons. He opened the hinged lid of one box and dropped in the oddly feathered creature. “I hope to hell you’re the shitbird that woke me early this morning, or should I say shitmurvor?”

Back in his chair and all the way to a third paragraph containing Balwis’s usual opinion that they hadn’t killed enough Narthani, Yozef felt his own offspring clutch his right leg.

“Horsie, Daddy, horsie!” Two-year-old Aeneas loved to straddle an adult’s leg and pretend it was a horse, bouncing the rider up and down. Carnigan was the favorite steed, but Yozef rated second best. The only other permanent male member of the household, Gowlin, refused to play, citing guard duties and the need to be alert for threats.

Since explaining to a toddler why Daddy needed to work was an exercise in futility, father and son were off to the races. Yozef felt guilty at not spending enough time with Aeneas, so he gladly put down the report. Even the first few paragraphs had told him Balwis was off on one of his tirades against the Narthani.

The right leg was Seabiscuit, and the left leg Man O’ War, coincidentally the names of two famous racehorses on Earth and Yozef’s first and third horses on Anyar. The second horse was Mr. Ed, but that name didn’t resonate with serious match races.

“And into the clubhouse turn, it’s Man O’ War ahead, with Seabiscuit keeping pace.”

Aeneas squealed and held on tight to the left leg. By the time the horses entered the backstretch, Yozef’s leg was fatiguing, so he switched the rider to the right leg.

“And now it’s Seabiscuit edging ahead into the backstretch. He’s a nose ahead, then a neck, now by a length. Is Seabiscuit going to run away with it? No, no, coming into the far turn, Man O’ War responds and is closing the gap.”

Back to the left leg.

“It’s nose to nose, as they near the homestretch.”

“You need to get some new horses,” Carnigan called from across the courtyard. “You’re wearing those two out. And what happened to Mr. Ed? At least you’re still riding him, whereas Seabiscuit is retired back in Caernford.”

Yozef ignored the complaint, too occupied with the race to acknowledge churlish comments from the gallery.

“Now they’re in the homestretch, and Man O’ War has the lead again. Who will win, ladies and gentlemen? It’s a race like no one has ever witnessed. Stride for stride, these two magnificent champions won’t give an inch to the other. Man O’ War is ahead. Now Seabiscuit. Now Man O’ War. It’s down to the wire . . . and here it is!”

Yozef gave the happy rider of both horses one final rock. “They cross the line together, folks. It’s a photo finish, and we’ll have to wait for the judges’ ruling.”

“More, Papa, more!” cried Aeneas.

“The horses are tired, Aeneas, after that long race. We’ll do it again later. Okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Aeneas, who left the racetrack to investigate what Morwena was doing with a pile of blocks.

“We could have a four-horse race if you ever named the one you ride,” said Yozef. “You could have that one and Mr. Ed. Which reminds me. Why don’t you name your horse?”

Carnigan had been riding the same percheron-like horse ever since Yozef had known the big man. The massive gelding was the largest horse Yozef had seen on Caedellium and seemed indefatigable, though not fast.

“Just because I don’t talk to my horse like you do yours, don’t assume mine doesn’t have a name,” said Carnigan.

“Really?” said Yozef, surprised, and then waited fruitlessly for the name. “Okay, so what is your horse’s name?”

“Shitpile.”

“Shitpile! You gotta be shitting me!” The last words were in English, but Carnigan got the drift.

“Yes about him, and no to you,” said Carnigan. “When he dumps a load, anyone following needs to divert around it.”

Yozef thought for a moment. He did remember the huge horse having prodigious bowel movements.

“Okay, I take back my surprise. Speaking of bowel movements, I think Aeneas needs to be checked.” He walked over to where his son was handing blocks to Morwena, picked him up, and checked his butt.

“Whew. Yep, time for a change. Let’s go, you little shit bag. I need to ask Maera if it’s time to work on potty training.” The last words were in English to avoid little pitchers with big ears repeating what they heard.

Seven minutes later, a freshly diapered Aeneas was once again helping Morwena.

“Thank God for toilet paper,” said Yozef. “Perhaps my best introduction here on Caedellium. Besides its primary purpose, it serves adequately as wipes for poopy bottoms.”

Carnigan smirked. “How am I so honored to hear the great Yozef Kolsko talk about wiping shit off his son’s bottom?”

Before Yozef could formulate a pithy answer, Morwena, still playing with blocks, announced, “I have to poop, Papa Carnigan.”

Carnigan stared at her for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Ah . . . you know where the voiding room is, Morwena.”

“Well, yes, but you have to take me.”

Sighing, he rose to his feet, took her hand, and walked into the house. Eight minutes later, they returned, Carnigan red-faced.

“How’d it go?” asked Yozef.

“You’re about to find out. Morwena says Dwyna has to go, too, and she doesn’t know if she should ask you to take her. Thank God, she doesn’t want me to take her.”

Yozef took Dwyna to the voiding room at the corner of the bottom floor and waited outside one of two uni-sex stalls. After a minute, a young voice called out.

“I’m done.”

Yozef didn’t say anything, and a moment later Dwyna’s statement was repeated.

“I’m done, Papa Yozef.”

“That’s nice, Dwyna. We’ll go back with the others now.”

“Aren’t you going to wipe me?”

“Huh?”

“A mama usually does it, but none of them are here, so you have to.”

Oh, shit! thought Yozef, momentarily oblivious to the appropriateness of the exclamation.

As awkward as were the next two minutes, he noted a sense of odd pride as they returned to the courtyard.

Carnigan took one look at his expression. “Merciful God, Yozef. You didn’t just single-handedly defeat a Narthani army.”

“Better than the shocked look you had,” Yozef countered.

Carnigan grunted. “I’ll give you that one.”

Yozef gave up trying to read reports and surrendered to alternately watching the children play, answering questions that may or may not have already been answered, and running Seabiscuit against Man O’ War once more for each of the children (Carnigan remained steadfast that today he was a mountain, not a horse). Yozef held his breath with trepidation every time one of the charges came up, wondering whether it was another potty trip.

He didn’t have a watch; otherwise, he’d be checking it every few minutes to gauge how long until the women returned. Instead, he followed shadows across the courtyard and estimated time. However, that method faltered when sun and shadow both vanished. He looked up at the sky to see that a cloudbank had moved in. Ten minutes later, a raindrop hit his nose.

“Looks like it might start raining,” said Carnigan, as more raindrops splattered the stone courtyard flooring.

“And who says you’re big, dumb, and ugly?” said Yozef.

“As I recall, you’re the one who keeps bringing it up,” said Carnigan.

“Well, if that’s so, maybe it’s because everyone else is afraid of you.”

“Not so much anymore, are they?” said Carnigan in an aggrieved tone.

“You’re right, Carnigan. Sorry I make jokes about it. You’re right. The last year or so, I think you’ve let people see more of who you really are. That was mainly what made people wary of you. You always used to scowl too much.”

“You really think that was it?”

“Well, yeah, besides being big, dumb, and ugly.”

Carnigan roared with laughter and slapped Yozef on the back. Despite being accustomed to caution when around his friend, Yozef was unprepared after his spontaneous quip. Fortunately, He slammed into a pillar supporting the second floor external walkway instead of falling onto the courtyard’s slate.

“Umpf,” Yozef grunted, as the air exited his lungs.

“Serves you right,” said Carnigan.

“Did Papa Yozef do something bad?” asked a small voice.

The two turned to face four confused, fearful faces staring at them. The voice had been Morwena’s.

“No, no,” said Carnigan, who reached out to grab Yozef and embrace him, which didn’t help his lungs refill. “We were just playing.”

“Mama Ana says it’s not nice to hit anyone,” said Dwyna, her voice tinged with reproach.

“She’s right,” said Yozef. “You need to be nice with everyone. We didn’t mean to frighten you. Papa Yozef and Papa Carnigan play like this sometimes.”

“Okay,” said Dwyna, turning back to her doll just as the scattered raindrops fell harder and the clouds darkened.

“All right, everyone inside, out of the rain,” Yozef called out. “Bring your toys into the house if you want to keep playing with them. Hurry now.”

Squealing children ran to gather armfuls of toys, as did Yozef and Carnigan. By the time they were under the protection of the second-floor walkway, both men and the four children were damp but not soaked.

“Are we supposed to change them into dry clothes?” asked Carnigan.

“No, I think not. The temperature’s not that cold, and kids don’t mind such things, especially if they’re playing and active.”

“Gwyned would probably put dry clothes on all of them,” said Carnigan.

“Since the men are in charge, we’ll let the clothes air-dry unless they complain and look cold,” said Yozef.

“Let’s at least get them inside,” said Carnigan, and they herded their charges into a bottom floor room holding most of the toys. No sooner were they all inside than a downpour ensued, the rain drumming onto the stone courtyard and against windows.

Yozef refereed between Morwena and Dwyna, each of whom insisted a specific doll was hers and hers alone. He tried proposing a sharing arrangement, to no avail. He suggested they each get to play with it for a time and then switch. No go. He fruitlessly pointed out there were several other dolls available. The final solution was that he would play with the doll, and the two girls would have to play with other ones. Satisfied the other girl didn’t get the doll, both Morwena and Dwyna picked out another doll each. To avoid another flare-up, Yozef carried the controversial doll for the next half hour.

Carnigan pulled Isla and Aeneas around the room in a wagon, stopping and starting again to create jerking motions for the wagon’s passengers, to their delight.

Yozef finally decided the two older girls were distracted enough, so he hid the prized doll on a shelf behind some books. Neither girl seemed to notice, and he turned to see how Carnigan was faring. The wagon now contained only Isla. He quickly scanned the room.

“Where’s Aeneas?”

“He’s over there playing with—” said Carnigan. “Well, he was there a moment ago.”

Yozef started out of the room and caught movement in the corner of his eye. Through a window, he saw Aeneas standing in the courtyard, head tilted back, laughing as rain washed over him.

“Christ! Can’t take an eye off him for a second,” muttered Yozef and hustled out to stand under the overhang from the second-floor walkway.

“Come here, Aeneas!” Yozef ordered.

The two-year-old laughed and shook his head.

“Come here right now,” said Yozef in his best “Septarsh-and-member-of-the-War-Council voice.”

Aeneas wasn’t impressed.

Yozef cursed and ran into the rain, scooped up his son, and retreated back under cover. He stripped off Aeneas’s soaked clothes, leaving only the diaper.

“Okay, now let’s get you inside to change your diaper and into some dry clo—”

Aeneas, once out of his father’s grasp while clothes were being gathered, raced off again into the rain.

This time Yozef had to chase down his son, who was convinced a new game had been invented. Now both Aeneas’s diaper and Yozef’s clothes were drenched. Only one of them was laughing.

A deep voice emanated from the open door to inside the house. “Well, you’ve got to admit he’s pretty fast for someone only recently running.”

Aeneas cooperated with removing his diaper, which Yozef set aside. Then, with an impressively vigorous squirm, he dashed away into the rain.

“The little shit’s too fast,” said Yozef, who couldn’t hide a smile.

“Aw . . . it’s only water, and it’s not that cold. Let him play,” said Carnigan.

The two watched as Aeneas ran around the courtyard, buck naked and laughing. Joining the audience to his performance were the three girls clustered around the men’s legs. Yozef glanced down.

“I suppose you want to go out and act crazy, too?”

Isla’s expression appeared blank at the question, but both Morwena and Dwyna looked as if he’d just asked whether they wanted to eat slugs.

As quickly as the downpour had begun, it tapered off and quit. Aeneas stopped running and began splashing in the shallow puddles not yet drained from the slate. Now the girls were interested.

“Go ahead,” said Yozef, “but barefoot. I don’t want your mamas to see lots of wet shoes.”

Dwyna and Isla sat, took off their shoes, and joined Aeneas.

“I don’t want wet feet,” said Morwena. “I want to wear my boots.”

Carnigan looked around and spied sets of small boots and sandals on a wooden rack under the overhang. “Go get your boots, Morwena, and put them on.”

“I can’t do it myself,” she said, patiently. “You have to do it.”

Sighing, Carnigan pulled a pair of boots off the rack, and Morwena sat on the ground. He knelt in front of her, an incongruous sight. It flashed through Yozef’s mind that it looked like an ogre kneeling before a princess.

The small feet and boots were a mismatch for Carnigan’s large hands. He muttered under his breath until he finally got the right foot settled.

“Mama says I have to wear socks,” said Morwena.

“Socks? Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Carnigan.

“Everybody knows that.”

“All right,” said Carnigan, “I’ll get some socks. He returned moments later, pulled off the boot he’d labored to get on her, put on the socks, and repeated the boot struggle. Finished, he sat back.

“They’re on the wrong feet, Papa Carnigan,” Morwena complained.

He looked. She was right.

“Why didn’t you tell me with the first one?” His voice raised in volume with each word.

She just looked at him.

He sighed again, muttered, took off the boots for the second time, switched feet, and she was ready. Or so he thought.

“These aren’t my boots. They’re Dwyna’s.”

Yozef could hear teeth grinding from twenty feet away.

Carnigan walked to the rack and pointed at pairs little boots until she nodded.

“Those are mine,” Morwena said happily.

Off came Dwyna’s boots.

“You’re sure these are your boots?” said Carnigan very slowly and not quite in a growl.

Morwena nodded, and he struggled again to put boots on small feet.

“Owie!” exclaimed Morwena after a push to get a foot inside a boot.

“Sorry,” said Carnigan in a softer tone. “Give me patience, oh God.”

“All right, there you are, Morwena. Your boots. On the right feet. Wearing socks. Although I think your boots are too tight.”

“Maybe it’s because I left my socks in the boots yesterday.”

Carnigan stood and walked into the house.

“How did it go?” asked Maera, as the three cheerful women returned at mid-day.

“No problem,” said Carnigan. He cast a baleful eye at a snickering Yozef. “Now that you’re back, I think I’m going out for some air.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Yozef. “I seem to recall there’s something I need to do at the headquarters.”

They were at the main door when Dwyna asked Anarynd, “Mama Ana, why is Aeneas a ‘little shit’?”

Before Anarynd, perplexed, could respond, Morwena answered, “It’s because he wouldn’t let Papa Yozef read his goddamned paperwork.”

The two men closed the door before the women responded.

TRADITIONS AND AUTHORITY

The first day of the inaugural Senate session had been the trickiest. In the future, either hetmen or their representatives (senators) would represent each clan, but for this first session all the hetmen were in attendance. Despite some issues being previously settled informally, the details required hetmen to vote. One such issue formalized how a paramount could be removed. The final compromise established removal by a vote of at least two-thirds of the clans, meaning at least fifteen of the twenty-one clans. Given Yozef’s standing and the rock-solid support of the original Five-Clan Alliance, the clans of the War Council, plus Moreland, Preddi, Selfcell, and Brill, such a removal would be all but impossible during Yozef’s tenure. In future generations, the heir nominated by the paramount could be replaced by another Kolsko or, as a last resort, be any Caedelli man.

The result from the acrimonious debate on Senate votes binding all clans satisfied Yozef; fourteen votes mandated compliance with Senate decisions. He wanted it eventually reduced to twelve or thirteen votes but didn’t want to push the hetmen too far too soon. He’d work on adjusting the vote in the future and didn’t anticipate failing to get fourteen votes for many years, perhaps even during his lifetime. Neither he nor any of the hetmen favored a simple majority vote. He wasn’t sure he ever would, after seeing how evenly divided decisions on Earth often created too much resentment.

Regarding the establishment of a central adjudicator, a passing vote after only an hour of vigorous discussion surprised Yozef. He believed part of the reason for people’s acceptance was that many of the details were left for further discussion and future votes. The hetmen also accepted that an adjudicator committee would propose standardization of coinage, trade relations among clans, and punishment of serious offenses. Yozef foresaw the central adjudicator office developing into the island version of a supreme court combined with a justice department.

The Senate also accepted that the duty of the paramount hetman was to deal with foreign realms in matters that affected all of Caedellium. Such dealings were to be known to all hetmen and senators, except when secrecy was necessary. In those cases, a committee of three hetmen would hear details they would not share, unless all three of the committee members deemed it necessary.

The second day of the first-ever Caedellium Senate meeting proved less tiring than the first day. Still, despite only three items being considered and settled, the twenty-one clan hetmen and Yozef Kolsko, Paramount Hetman of Caedellium, took the entire day to discuss, argue, and finally vote their approval. As the leaders prepared to disperse for the evening, Yozef walked among them, saying something positive to each man for his contributions that day. Some things he said were easier to swallow than others.

Welman Stent shook Yozef’s hand. “A good day’s work, Paramount. Better than I expected.”

A minor issue they had settled was how to address the new leader of all the clans. Owill Brell, hetman of the newly created Clan Brell, pushed for the full title, “Paramount Hetman of Caedellium,” an option acceptable to half the clans and the cause of snorts and scowls from the other half. Yozef settled the issue when he said it wasted time better spent on productive words and endorsed simply “Paramount.”

“Yes, better,” Stent repeated. “I was also wondering how many clans would object to a permanent military. I believe most hetmen accepted your proposal, despite their misgivings, because memory of the fight against the Narthani is still so raw. It also helped that people perceived the plan wouldn’t seriously disrupt work and families.”

A cadre of permanent senior officers would command two active dragoon regiments and artillery. Each clan would provide a battalion’s complement of companies serving six months on a rotating basis. Thus, every man of fighting age and physical ability would serve six months every five years, with the clan providing for the families while the men served their duty. Similar provisions would be arranged to maintain farms, ranches, and trades of absent men.

“You know, Welman, there’ll have to be some adjustments. Men from the smaller clans would otherwise be absent from home more often than those from clans such as yours. I think in a year or so, Hetmen Vandinke and Nyvaks will agitate once they realize this. When that happens, clans like yours will have to pick up more duty.”

“I know, but it shouldn’t be too disruptive if it’s held to only a few additional platoons,” said Stent. “I also think your proposal for large-scale maneuvers every few years will work out even if some of the clans are hesitant. We can decide details in a couple of years.”

While the Senate left those details for future consideration, Yozef planned on it being a certainty, something he hadn’t told any of the hetmen, including Stent or his father-in-law, Culich Keelan. Yozef figured that the increased trade, now that the island was out from under Narthon, would allow the economy to spare three or four sixdays every two to three years.

“In the meantime, all clans need to maintain a minimal level of militia training,” said Yozef. “When companies report for active duty, they can’t be spending time in basic training.”

“That’ll be tricky,” said Stent. “You know some clans are bound to let training slide for whatever reason.”

Yozef lowered his voice. “I think the issue will resolve itself the first few times I rule that companies are rated too ill-trained and are publicly sent back to their clans.”

“Hah! That’ll rile a few hetmen I could name, and that’s something you managed not to bring up the last two days.”

“Oh, you know . . . ,” said Yozef, waving a flourish in the air as he imagined Louis XIV using royal prerogative, “a Paramount has so much on his mind, such details get lost. However, Welman, I think I need to move on and talk to some other hetmen. For example, I need to thank Ingor Nyvaks for his input these last two days and assure him his views are always taken into consideration.”

“Don’t choke while you’re doing it,” said Stent. “Especially when you’re secretly wishing the cretin would drop dead as soon as possible.”

“Shame on you, Hetman Stent, for even thinking such thoughts about a fellow hetman. I’ll ask God to forgive you, which should grant me mercy for any similar thoughts that might come into my mind.”

Yozef made the rounds through Nyvaks, Bevans, Seaborne, and Vandinke before finding himself alone with Culich Keelan.

“Paramount,” greeted Culich.

“Still doesn’t seem right for me to be a higher rank than you,” Yozef said quietly. “You’re a better hetman than I ever would be and have so much more experience.”

“But you don’t have to be a hetman,” replied Culich just as quietly. “You have to be the paramount, something I wouldn’t be as good at as you and which wouldn’t be acceptable to most of the other clans. We all have our roles, and all we can do is ask God’s grace in doing the best we can. How do you feel today went?”

“A hell of a lot smoother than yesterday. I was just talking with Welman about the standing military. I was more worried about the other two items. However, even though it took hours of talk, there wasn’t significant opposition to accepting that the paramount can order a full military mobilization to begin, as long as the Senate approves major actions. Taxes were another matter and the only time I had to step in with a firm opinion.”

The two men thought quietly about the acrimony that had arisen when the hetmen discussed taxation. The vote had been close, but the Senate could approve island-level taxes followed by the paramount’s approval. However, once collected, those taxes would be used for purposes benefiting all clans and were at the discretion of the paramount. Yozef hinted at but didn’t commit to considering each clan’s conditions when spending the money.

Another item not detailed was how and by whom the coin would be stored, expended, and accounted for. Yozef foresaw more bureaucrats.

“I noticed Nyvaks and Pawell looked like they bit into something bitter when you said you intended to resolve inter-clan disputes only as a last resort,” said Culich.

Yozef flashed what he’d told Maera was his “Evil Yozef” grin. “Yesterday after the meeting, Nyvaks and Pawell cornered me. Their fishing dispute has festered for years, both sides claiming the other regularly violates the supposed territorial limits on fishing in the Gulfs of Beedo and Kurvak.”

An isthmus connected the two provinces. Flanking the land bridge were two thirty-mile gulfs, both of them wind-protected waters and rich fishing grounds.

“There’s a forty-year-old agreement by previous hetmen specifying where each clan is allowed to fish. Apparently, both clans began violating the agreement as soon as it was made. When they accosted me, I reluctantly went with them to one of the small meeting rooms and listened as they accused the other and urged me to side with them. Maybe I was hungry or tired. Anyway, I got annoyed and told them the dispute was settled. Nyvaks could fish only in the Gulf of Kurvak this year and Pawell in the Gulf of Beedo. Next year they would switch. ‘There,’ I told them, ‘now your fishermen won’t come into conflict.’

“Both of them howled that my solution was impossible. Whole villages would have to move each year from one gulf to the other. I told them that if they wanted a different solution, it was up to them to come up with it; otherwise, the Paramount Hetman had ruled. Only after I left them fuming did I realize no one had said I had the authority to make such a ruling, and how would I enforce it, if they ignored me?

“The next day, Onvak Pawell, the Pawell heir, caught me during a break and whispered that he and the Nyvaks heir were negotiating fishing boundaries and a protocol to settle disputes between the two clans. The hetmen wouldn’t talk to each other, but both had enough common sense to know my solution was worse than the current situation. They delegated discussions to their sons, who evidently get along well enough. Onvak also hinted that his father was actually pleased with me. He just didn’t want to be seen as backing down from Nyvaks, but if the paramount ruled, then what could he do?”

Yozef shook his head. “I guess whatever works.”

Culich stroked his beard. “You know, Yozef, this may be fortuitous. If the Pawellese are satisfied—and I’m sure most of the Nyvaksians want this settled in any fashion—then word will spread to other clans and make it easier for you to dispense rulings that people accept.”

“Hmmm . . . ,” said Yozef. “You mean by setting a precedent? I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

“A what?”

“Precedent.” Yozef had used the English word. “When one decision serves as a model in future situations. A guide to what may be acceptable. Justice systems often use precedents. For example, if a particular punishment is handed out for a crime, then a similar punishment is more likely for the same type of crime in the future.”

“Whatever word you use, the position of paramount will only work if clans come to accept rulings from you,” said Culich. “The Senate is all well and good for major decisions, but even with lower criteria in voting, the future will require faster decisions and ones whose perspective is from Caedellium and not individual clans. I know we’re still defining the paramount’s powers, but I don’t envy you establishing these ‘precedents’ over the next months and years.

“You know, Yozef, the time will inevitably come when you and I will not agree. I won’t be pleased when that happens. However, if you rule against me, at least the other hetmen will see you don’t favor me. In fact, now that you mention these precedents, I’m thinking a bit of deceit might be useful. If you and I agree with an issue where you can publicly rule against me, I can pretend displeasure. I can even grumble to other hetmen at the terrible treatment I’ve received from an ungrateful son-in-law.” Culich laughed.

Yozef joined in, drawing looks from other hetmen. “Maybe something between Keelan and Moreland?” he proposed.

“Perfect!” said Culich. “I’ve never been shy about my opinions of the Moreland clan. Ask Maera to think of something. She’s taken notes at many a meeting and on issues where Gynfor Moreland and I clashed. She might have a better perspective on an issue where you can come down on Moreland’s side. I can also grumble privately to a few of the hetman about my displeasure at your taking a wife from the Moreland family. Anarynd’s a dear, but few of the hetmen have ever met her.”

A speech by Paramount Kolsko concluded the final day of the Senate session. The previous days, the attendance had been restricted to the hetmen or to the hetmen with limited advisers. Today, the Senate held the meeting in a large hall with more than two hundred attendees. Although the address aimed overtly at the hetmen, all present would hear the paramount’s words.

After greeting the individual hetmen, Yozef sat on the speaker’s platform. The previous times he’d addressed hetmen gatherings, he’d wondered how qualified he was to advise seasoned leaders. Those days were gone, and he was aware of the change within himself. He wondered whether he would recognize Joseph Colsco, if he could meet the man he had been those few years ago.

At precisely nine bells, Paramount Hetman Yozef Kolsko, wearing a gold sash from shoulder to hip, struck the same ceremonial gong they had used for All-Clan Conclave meetings. It had been transferred to the Senate to preserve tradition and remind attendees of the connection between conclave and Senate. He then walked to the lecturn at the front of the room. After customary salutations and acknowledging the Senate’s role, he spoke.

“Hetmen, there will be times when the new conditions will seem oppressive, unnecessary, or interfering, and at those times, you might understandably be tempted to look backward to the perceived halcyon days of total clan independence. What you have done is make rational decisions—exchanging some of your clan’s independence for peace, security, and prosperity. Some days you might doubt the wisdom of your decisions, and those times will come. All of you must remember why we are in this situation today and how the present might have been tragically different had the clans not united against the Narthani. Also, remember that unity did not come quickly or without dissent.

“Everyone who was at Orosz City on that fateful day knows how our future hung by the thinnest thread. That we were victorious should harden our resolve to never again let the future of Caedellium veer so close to the abyss. This determination forms the foundation of our new beginning, signified by this gathering today. Those of you who know me best will understand it is not my desire to stand here in the position of paramount hetman. Neither should we fool ourselves that most of you hetmen, perhaps all, would not rather keep your traditional clan independence. Yet here we are—committed to a new order and bound by our belief that peace, liberty, and prosperity of all the people of Caedellium require a new understanding of the island’s place on Anyar.

“One of the changes is how we, and people everywhere on Anyar, should now think of the word ‘Caedellium’ as naming not only an island but a nation—the nation of Caedellium, located on an island of the same name, where twenty-one independent clans previously existed but now are permanently united.

“This means that everyone on Caedellium needs to think of themselves not only as an Oroszian, a Stentese, a Mittackian, or a member of any of the other clans, but also a member of the nation of Caedellium, the same as others regard themselves as Fuomi, Frangelese, Iraquiniks, or, yes, even Narthani.

“This also means we must consider what is common to everyone on Caedellium and not what makes us different. Does anyone doubt that people from clans on different ends of the island share far more with one another than they do with anyone living elsewhere on Anyar?

“One of the paramount hetman’s duties is to identify any individual or group that works to serve their own interests over the greater good of all the people of Caedellium and to counsel against selfish motives. Another duty is to refute claims that Caedelli from one section of the island are inherently more deserving or noble than people from another section. We are all equal in God’s eyes, and though there will always be differences, all the people are equally entitled to justice, security, prosperity, and respect.

“The days of active strife between clans are over . Many of you have witnessed violent disputes, ranging from isolated incidents to serious fighting. The All-Clan Conclaves had stopped the worst of the fighting known from history, but even those gatherings had limitations. The paramount, in his position as commander of the Army of Caedellium, will ensure peace and security among the clans.”

Yozef ended the speech by describing his vision of a secure and prosperous future for all the peoples of Caedellium and calling on God to grant them wisdom.

The formal adjournment of the Senate only meant that Yozef spent the next two hours “kissing and shaking hands,” as he told Maera. He took time to talk with each milling hetman and ended the session by hosting a lavish mid-day meal where more “pressing the flesh” occurred.

It had taken several months to complete the political and physical requirements for the first session of the Caedellium Senate, which took place a year after the Battle of Orosz City. As expected, the physical details proved easiest with completion of a new Senate building a mile west of Orosz City. Nudging the more reluctant, or more obtuse, hetmen to think in terms of the whole island, instead of only their own clans, took far more time and often tested Yozef’s patience.

Yet the delays allowed Yozef to divert his frustration into focusing on construction of a new Kolsko manor, once the entire family accepted that Orosz City would be their permanent home. Yozef appreciated their new house in the mountain cleft north of Orosz City because it took him twenty minutes to make the trip home from the island headquarters complex just west of the old city. When traveling from home, he could think about the coming workday, and when heading to home, he could relax and process the day. It also gave him time to reorient his thinking from “Paramount Hetman Yozef Kolsko” to “Yozef, father and husband.”

After Carnigan Puvey finished work at the rehabilitation facility for minor offenders, he went to the HQ complex and waited with two guards assigned to follow Yozef’s movements. They often rode home in silence, as the three companions respected the paramount’s need to be with his own thoughts.

Morwena Puvey assumed the role of lookout for Yozef and Carnigan’s arrival each evening. From a ridgeline two hundred feet above the Kolsko Manor grounds, she focused a telescope on Orosz City and the newly finished headquarters building of the Paramount and staff. In that building, from a window facing the mountains, a fifteen-year-old female aide hung banners to communicate the paramount’s status: a white banner signaled his presence, blue meant he had left for home, green indicated he would be working late, and red meant he had left for elsewhere, with more information coming by messenger. If darkness came without a clear signal being sent, Morwena would return home, disappointed at not fulfilling her role.

Today, the sun hung two fingers above the eastern horizon when the white banner withdrew through the distant window and a blue banner unfurled. Squealing, Morwena raced barefoot to carry the news down the smooth path built by her step-father, Carnigan.

She ran past her home, stopping only to check if her mother was there, then on to the Kolsko house to alert the other children. When Yozef and his party turned off the road and into their lane, they were ambushed by a band of scoundrels led by Morwena and her main cohorts, Dwyna Killin and Aeneas Kolsko. Future members of the band—Xena, Odysius, and Anida Kolsko—remained at the manor. Yet their mothers were resigned to the inevitable day when they would progress from toddling to running and join the outlaw gang. The other prospective gang member, Galyn Puvey, showed signs of precociousness in walking, and his mother, Gwyned, bemoaned the effort it would take to keep tabs on the large, strong redhead.

Carnigan had held steadfast in not naming his son after the paramount. “Don’t we have enough damn Yozefs around already? I can’t walk through city streets without hearing someone calling after one of them. People should give their children their own names and not name them after anyone else, even a Paramount. When I’m at the manor and call out, ‘Yozef,’ I don’t want more than one person to look my way.”

On this late afternoon after the first Senate meeting, Yozef dismounted and gave his reins to Synton Ethlore. He walked ahead, oblivious to danger, only to be surprised and fall into the grasp of three desperadoes.

“Whose turn is it today?” said Yozef.

“Me, me!” said an excited Dwyna, who was lifted onto Yozef’s shoulders for the rest of the walk to the manor. When Aeneas furrowed his brow, Yozef anticipated tears were forthcoming.

“Aeneas, I’m sure Synton will let you ride Mr. Ed.”

The furrows vanished, as Aeneas transferred his interest from his father to the guard holding Yozef’s horse. Morwena had already run to Carnigan and grabbed one big finger, then she was twirled onto the broadest back in Orosz Province.

Two hours later, family time and dinner over, Yozef and Maera relaxed on the front veranda, while Anarynd and Gwyned finished putting the children to bed. They sat on opposite ends of the wide swing, with Maera turned toward her husband, feet on his lap, while he massaged them. They’d taken to swelling during her pregnancy with Anida, and Maera had suggested that her husband’s foot massages didn’t have to end with the baby’s birth.

“I talked with Eina today about the ‘constitutional monarchy’ you say we’re developing on Caedellium. She told me Fuomon has a similar system, although they call it something different than your English words. One difference is that here the clans fill the roles that wealth and family fill in Fuomon.”

“Any political system needs to take into consideration the local conditions and traditions,” said Yozef. “It’s hard to know what will work well in any specific situation. Caedellium had to change to face the new reality. I’m doing the best I can, but who knows if anything I propose is the best option?”

“Just don’t push too hard, Yozef. The clans have come further than I would have predicted, but a gradual change has a better chance of not encountering major resistance. Even Father has his limits.”

“Oh, I’m well aware to be cautious about wanting too much too fast, but it’s just human nature never to be satisfied. I keep reminding myself how many things have gone so well. I expected resistance to the idea of the paramount controlling the military and foreign relations, as well as giving the paramount independence on how to spend coin coming to the central government. It would have been a nightmare if the clans had to approve every expenditure and decision.”

Maera laughed and folded her arms under her head. “I shudder to imagine Nyvaks and Stent arguing. However, once coin starts going out, I doubt most of the hetmen will pay much attention, as long as they see their clans prospering.”

“It’ll take time,” said Yozef, “at least a few years, for income from clan taxes and trade to do much of what needs doing. In the meantime, I’ll spend most of the coin from my various enterprises to fill in the budget gaps. It’s not like our family lacks anything meaningful, but we won’t be as fabulously wealthy as we could be.”

“As if that matters,” said Maera. “We have more material goods than all but a few people on Caedellium. What we do with the coin will fulfill the duty we owe the people. That’s how my parents raised me. I don’t know how you came to believe this, given how you’ve described your family, but I’ve always sensed you saw coin only as a way to achieve great things. Even Ana strongly feels the same way, though in her case it’s come to her later, now that she’s part of this family and mother of the Moreland heir.”

“Well, don’t anoint me as a saint too soon. My first urge for coin here on Caedellium was for food, shelter, and clothes.”

“At first, yes, but you satisfied those needs, and your focus moved on.”

“Speaking of moving on, now that we’re agreed what noble specimens of humanity we are, how we can convince the more affluent members of the current and future Caedellium society to donate more to the common good? Even my enterprises aren’t enough to fund what will be needed in the next few years.”

“It might be easier than you think,” said Maera. “You still don’t fully understand how the clans function. If trade increases like you believe it will, the hetmen will have a chance to see that a good portion of the increased coin comes to the clan, although individuals will prosper, too. It’ll be yours, Father’s, and some of the other hetmen’s task to convince or coerce the other hetmen to follow your example and put that extra coin into what you call infrastructure—buildings, roads, schools, and everything else with long-term consequences, instead of the immediate.

“You’ll need to use a different strategy on those Caedelli who become rich from the new trade. But I’m sure the Paramount and Septarsh Yozef Kolsko , combined with the hetmen, will convince them.”

Yozef shrugged off the Septarsh reference and moved to change the subject. “Speaking of education, how did it go with Eina Saisannin temporarily taking your place?”

Eina had stepped into Maera’s role as chancellor of the University of Caedellium during the last part of her pregnancy.

“There were a few disgruntled comments at having a Fuomi leading the university, even if only for a few months, but we expected that. It helped that she was already dean of the Peoples Department. She obviously had more experience of peoples and nations throughout Anyar than anyone on Caedellium, including me. Anyone who interacted with her has never failed to accept, however grudgingly, her intelligence, sensitivity, and charm. She’s been careful to downplay her role as the Fuomon ambassador to Caedellium. The shipments of books and teachers from Fuomon she arranged didn’t hurt, either. They helped tremendously to get the university functioning so quickly.”

“How did you feel about stepping aside from the university? I know you want to spend more time with Anida than you did with Aeneas. But back then, we had the Narthani threat hanging over us.”

“It’s just something I have to work out. It’s not like Anida won’t have people looking after her. I just feel a duty as a mother to keep her as close as possible, at least for the first six months. If I can’t do it as much as I want, I can handle it better than I did with Aeneas. Obviously, he’s turning out fine, so I didn’t harm him by neglect. I’ll have to do the best I can.”

“And you’re still confident you knew it was going to be a girl?”

“Never a doubt, and I’m glad we decided on Anida as the name.” Sadness briefly flashed over Maera’s face, as she remembered her sister. They’d previously agreed to name their first daughter after Anid, Maera’s sister, who had been killed in a Narthani assassination attempt on their father. Later, Maera decided that a modified version of her sister’s name would prevent confusion and honor Anid and Anida as unique persons.

“I see my explanation of probability didn’t faze you,” said Yozef, attempting to divert her attention from the tragic memory.

The brief darkness left Maera’s face, and she smiled. “Oh, I don’t doubt the probabilities you explained, that with the imbalance of girls over boys being born on Caedellium, fifty-one percent of babies will be girls. But sometimes a mother just knows, like I knew our first would be a boy, and Ana knew she’d have the heir to Moreland.”

“Your logic is questionable because the first of Ana’s twins was a girl and only the second a boy.”

Maera laughed. “My logic is impeccable. Ana said she knew she was having a boy, and she did.”

“I bow to women’s logic,” conceded Yozef, shifting to Maera’s other foot. “You haven’t mentioned anything recently about Sissel Morgan’s progress in setting up your secret women’s spy network.”

Maera waved the end of her shawl across Yozef’s face in mock reproach. “It’s not really secret, just best to work quietly for now.”

Yozef’s insistence that girls receive educational opportunities had been one of the most contentious decrees of the new paramount. Most hetmen had acceded, especially after Yozef pulled out his “It comes to me” phrase, now generally assumed to mean a whisper from God. He tried to limit its use, because he didn’t want to overuse it, and he still felt awkward deliberately pretending to have a special relationship with the Almighty. Still, he chafed at settling for fewer mandatory years of education for girls than boys. Yet he intended to rectify that compromise as soon as he could.

“She’s such a lovely, persuasive person, it’s a perfect fit, and it gives her an important role now that the Military Intelligence Unit has reformed with different goals.”

The now fifty-seven-year-old grandmother had been Keelan’s only woman registrar, a record keeper who maintained records and certified contracts, deeds, and other paperwork. Sissel was charmingly persnickety and possessed a natural photographic memory. Yozef had mused one evening to Maera that when people saw accomplished women in important positions, it would increase the long-term general acceptance of women in different roles in Caedelli society. Sissel, with Maera’s assistance, was developing a cadre of women in all the clans to watch out for girls of exceptional promise. Yozef saw it as a two-pronged strategy: ensuring that all girls had a basic education and deliberately developing the best ones. Sissel’s memory let her keep all the details in her mind and not on paper, which might have alerted islanders who weren’t yet ready to accept expanded roles for women.

“Well,” said Yozef, “we already have examples that people can’t help but notice. You, of course, as chancellor of the university, and Eina as the Fuomon ambassador and in her position at the university. Then there’s Ana and Ceinwyn. Ana’s taken to the role of mother of the Moreland Clan heir with a vengeance. I told you how she stared down her father when we made the required visit to Moreland. You should have seen him almost cower when he tried to put a guilt trip on her. He told her she should do more for her family, and she responded that as mother of the next hetman, she had more responsibilities than to a single family.”

“Yes, but you did tell me she almost fainted after he left. She told me she couldn’t believe what she’d said. However, she did say it. And the same with meeting the boyermen and other important Moreland leaders. Abbot Abelard helped her, but despite being a nervous wreck when we were alone, in front of the others she played a woman confident in her abilities and position.”

“And what about Ceinwyn?” said Yozef, moving on to Maera’s oldest sister. “From everything we hear and from when I visited Preddi City, she’s a de facto adviser to Balwis and sits in on all his major meetings.”

“It was relatively easy in Preddi,” said Maera. “For all practical purposes, they started a new clan with few traditions.”

The rejuvenated clan’s members were common people of the original Preddi Clan, freed Narthani slaves from many original peoples, and Narthani who opted to stay on Caedellium sprinkled into the mix. The fact that people identified Balwis with Preddi freedom also helped people accept change, as did his lack of patience with troublemakers. In addition, Ceinwyn’s scar and her reputation as a Caedelli woman fighting the Narthani, along with her and Balwis’s connection to the new paramount, lent them an indelible aura of authority.

“I think pushing for more roles for women was the least of the new clan members’ concerns,” Mara continued. “In fact, Preddi is probably the most advanced of any of the clans in accepting women in higher positions. I admit I’ve been surprised at Balwis. I wasn’t initially happy about him and Ceinwyn. Yet not only does that seem to be working out well for my sister, he’s developed more flexibility than I expected.”

Lifting her ankle, Yozef traded one foot for the other again. “I don’t know if anything has actually changed with him. Maybe it’s just that he came from a rural ranch family where everyone, including the women, had important roles and participated in ranch work. That must have carried over into his views as Hetman Preddi.”

“Whatever the cause,” said Maera, “I think Ceinwyn is part of it.  I never would have imagined her transformation. I feel ashamed to admit it, but I think the wound and scar she got the night of that attack were almost like the hand of God reaching out to change her. The scar diverted her attention away from what she now admits were petty concerns. And the connection that grew between her and Balwis proves that we can’t gauge our understanding of people.

“Then there’s the way she’s come to advise Balwis on being a hetman. All those years at home when I thought Ceinwyn was absorbed in herself, she must have listened to Father, Mother, and I talking about issues with the clan and island politics. It never occurred to me that she paid attention.”

“Speaking of your sisters, how is Mared doing with her new reality?” asked Yozef. Maera’s youngest sister was now sixteen years old and the only Keelan daughter still living with their parents.

“Father never had to tell her anything,” said Maera. “She knew as soon as our parents did that because I’m the wife of the paramount and Ceinwyn is the wife of Hetman Preddi, if the next Keelan hetman comes from our immediate family, he will have to be Mared’s son. If not from her, then it will fall to the more extended family, such as cousins and uncles. But I agree with Father that two hetmen having the same mother might raise problems with the clans, which eliminates Ceinwyn and me. We’re already pushing tradition by having multiple first-cousin hetmen.”

“How is Mared taking all this?” asked Yozef.

“She wrote that it was fun at first, when Keelanders realized she was now the only daughter of their hetman who could produce the Keelan heir. But she regrets how people treat her differently. Before, she was the fourth daughter and destined to have the fewest family obligations. Now she feels it all falls to her. She was flattered when potential future suitors started visiting, but she’s since told Father to stop letting them come until she tells him otherwise. I don’t think he believed her until she refused to even meet the latest one.”

“Reminds me of another Keelan daughter. What’s her name again?”

The swat with her shawl was a little sharper this time.

“Hey, watch it! You’re attacking the Paramount Hetman.”

“I’m chastising a little boy who enjoys teasing little girls, and he gets what he deserves.”

He retaliated with a brief tickle of a bare foot and joined a laughing duet. For the next half hour they sat quiet, both relaxing, both satisfied with their day, both ignoring everything except home and family.

“THE THINGS I DO”

“Still nothing via semaphore from Vandinke?” asked Maera, shifting five-month-old Anida Kolsko from her right breast to her left.

“Nothing,” answered Yozef. “That’s a full sixday since any traffic came over the Vandinke-Bultecki line. It’s also been almost four sixdays since the Vandinke-Stent line passed messages. Welman Stent sends that the line from Clitwyth to the Vandinke border is fine. Teresz Bultecki says the same of his clan’s section of the other line. One line being out could conceivably be due to some circumstance or another, but for both, it has to be deliberate on Eldor Vandinke’s part.”

The Vandinke hetman was cantankerous and sensitive about what he perceived to be any slight. He was one of the three hetmen most opposed to creating the position and authority of paramount hetman, a step above clan hetmen and formal leader of the entire Island of Caedellium. Eldor Vandinke had been repeatedly outvoted during formalization of the paramount position and its authority, and he seemed set on not letting anyone forget his opposition.

“He also seems committed to doing as little as possible to contribute to the unified structure we’re trying to develop,” added Yozef. “His clan’s taxes are two months in arrears, even though I got the Senate to reduce his share. I gave the excuse to go easy this year so Vandinke could spend more coin improving roads, upgrading the semaphore lines, and building more schools, now that it’s mandated that all children attend, including girls.”

Maera sighed. “I imagine that last one was the most galling to Eldor. Vandinke is probably the most conservative clan, and even the boys have less schooling than most clans. I wonder if there’s a single Vandinke woman who can read. I know you’re trying to avoid confrontations with individual hetmen so soon, but this may be one you can’t avoid. It also might be the best chance you’ll get to establish authority. None of the other hetman like Vandinke, and I’m learning that some of the other clans have started to wonder why he is getting away with things they themselves cannot.”

Maera had been exchanging letters with the eleven hetmen’s wives who could read and write or who had someone close to do it for them. Though no longer involved in the clans’ formal Military Intelligence Unit (MIU) for information gathering and analysis, Maera had formed her own internal network across the island to help Yozef have an independent sense of the pulse of the clans and their peoples.

“I knew the grumbling and envy would eventually happen. I guess I just hoped I could put it off longer. But if this is an opportunity to start exerting authority, I need to avoid permanently alienating Vandinke and seeming too oppressive to the other clans.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Maera reassured him. “You always do.”

I wish she wouldn’t do that , thought Yozef.

It was bad enough that too many people thought he was in regular communication with God. He didn’t need even Maera thinking he could pull miracles out of a hat.

I’m not the Great Houdini, and I can’t wave a magic wand like Harry Potter. Hell. Eldor Vandinke is turning into my own Voldermort. He sniffed. Okay. Maybe he isn’t evil like He Who Must Not Be Named. Still, the damn man is exasperating in the extreme.

“Whatever,” said Yozef, seeing no purpose in arguing his Septarsh-hood. “But I think I’ll have to go to Vandinke myself. I can’t let any more of this slide without confronting him. Hopefully, I’ll figure out ways to get him more in line without resorting to overt threats or actions.”

“I can’t go with you,” said Maera, “but take Sissel. She has several contacts in Vandinke Province and can assess people’s feelings while you deal with Eldor.”

The grandmother had been a member of the MIU and now was at the center of a network of women Maera and Sissel were developing throughout Caedellium. Yozef intended to enhance opportunities for women but was cognizant of the need to move slowly. If he disturbed traditions too abruptly, it could create overt opposition that was best avoided.

“Hmmm . . . I doubt Sissel can or wants to ride a horse, so she’d have to go by carriage. I think I’ll take several people to ‘help’ me determine the status of Clan Vandinke and where they might need ‘assistance.’ I envision a medicant and a theophist. I’ll tell Eldor they’ve come along for general discussions with their Vandinke counterparts. It won’t be my fault if he’s suspicious about why they’re there.”

“You could also take Reimo and make the excuse that he’s evaluating their militia training in a surprise inspection,” said Maera. “I heard him mention that Vandinke is one of the few provinces he hasn’t visited.”

Reimo Kivalian was the Fuomi troop commander who had remained on Caedellium as a military liaison, part of the Fuomon diplomatic mission to the island. He’d also assumed a role as a leader in the small military academy established in Orosz City. His unfailingly cheerful countenance reminded Yozef of Filtin Fuller, a friend and one of Yozef’s original workers from Abersford who’d died in the climactic battle with the Narthani. Although Kivalian had become close to the Kolskos, he was still a foreigner whose first loyalty lay with Fuomon. Maera hadn’t told Yozef that she’d caught the Fuomi looking at her husband with an odd expression she couldn’t quite identify—one almost of regret, chagrin, or possibly embarrassment.

Two days later, Yozef and four of his guards, Kivalian, a carriage with three occupants, a hundred-man dragoon company, two supply wagons, and ten extra mounts wove their way into Bultecki Province. They stopped for one night in Herstek, the Bultecki Province capital, where Teresz Bultecki hosted a dinner for the entire party. Afterward, Teresz confirmed he didn’t know what was happening in Vandinke.

“That Eldor is getting more ill-tempered and prickly the older he gets,” groused Teresz. “I’ve tried to keep on good terms with him over the years, but I’m of a mind to permanently give up. I would have long ago, if our two provinces weren’t adjacent.

“As for the semaphore lines, all I can tell you is our line to Vandinke is perfectly functional. I can’t say what happens across the border because Eldor keeps the crossing guarded by armed men, like he’s always done. They usually don’t turn people away, but it has happened in the past. We hear stories of more trouble at the Stent-Vandinke and Swavebroke-Vandinke borders.”

“Nothing about Farkesh?” asked Yozef.

“Hah!” barked Teresz. “I think even Eldor knows Feren Bakalacs has limited patience.”

The Farkesh clan hetman had a well-known reputation for irascibility and testiness. As a member of the War Council, Bakalacs had overseen each clan’s training and contributions of fighting men. He was also considered the de facto leader of the people of northern Caedellium. They had descended from the first wave of immigrants to the island and included most of the people of four clans and part of the population of three others.

The paramount’s party traveled a full day from Herstek and camped a mile from the Bultecki-Vandinke border.

“Like Hetman Bultecki says,” reported the dragoon captain, “the men I sent forward describe a gate across the border point with five or six armed men standing around. The rest of them are probably in the building off to one side, based on the number of horses in the corral.”

“Well, let’s all get a good night’s sleep,” said Yozef, “and we’ll have a surprise for the border and Vandinke in the morning.”

With the semaphore line inoperative, Yozef saw no reason to send a message ahead by rider that the paramount hetman and a dragoon company were about to pay a friendly visit to Vandork, the Vandinke capital.

“I do like surprises,” Yozef had told Maera, “but I’m not sure Hetman Vandinke will like this one. It’s time he learns to accept the new reality.”

He hadn’t explained to her why he’d laughed the first time he heard the Vandinke capital’s name or why he persisted in pronouncing it by stressing the second syllable, van-DORK, instead of the first, VAN-dork, as did the clan’s members. He only said the syllable “dork” reminded him of the clan’s hetman and should be emphasized.

Hurkel Chakez hated border duty. Why his hetman thought they needed a gate and guards was beyond his understanding, but when the hetman said to do something, he did it. The only saving factor was that during the month when he and the other men from his district fulfilled their obligation, it allowed them to intimidate travelers into paying coin or other goods. Not that there was an official tax on crossing clan borders. That would have been a step too far for the other hetmen to tolerate. However, the trickle of graft was kept below a level that would force the neighboring clans to react.

Fortunately, they were due to finish their month of duty in another two days, assuming the replacements arrived as scheduled. As Chakez rubbed sleep from his eyes, he cursed that the morning kava wasn’t ready yet. Then he heard a shout from a man at the border gate forty yards away.

“Hurkel! What the hell is this?!”

He turned and looked, his eyes bulged, and his mouth fell open. Coming along at a trot a third of a mile away was a column of dragoons. He recognized them because he had been part of Brigadier Stent’s force attacking the Narthani rear at the Battle of Orosz City.

The men wore the strange, mottled clothing Yozef Kolsko said made them less conspicuous, which he called “camouflage.” Chakez didn’t count, but there were a lot of them. In front, a man in brown with a silver sash rode a big, black stallion. Beside the man was a rider dressed in what Chakez recognized as a Fuomi uniform, and farther back he could see riders holding the Caedellium green flag with white stars—except this one had gold trim on the edges.

“Merciful God!” Chakez exclaimed. “It’s the paramount’s flag and look at the silver sash. It has to be him! Now what am I supposed to do?”

“I think you got their attention.” Kivalian grinned. “Nothing like the commander in chief showing up unannounced to generate excitement.”

“Yes,” said Yozef, “and now I think it’s appropriate to demonstrate one reason why there shouldn’t be a gate at clan borders. No one would want to impede the passage of the paramount, would they?”

He turned in Man O’ War’s saddle to address the men immediately behind him. “Synton, Carnigan—there seems to be an obstacle in our path. Perhaps you could assist those men in removing it?”

Synton Ethlore leered, which was frightening in its own way. Ethlore might not be as dangerous as Yozef’s previous bodyguard, Wyfor Kales, but the distinction couldn’t be determined by appearances. Carnigan was . . . well . . . Carnigan. No one on Caedellium who had not been asleep the last few years could fail to recognize the large, red-headed guard and friend of Yozef Kolsko or the outsized battleax attached to his saddle, a weapon the man could wield like a baton.

Ethlore turned and shouted, and the lieutenant commanding the first dragoon platoon followed Ethlore and Carnigan at a gallop toward the border gate.

“Are they attacking!?” cried a man behind Chakez. All twelve of the station’s men were now outside and gaping at what approached. “Should we get out muskets and take cover? Hurkel! Wake up! What are we supposed to do?”

Chakez swallowed. “Damned if I know, but I know what we’re not supposed to do is piss these people off.”

“Aren’t we supposed to stop everyone at the border to make them identify themselves and say why they’re coming to Vandinke?”

“Are you stupid, insane, or both? That’s the paramount! What are the dozen of us supposed to do to stop all those paramount dragoons! What we are going to do is anything they want us to.”

Ethlore and Carnigan reined in just short of the gate near what they assumed was the leader of the border station, throwing dirt and grit onto the man’s trousers.

“Say there, good man,” rumbled Carnigan. “This gate seems to be in the paramount’s way.”

“Oh . . . we’ll open right away,” said Chakez and shouted to men to raise the five-inch-thick tree trunk hinged to a post on one side of the road.

“I’ll give you a hand,” said Carnigan, dismounting faster than a man his size should be able to. He pulled the ax from its handle sheath and, with a one-handed blow, cleaved the timber diagonally, the two ends smashing to the ground. He then turned to Ethlore. “Synton, perhaps you could help these men clear the road.”

Ethlore and a few other men roped the pieces of the gate, the gateposts, and twenty yards of posts and fencing that flanked the gate. With the rope fastened to their saddles, they pulled the pieces apart and out of the ground.

“I’m sure the paramount would appreciate you and your men putting all this useless wood into a pile and burning it,” said Carnigan with a level voice and a dead-eyed stare.

Chakez looked at the creature in front of him, at the shredded gate and fencing, at his men, and back at Carnigan. He whirled and cried out, “All you men! Don’t just stand there! Get all those pieces into a pile and burn them!”

Fifteen minutes later, Chakez stood coughing from the smoke, as he watched the last wagon and dragoons disappear toward Herstek.

“Uh . . . Hurkel . . . I don’t think the hetman knows the paramount is coming. Do you think you should send him word?”

Chakez cursed and raced to the corral to saddle his horse. Half a mile from the border, he passed the surprised travelers without acknowledging them and whipped his horse. He figured the hetman would be too busy to notice who brought the news, but if he didn’t alert the hetman . . .

When Yozef led the party into Hertsek’s main square, a glowering Eldor Vandinke awaited with a hastily assembled reception of local leaders, Eldor’s family, and seventy to eighty ragged-looking clan militia, many of whom had served with Brigadier Stent. Yozef judged that many of the armed men were embarrassed either by their hetman thinking he needed armed men to greet Paramount Kolsko or because they perceived their own appearance as shabby compared to the obvious discipline and recognizable clothing of the paramount’s dragoons.

Yozef dismounted and walked up to Vandinke.

“You should have properly told me you were coming, Kolsko,” said Vandinke, seething.

Yozef’s friendly expression didn’t change, but his words were ice-coated and low enough that only the Vandinke hetman could hear. “That’s Paramount Kolsko, or Yozef, if we’re alone and on friendly terms. Which is it to be, Hetman Vandinke?

“And as far as sending word, I might have, if either of your clan’s semaphore lines were operating. Since they were not, there was concern about serious problems within Vandinke, which compelled me to come see for myself. Naturally, not knowing events here, I was obliged to bring along enough men to handle any situation.”

“Still . . . Paramount , I would have preferred notice of your coming. You could have sent a rider.” The title exited the hetman’s mouth as if pulled forth reluctantly.

“Whatever,” said Yozef. “We’re here, and I’m eager to see how the Vandinke clan is faring. Let’s get the men and horses quartered, and then you can explain to me the problems with the semaphore lines.”

“I’m afraid the hetman isn’t going to bed tonight a happy man,” Kivalian remarked later that evening. They had just enjoyed a meal in the St. Horlof’s Cathedral dining hall, the only facility in the capital capable of feeding more than a hundred persons at once. Yozef had let Abbot Marveks make the arrangements, after Hetman Vandinke had huffed off from daylong meetings and tours. His eldest son said his father felt ill.

“I think the heir might have been correct that his father was sick,” said Yozef. “However, it might be an illness brought on by the realization that he was no longer the senior authority, even within his own clan. The hetmen agreed to the new structure, and it’s time for Eldor to learn to live with it. Hopefully, not many lessons will be needed.”

The first lesson had ensued after Eldor’s bumbling excuses about why the semaphore lines were not operational. Yozef had listened without comment for twenty minutes before expressing sympathy for all the lame excuses. Then he told Eldor the paramount’s office was more than willing to help by sending in workers from other clans. Of course, the cost of additional help would have to come from increased Vandinke taxes. Yozef was sure the clan members would not be too upset when they realized the reason for the higher taxes—unless the hetman wanted to pay the costs himself.

The second lesson involved a visit to a school. When Sissel Morgan led their group into one of the building’s four schoolrooms, the scholastic brother who was teaching turned to look at the group of strangers interrupting the class. Twenty-two smaller faces also turned.

“Where are the girls?” Morgan demanded of the hetman’s eldest son, Fordvak Vandinke. Eldor had claimed he had other clan business to attend to.

“Ah . . . the girls attend separate schools. My father believes it inappropriate to mix male and female children in such close contact all day long.”

“Well, then, take us to the nearest girls’ school.”

Eight minutes and three hundred yards later, they entered a small, dilapidated, single-room building. A sister had obviously been warned and waited, along with eight frightened girls six to seven years of age.

“Are these girls from the same area as the boys?” asked Morgan.

“Yes, uh, and the number is fewer because not all the families are complying with sending daughters to school,” Fordvak replied.

Morgan, mild-mannered though she was, had turned a lovely shade of rose. A gargling sound implied that her response to the news might be a trifle impolite. Before she could speak, Yozef saved her the effort.

“I’m sure the hetman will be extremely displeased when he learns no one informed him the requirement that all children attend school is not being carried out. I also note that all these girls are the youngest of the age range required to get schooling. Where are the older girls who can’t read?”

Let’s see if he starts with “Ah” or “Uh” this time , thought Yozef. Both seem to be common terms in the Vandinke Caedelli dialect .

“Uh . . . ,” stumbled Fordvak.

Bingo , thought Yozef. Another score for “Uh.”

Fordvak shifted his feet uneasily. “Since the older ones didn’t have the earlier years, it was thought the schooling would apply only to those starting at a young age.”

“Well, that’s simply a misunderstanding,” said Yozef, “and an oversight on my part. As soon as I return to Orosz City, I’ll contact all the other hetmen to clarify that girls between the ages six and ten must have a minimum of four years of schooling, no matter when they start.” He regretted it, but the older girls in this generation would not have the full six-year minimum, numbers he’d come to believe were as far as he could push the issue for now, though he made sure everyone knew the paramount strongly supported education.

“I’ll include in the message to the hetmen that Vandinke is already implementing this requirement, and since you’ll be the first clan to do so, I’ll send all the clans updates on Vandinke’s progress to aid the others as they do the same. I’ll also ask Sissel Morgan here to be my representative to return to Vandinke in, shall we say, two months, to reassure Hetman Vandinke about how things are progressing.”

Yozef couldn’t be sure, but he thought he detected the hint of a smile twitching the corners of the son’s mouth.

Hmmm . . . I suspect the heir is going to be a better modern hetman than his father, at least by the standards of His Lordship, Paramount Yozef Kolsko. If true, I wish there were a way to speed the succession along .

The final lesson came in the afternoon, when Kivalian gave his evaluation of the emergency mustering drill of the capital’s local militia members.

“Paramount, Hetman,” said Kivalian, addressing the two leaders, “I’ve seen a herd of krykors startled by a predator look more organized. A quarter of the men didn’t bring muskets, another quarter had no ammunition, and a few had neither. We’ll ignore that the city is supposed to have at least a company of militia dragoons ready to move on two hours’ notice, but some of the men don’t even own horses, and a few of the ones they arrived with at the muster point would be better used as dog food.”

Eldor Vandinke took the Fuomi’s blunt evaluation without comments, though Yozef thought he looked a trifle ill. Maybe it’s dawning on him there’s a new sheriff in town .

As they rode back to Herstek, Eldor trotted ahead without a word, while his son Fordvak accompanied Yozef.

“We would like to invite you to the hetman’s estate for evening meal, Paramount Kolsko,” said Fordvak in a normal tone of voice, then lowered the volume so only Yozef could hear. “You have to understand, Paramount, Father is very traditional with the clan’s customs, and not being the ultimate authority in all matters is foreign to his thinking.”

“I understand, Fordvak.” responded Yozef, “But I trust you to help him see that the future for all the clans, including Vandinke, will be good. However, he will have to accept some inevitable changes, or else your clan will fall behind the others.”

“Perhaps this is where you could help,” said Fordvak, “if there were more tangible benefits that Father could understand.”

In other words, bring out some carrots and sheath the stick for a while , thought Yozef.

Three hours later, Yozef sat next to Eldor as the servants finished setting out a first course of soup, the ubiquitous dark bread, and bowls of butter. He bet himself that the utensils and plates were imported and had cost a Caedellium fortune in coin. Moreover, the estate was the largest hetman’s residence Yozef had seen on Caedellium and one of the most ostentatious.

The common people of Vandinke weren’t quite living in squalor, but their houses were noticeably poorer looking than most Yozef had seen on Caedellium. At first, he thought it was just the state of the clan’s resources, but after seeing this palace, he suspected this dork was far too over-the-top full of himself and saw his clanspeople’s duty more to him than his to them.

“Dork Eldor . . . pardon, I slipped into my original language. Dork is a term we used to signify respect. Do you mind if I continue to call you Dork Eldor, and you can call me Yozef?

The hetman sat up straighter in his chair. “Not at all, Hetman, and should I refer to you as Dork Yozef?”

“Ah, well, dork is a term of respect, and I’d like your clanspeople to see how much regard I have for you, but it’s a more formal term. Perhaps it’s best if I call you Dork Eldor, and you can call me Yozef, unless it’s a formal occasion where ‘Hetman’ and ‘Paramount’ are more appropriate.”

“Certainly . . . Yozef.”

“There,” said Yozef, “now that that’s out of the way, I wanted to talk with you about mining within your province. I know in the past you sent copper ingots to Preddi City for trade off-island. It was never a large source of coin for the clan, but it was steady. You shut down your mines when the Narthani stopped trade, but I’d like to encourage you to reopen the mines and, in fact, look to establishing new ones. I’m not knowledgeable in mining, but the Fuomi will be sending men who will be here in the next few months. I’ve also discussed with Ambassador Saisannin the possibility of agreeing to a guaranteed market for metal ingots. It turns out Caedellium is relatively rich in tin, copper, and zinc, though not so much in silver and gold. I believe it’s safe to assume there will be trade markets for five to ten times as much Caedellium metal now as before.”

The Vandinke hetman’s eyes narrowed as Yozef talked, and he touched the fingertips of both hands to each other, listening. “Many of our mine workers have moved on to other work,” said Eldor, “and it would take considerable coin to start the mines again. No matter what the Fuomi woman tells you, it’s too big a risk to spend that much coin without certainty of markets.”

“A reasonable worry, Dork, which is why I am willing to buy all the ingots you can produce for the first year and at a price one-fifth more than what you received before. I will also loan you coin to help start the mines operating again. You can repay me starting the second year.”

For the first time since arriving in Herstek, Yozef thought the hetman’s eyes showed interest.

Well, more like greed , Yozef thought. I’ve got his attention diverted from smoldering over loss of independence to collecting gold and silver. Now to reel him in .

“This sounds very interesting,” said Eldor, “but I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“Of course, Dork Eldor, but it’s best to decide soon since other clans have ore sites that could be re-opened, and I don’t have enough coin to help them all.”

I probably do have enough coin, but this dork doesn’t know that, thought Yozef. I’ve just dangled another bauble in front of him by letting him think he can get a jump on the other clans. If Maera’s right, he won’t be able to resist the double payoff—getting richer and crowing over other hetmen.

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I accept your proposal. I’ll call a meeting of my boyermen and owners of the mine properties to plan the start of mining again as soon as possible. You mentioned copper ingots, but as long as I get the smelters operating again, what about zinc and lead? We mined mainly copper in the past because the market was surer, but we could also mine the other two. I would be pleased to help my men find more work to better support their families.”

Yeah, I bet you would, now that there’s a guaranteed market. I think you’re venal enough to push it along, but now let’s light a fire .

“Let’s see how the first year goes,” Yozef replied, “but if Vandinke can produce enough copper ingots, I’ll consider constructing what is called a train line from here to coast ports. Let me describe what that is.”

Yozef motioned to Carnigan standing behind him and was handed some writing materials. He used them to illustrate a horse-drawn train pulled on wooden rails with an iron cap. His enhanced memory contained little information on railways, it not being a topic he had read about, but the system he envisioned was similar to one used in Fuomon, according to Kivalian’s and Saisannin’s descriptions. Once the ingot production reached a high enough level, he could connect Vandinke to a line already under construction to haul iron ore from Bultecki to the western provinces, where he planned to take advantage of their extensive coal fields to establish a steel industry. A second line was to run from Orosz City to Preddi City.

During Yozef’s description of rail lines, Fordvak had noticed Yozef diagramming something for his father. He stood behind their chairs and listened in.

“That is amazing!” said Fordvak. “If these trains work as you say, the number of ingots we could send to Preddi City would increase many-fold. What? Five? Six?”

“At least that much. You could improve roads and build more and bigger wagons, but the trains will be far more efficient and faster transportation.”

The Vandinke hetman’s attention was drawn to two of his boyermen, and Fordvak returned to his seat. Yozef’s thoughts turned inward, as he dwelled on interlocking projects that weren’t all moving along as well as he’d hoped, though better than he’d feared. He’d also seen no reason to share the scope of his plans for industrialization.

***

Yozef didn’t mention to the Vandinkers that the destination of their ingots or ore might not be Preddi City. Only Maera knew he planned to develop trading ports at several more sites on Caedellium. Having Preddi City as the only major harbor was both economically and militarily inadvisable—witness the Narthani abruptly controlling all trade by capturing a single port.

He hadn’t fixated on the likely candidates, although he favored Shullick, the capital of Swavebroke Province, and Adris City, capital of Adris Province, two of the cities destroyed by the Narthani. Rebuilding was underway, but to create major trading harbors, it would be easier starting from scratch than modifying existing facilities. In addition, it would be a major boost for two clans that were among those who’d suffered the worst from the Narthani. It also wouldn’t hurt that Yozef could, with a dose of guilt, help engender a sense of obligation in the two clans when the paramount facilitated a major boost to their clans’ economy.

He’d been hesitant about Adris City because it sat within the Gulf of Normot and could be reached only by ships navigating carefully through the Normot Gap in the treacherous line of rocks and shoals traversing the gulf’s entrance. On reflection and after talking with Reimo Kivalian and several Fuomi warship captains, he decided that having a port almost impregnable from sea assault had its advantages. He’d sketched out widening the Gap another hundred yards. Caedellium could produce any amount of black powder needed by using the immense bird and murvor guano deposits. Floating forts flanking the Gap would outgun any Anyar warship attempting to enter the gulf.

He hadn’t shared the plans with all the hetmen to prevent competition among the coastal clans that wanted a port. And he also didn’t want to listen to gripes from clans that were left out. He didn’t imagine Balwis Preddi would complain too much if his clan no longer had the only trading port. Preddi City would likely remain the busiest port, and Balwis had enough other issues in molding together a clan of diverse members.

Yozef had also avoided telling Eldor and Fordvak about problems with the train and heavy industry infrastructure being planned. The trains would begin with horses pulling cars on wooden rails, then on rails with iron caps once steel mills were functioning, and finally on all-iron rails when steel production was sufficient. He also planned to replace horses with steam engines, allowing heavier cars and longer trains.

Unfortunately, the steam power project ran far behind his optimistic estimates. In his naiveté, Yozef had assumed the Fuomi, with their far greater infrastructure and industry, would work out the details. But for whatever reason, it hadn’t happened. He had declined entreaties to visit Fuomon himself, and although he didn’t believe Caedellium had the tools for a full-scale steam engine development project, he had set in motion a scaled-down version to develop a small steam-powered train, such as used in children’s amusement parks on Earth.

After an internal debate, he had recommended to Saisannin that key personnel of the Fuomon steam engine project come to Caedellium to work with the Caedelli team. She had eagerly agreed, and the new Fuomi were expected to arrive in two to three months. Yozef felt only slightly guilty when he informed the Caedelli workers of the coming of the Fuomi steam project members and hinted they were coming to speed up the Caedellium project. Muttering and angry looks were followed by the Caedelli workers’ determination to progress as much as possible before interlopers arrived.

More encouraging was the shop working on a telegraph. Despite Yozef giving Jaako Rintala, the Fuomi commander during first contact with the clans, as much as he could remember about the telegraph, the Fuomi had become frustrated with progress in Fuomon and had shipped their entire development staff to Caedellium. Their stated rationale was that Yozef might remember details he had left out or would have suggestions if the workers had ready access to him. Although Yozef publicly accepted their explanation, he confided to Maera that he suspected it was a ploy to keep him involved with Fuomon. He had the Fuomi staff watched, also suspecting one or more to be intelligence agents.

Whatever their reason for coming to Caedellium, it pleased Yozef that the development staff, Fuomi and Caedelli, had made significant progress. The latest effort had pushed the telegraph range to ten miles. Still lacking was the electro/mechanical relay to reamplify signals that weakened with transmission distance. Yozef had no advice to give on the relays, though he was optimistic enough to direct building infrastructure for an Orosz City to Preddi City line.

His frustration with steam and other projects emphasized Yozef’s limitation in practical mechanical applications. He couldn’t wish he had been an engineer because his knowledge of chemistry was the foundation of everything he had accomplished. Yet “Oh, to have a real engineer,” was a refrain he had whispered, muttered, or yelled in English more than once.

***

“What do you think, Yozef?” said a voice to his right.

“Huh?”

“I wonder if you might consider Fordvak for your dork designation, Yozef. I know he’s only the Vandinke heir, but—”

Yozef cut him off. “No, Dork Eldor, this is an honorific I prefer to use only with you.”

Sorry, Eldor, but only you deserve to be recognized as a dork. Pompous shit would also be appropriate, but it’s two words, and I’ve already committed to dork .

A middle-aged woman delivered plates of meat in aromatic sauce surrounded by things similar-looking to small mushrooms and pearl onions. Yozef quit talking for a moment, cut off a moderate-size piece, and transferred it to his mouth. Flavors rocketed over his tongue and palate.

“Balmoth!” said Yozef. “You can’t miss it. Did you get it from Hewell Province?”

“Hewell?” asked Eldor. “No. I shot the beast myself a year ago and had the meat frozen in an ice cave. This was a fair-size one. I got about eight thousand pounds of prime meat, so that should last my family many years.”

“So, you have balmoths in Vandinke. I thought the only ones on Caedellium were in Hewell Province,” said Yozef.

“Vandinke and Hewell are the only two places left,” answered Eldor. “Histories say they were originally all over the island, but now they’re only in two provinces. Too bad, since their meat is the best. I’ll miss them once they’re all gone.”

Ever since Yozef had seen the huge mammal while traveling through Hewell Province, the mystery of the balmoth had eaten at his subconscious. At first, he had thought there were two options: either they were a descendant of the extinct paracertheriums of Earth’s Miocene Epoch about twenty-three million years ago, or it was an amazing example of parallel evolution on Earth and Anyar. The latter option seemed less likely when he saw the Munjor flag of the Landoliner Rhanjur Gaya prominently displaying an animal that resembled an entelodont, an apex predator of Earth’s same Miocene Epoch. Before he saw the balmoths, he’d originally thought humans and all terrestrial animals and plants found on Anyar had resulted from a transplantation about five thousand years ago. Although the Narthani and their aftermath had consumed his attention, he’d kept an eye out for additional out-of-place animals but had not spotted other examples.

He should have thought about this more after seeing the balmoths in Hewell. If these creatures really were from Earth, it would be a shame to let them go extinct a second time. The flavor was exceptional, and the animals would be considered a source of prime meat on either planet.

“How many do you think are left in both provinces?” asked Yozef.

“Maybe thirty or forty here and about that many in Hewell, I assume. I’ve declared them property of the hetman here in Vandinke, so I can enjoy them at least during my lifetime and possibly Fordvak’s before they’re gone. I don’t know about Hewell.”

Yozef took another bite and chewed slowly, letting the flavors bathe his taste buds. “A shame if all balmoths were gone, Dork Eldor. In fact, there may be an opportunity here for some significant coin if you ranched them like cattle or horses. Of course, the numbers would have to increase to make it practical.”

Yozef stared off into space as he thought. “In fact, it comes to me that not only could you sell the meat here on Caedellium, but I know a way to keep the meat frozen for shipment elsewhere on Anyar. Once people tasted balmoth meat, a single shipload would be worth a fortune.”

“Uhurumpf!” came a deep voice from behind the two men’s chairs. Yozef looked around to see Carnigan staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

What’s Carnigan—? Yozef started thinking, until he realized the words he’d used. “It comes to me” had been his go-to phrase when introducing concepts and knowledge from Earth. By the time he’d realized that many Caedelli took the words to mean he was getting a message from God, it was too late to stop rumors that he was a Septarsh, one to whom God whispered. Although it had been a useful rumor when he was trying to get the clans to unite against the Narthani, he’d striven to limit using the phrase once the Narthani left.

“Are they slow breeders?” he asked. “I mean, how often do they have young, and how fast do they grow?”

Eldor shook his head. “The females only give birth every two or three years. However, they grow fast enough to supply my family.”

What about every other clan member, you pompous shit? Ever occur to you to consider someone outside your family?

“Well, Dork Eldor, you might consider halting consuming them and letting their numbers increase. It would take many years before they’d be ready for killing again for consumption, but the reward in coin could be substantial. I’ll mention this to Hetman Hewell to do the same with the balmoths in his province. It would be best if both of you conserved the animals to spread the future coin across more than one clan on Caedellium.”

Let’s see if not wanting to be left out and the thought of another clan garnering all the potential profits has an effect.

“Say, with increased mining and future balmoth ranching, Vandinke could become quite a wealthy province,” said Yozef. “I’m sure the clanspeople would be grateful for such a clever and future-thinking hetman.”

I think I’m going to gag , thought Yozef.

“So, Paramount, it comes to you that the balmoths could become quite valuable?” asked Eldor with a calculating gleam in his eyes and for the first time using the “Paramount” title with a tone in the neighborhood of respect.

“Yes, Dork Eldor, definitely.”

“Hmmm . . . would you like to visit the valley where the last ones live?”

Not really, Yozef thought . They’re magnificent-looking beasts, but once you’ve seen one of the big lumps of docile flesh, you’ve seen them all. Oh, well, it was my idea, so I guess I have to suck it up a little more to be sure to save the creatures from extinction.

“Yes, definitely, but we would need to do it tomorrow because I have to get back to Orosz City.”

“In that case, we can combine seeing the balmoth with some hunting. You do hunt, don’t you?” The last words were overlaid with, “like any real man.”

Yozef had drunk several steins of strong Vandinke ale, and part of his mind was hoping to wrap up the evening’s interaction with the hetman. He later rued his mouth’s escape from its normal tether.

“Of course, Dork Eldor, I’d love to go hunting.”

“Wonderful. As soon as we finish the meal, let me show you my collection of zarvor antlers.”

A performance of traditional Vandinke music followed the remainder of the meal. The instruments resembled variations of bagpipes and sounded to Yozef like a chorus of housecats in heat. The only listener who seemed to share his opinion was Reimo Kivalian, who grinned and raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. The rest of the Caedelli took the sound in stride, with Carnigan tapping a foot along to a melody that Yozef remained oblivious to.

An hour later, Eldor led the way to what resembled a hunter’s lodge section of the hetman’s estate. Mounted on the walls were scores of large antler racks, and a single painting showed the hetman standing over the body of what seemed to be a large, hairy deer. The number of points wasn’t large, but the antlers were heavy with small knobs near the base. Eldor gave a running commentary on each antler set, as they strolled down the line. Every antler rack was evidently associated with a history about the magnificence of its particular owner. The hetman assured Yozef that only a superior hunter could have shot the large deer-like animal. Yozef was not impressed after learning the hunting method used dogs and beaters to drive the frightened animal to where the hetman waited.

Yozef hoped this was the only trophy room, and when they got to the end of it, a single set of enormous antlers dwarfed all the others. Yozef’s quick estimate gave the set at least twenty points on wide, sweeping antlers that appeared to be from a super-moose.

“This is from the same animal?”

“No. That’s from a forntak. No one’s ever seen a live one. Those antlers have hung on my family’s walls for as long as records show. They probably existed on Caedellium when people first arrived, but the beasts disappeared long ago. I believe they were supposed to look something like zarvors.”

Not a moose then, but if it was deerlike, then something like an Irish elk? Another example of a transplanted animal?

Yozef remembered reading about the animal during his youthful fascination with extinct mammals—rather than dinosaurs, as with most young boys. The animals had roamed northern climes from Europe to China during the Pleistocene Epoch to about ten thousand years ago. He recalled the theory that the outsized antlers (a rack weighed up to ninety pounds) had become a liability—a runaway mating adaption that led to the animal’s downfall when it was confronted with a climate change in vegetation or the introduction of new predators, such as humans.

If the Irish elk went extinct ten thousand years ago, that doesn’t quite fit my current theory of two transplantations, one during the Miocene on Earth and the other about five thousand years ago. Of course, I guess an isolated population could have survived until more recently. Didn’t do them much good, if that’s the case. Got transplanted here only to die out again.

“A hunter, huh?” said Carnigan, as they rode their horses back to their lodging that evening. “Somehow I don’t remember you ever going hunting or even mentioning having hunted. In fact, I seem to recall hearing you talk to Maera and ridiculing men who think hunting makes them more masculine.”

Yozef grimaced, then laughed.

“I also notice you didn’t ask exactly what you’ll be hunting tomorrow,” Carnigan added dryly.

“I assumed it was those zarvors,” replied Yozef. “Vandinke seems to have what’s got to be the island’s biggest collection of antlers. Are they found elsewhere on Caedellium?”

“I know they have them in Swavebroke and Pewitt, though not as many as I hear there used to be.”

“The eastern provinces have them, too,” said Ethlore. “Mainly in the mountains and hills, but occasionally a few drift down into farm and ranch country.”

“Well, as long as they’re not rare, I guess I can’t argue against hunting them. How do they taste?”

“Not bad,” answered Ethlore. “The older males’ meat is tougher and needs to be pounded to tenderize. My mother makes a killer zarvor stew.”

“Slow roasted with spices is my favorite,” said Carnigan.

“Maybe if we have a successful hunt, we can see if Vandinke can get the meat cooked different ways, and we can share with the rest of the men,” said Yozef.

The next morning, Eldor, Fordvak, and two Vandinke gamekeepers joined Yozef, his four guards, Kivalian, and a dragoon squad Carnigan had insisted accompany them. They rode two hours west of Herstek into forested mountains until they came to a village of several hundred inhabitants. While the hetman’s chief gamekeeper talked with the village men, Yozef couldn’t help but note the number of villagers with similar facial features.

“Pardon, Fordvak, but many of these villagers look alike. Are there large families?”

“Large? No, Paramount, the normal size, I believe. Many of the remoter villages in Vandinke have people who don’t move far from where they’re born. It’s common for certain villages to have taken on distinctive features.”

“My God,” said Yozef in English. “You mean inbred like hell. If there was a crime in this place and DNA tests of evidence were available, I’ll bet half the village would crop up as suspects.”

“Sorry, Paramount, what did you say?” said Fordvak, puzzled by the strange language.

“Oh, uh . . . just talking to myself.”

“It’s one of the ways he wins arguments,” quipped Ethlore, to laughter by Yozef’s other men.

“Don’t worry, Fordvak,” Yozef said, when he noticed the Vandinke heir’s shock at such familiar talk with the paramount. “I’ll punish them later.”

“No, he won’t,” Carnigan cracked, “or we’ll tell Maera he went hunting without knowing what the game was.”

A local man scouting for game cut off further discussion on the topic by reporting a group of zarvors four miles ahead. The hunting party rode half an hour to a small valley and waited an hour while men repaired a shooting blind. Men from the village circled to approach the zarvors from the other side and then drive them toward the blind where Yozef and Eldor waited to fire. The head gamekeeper, Fordvak, Kivalian, Carnigan, and Ethlore stood behind the two shooters, along with a village teenager carrying two baskets. The other escorts waited a hundred yards deeper into the woods.

An hour later, they heard distant shouts and several musket shots.

“Father has used this spot many times,” said Fordvak. “It won’t take long for the zarvors to reach this clearing. Usually, they stop in the middle to look around. That’s when you’ll have the best shots.”

Fifteen minutes later, Fordvak whispered, “Shhh! Here they come. Their hearing is good. Once they stop in the middle of the clearing, you and Father should shoot at the same time.”

The waiting was not uncomfortable. They sat on cushioned benches, with muskets leaning against the front of the blind, where a one-foot opening faced the clearing. The teenage boy distributed cups and wine from flagons and cookie-like sweets from a bag.

Really roughing it here , Yozef thought. Bet Eldor is exhausted after such primitive hunting expeditions. He looked at Carnigan and shrugged. The big man rolled his eyes.

The gamekeeper stiffened and muttered. Brush moved on the opposite side of the clearing, and an antlerless deer walked slowly into the open. Then another. Then two more, accompanied by two smaller versions. When all six animals were clear of the brush, a seventh head poked out with an impressive rack matching those in the hetman’s trophy room.

What? The male lets the women and children check if it’s safe first? Even the animals in Vandinke are assholes.

Sounds of the men driving the game quieted, as the seven animals moved farther into the open.

Fordvak whispered into Yozef’s ear. “When the noise from the beaters dies, they’ll stop to listen and you’ll have better shots.”

As the zarvors cautiously advanced, Yozef got a better look at them.

He thought they might be Sambar deer, like the ones he’d seen in the San Diego Animal Park. Bigger maybe. These were the size of elk but sure looked like big deer. He remembered Sambars ranged from India to Southeast Asia and southern China and were among the largest deer on Earth, but these were bigger.

The male froze, lifted his nose high into the air. Yozef could have sworn the stag’s characteristic fur, longer than other deer’s, seemed to rise on its neck and back.

Suddenly, all the Sambars exploded, running, as a form flashed out of the foliage on the right side of the clearing.

Hisses and quiet curses roiled through the blind.

“Yorszas,” whispered Eldor. “I thought we’d cleaned them out of Vandinke.” The hetman’s eyes were wide, and his hands holding a musket trembled ever so slightly.

Yozef looked around. The expressions of all the men ranged from grim to outright fear. Yozef’s two guards elbowed forward to flank their charge.

“What—” Yozef started to ask. The shape that had chased the Sambars stopped at the edge of the clearing.

“It missed them,” muttered the gamekeeper. “Where are the others? How did the men driving the zarvors not run into them?”

The yorsza turned back, just as four more similar creatures stepped into the clearing, and Yozef got his first good look.

This is getting old, he thought. First paracertheriums and entelodonts from Earth’s Miocene, and now hyaenodons. The creatures were spitting images of another apex predator also from the Miocene.

That had to confirm it. Someone or something made at least two transplantations from Earth, one of which had occurred twenty or more million years ago.

Too bad paleontologists aren’t around , thought Yozef. They’d go bonkers to study the real things .

His train of thought jolted with a realization.

Wait a minute. These three animals look TOO close to reconstructions of Earth’s Miocene animals. If that many millions of years passed since they were put on Anyar, they would have evolved into different species just like they did on Earth, where they haven’t existed for maybe twenty million years. To have stayed looking so similar, they would had to stop evolving. I suppose whatever aliens did the transplantation had technology I wouldn’t understand, but why stop the animal’s natural tendency to evolve? Hmmm . . . unless they didn’t change the animals but kept them in storage until transplanting at the same time as humans. Frozen? Some kind of suspended animation? But why?

His fascinating internal discourse on Anyarian fauna was interrupted by the gamekeeper.

“Nobody move, and for God’s sake don’t shoot any of them.”

Yozef looked around. The gamekeeper’s warnings seemed unnecessary. None of the men, including Carnigan and Ethlore, appeared to have any interest in firing at the five animals Yozef now looked at more closely.

Perhaps three feet tall at the shoulder, the size of a lion or larger. Elongated head with a short, heavily muscled neck, prominent cheekbones, and impressive stabbing and shearing teeth that were displayed when two of the animals yawned wide and emitted sounds reminiscent of hyenas. When the first yorsza looked in the blind’s direction, the hairs on Yozef’s arms and neck stood upright. The yorsza’s form was almost cartoonish with its smooth hide and lack of features, and the eyes appeared empty and dumb, similar to Yozef’s impression of opossums he’d seen and movies of sharks. Merciless.

The five creatures moved in the direction the Sambars had taken. Maybe hoping to come upon the deer again? Yozef wondered, as he let go of breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Let’s give them a few more minutes to get farther away,” said the gamekeeper.

“Then we’re getting our asses out of here,” added Carnigan.

And that they did. Even Eldor was subdued and didn’t comment about the hunt he had so proudly promoted being cut short, with no game to bring back to Herstek.

Yozef waited until they were on their horses before asking Ethlore for clarification.

“Synton, I infer we were in some danger. I’d never heard of a yorsza before.”

“Damn vicious and hard-to-kill beasts,” said Ethlore. “Most of them were exterminated, but every once in a while, a lone one or small pack like this crops up out of nowhere. Where they come from or where they were hiding, no one knows. It’s best to keep away from them. They’re known to attack even large groups of armed men. It’s almost like they don’t recognize men as being dangerous. Stupid. If we’d shot at them, they might have charged straight at us. Even with us armed and hidden in the blind, there’s a good chance one or more would have survived to get among us and tore some of us to shreds before they died. Hetman Vandinke will have to gather up a couple hundred men on horseback and sweep this area to find this pack.”

“This is something we definitely won’t speak of when we get back to Orosz City,” said Carnigan, “or we’ll never hear the end of it from Gwyned, Maera, and Anarynd.”

“Carnigan, when I used to walk and ride west of Abersford, and when we took Maera on a picnic, was that a good idea if these creatures are around?”

“Not if I’d known there were still yorszas alive on Caedellium. I thought they had all been exterminated.”

“I’ve lived most of my life in Abersford,” said Toowin Kales, “and never heard of anyone seeing a yorsza in the area. I know most people went unarmed before the Narthani came. I guess we became too complacent assuming no major predators in Keelan. Western Keelan, anyway.”

“Well, I wondered why the balmoth numbers were declining, if Vandinke reserved hunting them for the hetman’s family,” said Yozef. “Now I know. The adults might be invulnerable, but the young ones would be easy prey.”

It didn’t pass Yozef’s notice that his concern for the extinction of a species extended to the balmoths but not to the yorszas.

It was a quiet hunting party that returned to Herstek. Even the normally ebullient Kivalian downed an ale unusually quickly after the party dispersed and the non-Vandinkers headed straight to a pub.

As they departed back to Orosz City the next morning, Yozef mused that all in all, the trip had proved worthwhile. Eldor Vandinke might be an asshole, but his venality seemed sufficient to placate some of his concern about losing independence—if it was associated with getting richer.

Well, thought Yozef, at least I’m not leaving with a desire to arrange a hit on the man, like my wish after visiting the Nyvaks hetman.

Two days later, when they were within sight of Orosz City, Yozef turned to his four guards and Kivalian. “Remember, not a word about yorszas to anyone. Otherwise, Carnigan and I will hear about it from our wives into the next year.”

Kivalian laughed, having returned to his normal demeanor after the infamous hunt. “It’s somehow refreshing to know some things are the same, no matter where you are on Anyar.”

LEAF WAX AND SAWDUST

The seven men wore three different expressions while waiting to hear what new project Yozef Kolsko would assign them. The four youngest men sat with eager eyes, broad smiles, and taut body language, as if preparing for a race. Three other men, a few years older, smiled knowingly at one another, seeing the youngsters’ anticipation of whatever the Septarsh—or Paramount Kolsko, depending on how they thought of Yozef—had to tell them. After several years of working for the man on projects that succeeded or failed, they appreciated more than the younger men that Yozef paid handsomely not only because of their skills but because the projects tended to be more hazardous than they were comfortable with, no matter what the pay.

The eighth man didn’t pretend he felt anything other than nervous. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and a trickle ran past his left ear. Alyn Klyndun was one of the first workers Yozef had hired in Abersford, starting with work on ether production, moving on to kerosene and soap, and then to flares and mines when war loomed against the Narthani. He had been paid well during those years, and he had scars and injured coworkers to justify the coin. The latest scar had come before Yozef canceled a project to develop mercury fulminate primers, as the clans finished preparing for the new Narthani army.

When word came that Yozef had specifically asked for him, his first thought was Oh, shit! He put aside—temporarily, he hoped—plans to move back to Abersford to open a trade shop. One did not decline a call from the paramount who was also a Septarsh.

Klyndun’s concern heightened when he learned the first meeting for the new project would be held in a building a mile from the outer edge of Orosz City. Previous experience told him Yozef wanted to limit casualties if anything went wrong. He grudgingly admitted that the same precautions, along with Yozef’s incessant harping on safety during other projects, had limited injuries to a surprising degree, considering the number of shops rebuilt or repaired.

“Thank you all for coming today,” said Yozef. “Four of you have worked on past projects, including Alyn, who I’ve known for many years and who will be the foreman for this new project. The rest of you I picked because of reports of your hard work and innovative thinking. You four must listen to the others to learn what I expect, particularly about safety precautions. This will be critical for this new project because you will be making a new type of explosive and then packaging it in a form that is safer to transport and use. The explosive is called nitroglycerin , and the final form to be used is called dynamite .”

Yozef spent the next hour going over the simple procedure for making nitroglycerin. Over and over, caution after caution, until one of the younger men couldn’t restrain himself.

“Yes, yes, you’ve already said that a dozen times.”

“And your name is . . . ?” asked Yozef.

“Garnor Pymler.”

“Ser Pymler, sorry, I don’t think you’re suited for this project. Please leave and go back to wherever you came from.”

“What?”

“You either haven’t the common sense to pay attention when someone says the work is dangerous, or you are too impulsive. Either way, you don’t fit this project. Leave.”

The crestfallen Pymler looked at the other seven men and saw either blank looks, because they didn’t want Yozef to associate them with the ejected worker, or nods of agreement on removing someone they had new doubts about.

The dejected youth left, and Yozef continued.

“We will start by practicing the procedures I give you. It sounds simple enough, but you need to practice until each step is so second-nature that any deviation will be glaringly obvious. To help stay within the procedures, you will use a teammate strategy at every step. One man will carry out the step, while a second man watches and compares it to the written instructions. There will three members of each team, with Alyn announcing each successive step in the procedure. You’ll see how it works as we practice. Later, we’ll reduce the number to a team of two.

“While the steps are underway, no unrelated conversation will be allowed. Deviation from this will result in a reprimand and loss of one sixday’s pay the first time it happens, and dismissal from the project the second time.

“This initial practice will involve inert ingredients, then adding the actual ingredients a step at a time. Only when I’m satisfied will the production of nitroglycerin begin.

“The first thing you have to do is purify the compounds needed to make nitroglycerin. Fortunately, the process only takes three ingredients—sulfuric acid, nitric acid, and glycerin. The last one will be isolated from beef tallow, and you’ll concentrate the acids from the sources available to us. Both sulfuric and nitric acids need to be high concentration. Sulfuric is the easiest. We can drive off water by boiling, thereby concentrating the acid. As you can imagine, you need to take great care in handling boiling acid, so as much of the work as possible will be with no one near the apparatuses. Alyn is familiar with the idea from his work with ether production.

“One difference is that boiling off the water will be done outdoors to provide sufficient air flow. Late in the concentration process, there will be dangerous fumes given off.

“Nitric acid will have to be distilled to concentrate it, which is difficult. The nitric acid and water mixture we’ll start with develops what is called an azeotrope . This is a chemical term for a liquid mixture with a constant boiling point. Whatever is recovered from distillation will have the same composition of nitric acid and water as the original solution.” The three remaining younger workers scribbled furiously with quill and paper. All three were among the burgeoning corps of chemistry students Yozef hoped to use to begin imparting more chemistry knowledge than he had thus far.

“Why is that?” asked one student.

“I honestly don’t know,” responded Yozef. “Maybe that’s something you or someone else can answer one day. I just know that’s the way it is.

Yozef was truthful. He didn’t know the exact reasons for azeotrope formation, but he thought it had to do with hydrogen bonds.

“Our nitric acid source is a low concentration that can’t be distilled to a higher concentration because of the nitric acid/water azeotrope. We overcome this by adding sulfuric acid, which entrains the water, allowing the nitric acid to vaporize before water.

“The final basic ingredient is glycerin, which you will isolate from tallow by melting it, mixing with a lye solution, then adding salt and stirring until a viscous layer forms on top. The bottom layer is glycerin and salt. You’ll filter this layer and distill it to purify the glycerin away from the salt. Naturally, it’s not as simple as it sounds. Glycerin has a high boiling temperature and will start to decompose before boiling begins. What we have to do is get the glycerin boiling at a lower temperature. We do this by removing some of the air in the reaction vessel. If there was no air, it would be called a vacuum, but we only need a partial vacuum. This causes the glycerin to boil before decomposition and allows distillation.”

One of the young men raised a hand. “How can there be no air, Paramount?”

“Ah-ha!” exclaimed a second young man, this one from the Farkesh clan. “That explains something I’ve heard my grandmother talking about. I have family members living near the ocean and others in the higher mountain regions of Farkesh. The women know that water boils easier the higher in altitude you go. Also, we’ve probably all experienced that it’s harder to breathe the higher you go from ocean level to the mountains. We interpret this as there being less air. Is that the same as your ‘partial vacuum,’ Paramount?”

Bingo! This guy’s gonna be a keeper .

“Exactly,” said Yozef. “We might be able to distill the glycerin by doing it on a high enough mountain peak, but it’s far more efficient to do it in a shop with the right equipment, which fortunately we already have.” He didn’t go into the details or say that the apparatus pumping out air looked like a piece of junk, but it worked well enough for the current purpose.

He also didn’t think it necessary at this time to describe the effort it took to make the stronger glass vessels to stand up to the temperatures and the dangerous liquids they would be handling. A team in Caernford had been working on a primitive form of Pyrex by adding boron trioxide (B 2 O 3 ) during glass making. The boron compound had to be isolated by adding sulfuric acid to the mineral borax (Na 2 B 4 O 7 ) and heating it to a molten condition. Sodium sulfate then separated from the molten boron trioxide, which was decanted and cooled. The final product wasn’t real Pyrex, but it was close enough.

It was just one of many cases where carrying out one procedure required developing one or more processes, materials, or apparatuses. Yozef usually swallowed his frustrations by remembering that the introductions would eventually feed on themselves and become self-sustaining. He hoped.

He handed a folder to each man. “Here are more detailed instructions which I expect every one of you to memorize. What you’ll do for the next sixdays is purify the components I’ve described. After that, we’ll meet and go over the procedure for making nitroglycerin. You’ll then start doing what I call ‘dry runs.’ Once I’m satisfied you’re ready, we’ll begin making small batches of the nitroglycerin.”

He stayed with the new project staff until mid-afternoon, then left for one of his smallest shops, focused on a project of highest interest and lowest expectations. After a thorough canvass, he had determined that the Island of Caedellium had nine Flagorn Eggs scattered among the provinces. The Caedelli assumed they were a rare mineral formation, and Yozef wasn’t tempted to explain his belief they were products of a technology more advanced than anything on Earth.

Despite his thinking that he didn’t have the tools, he had wanted to inspect an egg closer ever since Hetman Welman Stent had told him the Stent Province contained two of the egg-shaped, three-foot-high, smoother than polished marble, dark blue objects, always found with their large end embedded in solid rock. However, it was Roblyn Langor, the Selfcell hetman, who had volunteered to let Yozef take to Orosz City for study the one egg within Selfcell Province. Yozef had had the egg chipped out of rock atop the province’s highest mountain. Thus far, the limited resources available had failed to either penetrate the egg or discover anything not obvious from what Yozef had seen from inspecting eggs in Hewell and Stent provinces. He had considered developing a diamond drill, but his enhanced memory contained nothing useful. Once again, he wished for an engineer.

Almost two months later, the day came for the first try at making nitroglycerin. Another worker had been dismissed for marginal hand-eye coordination. The man was diligent and sharp enough, but a little too clumsy for Yozef’s peace of mind. To replace two of the original eight men, at Maera’s recommendation, Yozef had added two bright women known for fine needlework. Maera had argued that for what he described, care and dexterity were more important than muscles or education. Despite his initial reservations, Yozef accepted the two women. They were behind the men in training experience and shopwork but were learning fast, and he expected they might turn out to be the best laboratory staff members. He also hoped none of the eight blew up themselves and their coworkers.

Ten persons carried out or witnessed the initial run of nitroglycerin: eight project workers, Yozef, and Toowin Kales. The presence of one of the Kolsko bodyguards was by order of Maera, whose instruction to Kales was to drag or carry Yozef away forcibly should things go wrong or, if necessary, place himself between Yozef and the danger. Yozef didn’t elaborate that if things went too wrong, no one standing too close would ever know about it.

Foreman Klyndun would oversee the first runs, with the young Farkesher doing the hands-on work and an experienced Stent worker checking every step. The other seven persons would stand behind a sandbag barrier thirty yards away, using a set of six-foot mirrors that gave a view of the reaction. Yozef would join the three men at the reaction for brief inspections only when conditions seemed stable and before moving to the next step.

“For God’s sake, Paramount, don’t get yourself blown up, or I’ll have to leave Caedellium,” pleaded Toowin. “That’s assuming Maera doesn’t gut me.”

In a crushed ice–filled basin sat medium-sized beakers of nitric acid and sulfuric acid, a larger beaker of water, and a smaller beaker of a crude sodium bicarbonate solution. In the nitric acid was a thermometer with five-degree increments notched into the glass. Paramount Kolsko had mandated that all his enterprises use a scale of one hundred degrees between water freezing and water boiling, the same as the Celsius scale on Earth. He didn’t know if he had the authority to mandate universal use of that scale for all Caedellium, but it didn’t matter. If the paramount preferred it, and if all the Kolsko businesses used it, along with use at the growing University of Caedellium, then within a year he believed the scale would spread throughout the island. There were also rumors that the Celsius scale had a foothold on the Landolin continent.

Each thermometer was unique because no reliable method of consistent production existed. Thermometers for most uses were graduated from minus 10 o C to 140 o C, with gradations farther outside the 0 o to 100 o range being more problematic the greater they became. The intermediate graduations assumed a linear rise of the mercury between 0 and 100 degrees. The thermometer in the nitric acid was made specifically for nitroglycerin production and was graduated from 0 o C to 30 o C. By Yozef’s order, if the mercury rose to the 30 o C notch, the beaker was to be immediately dumped into the ice bath, and everyone was to duck.

Yozef made one final check. He would stay watching the first stages of acid mixing but, per Maera’s order, would be behind the concrete wall when the workers commenced adding glycerin.

“Okay, we’re set. Let’s go,” he announced.

Yozef focused mainly on the teamwork of Klyndun, the Farkesh student performing the manipulations, and the Stent worker checking the steps—the latter two men being referred to by their clans. The sequence would be Klyndun reading off the first step, Farkesh repeating the words and carrying out the instructions, and Stent repeating the step instructions and confirming whether they were carried out. They would then move on.

Klyndun: “Pour a small amount of sulfuric acid slowly into the nitric acid, stirring gently.”

Farkesh: “I’m pouring a small amount of the sulfuric acid slowly into the nitric acid and stirring gently.”

Stent: “He’s pouring a small amount of the sulfuric acid slowly into the nitric acid and stirring.”

Klyndun: “Watch the temperature stays below ten degrees.”

Farkesh: “I’m watching the temperature stays below ten degrees.”

Stent: “He’s watching the temperature stays below ten degrees.”

After he finished pouring and continuing to stir with a glass rod, Farkesh spoke when the mixture temperature reached 5 o C. “I’ve finished the pour, and the temperature is at five degrees.”

They repeated the cycle until all the sulfuric acid was added and mixed. Future batches might go faster, but Yozef insisted on being slow this first time to judge how the temperature changed during acid mixing.

When the temperature was down to 5 o C after they’d added the last of the sulfuric acid, Farkesh announced, “All acids mixed, and the temperature is at or below five degrees.”

Okay, here we go , thought Yozef, time for me to get my ass to safety . “Proceed to add the glycerin,” he announced and retreated to behind the barrier, where he and Kales watched via mirrors.

Klyndun: “Add glycerin carefully dropwise to the acid surface and gently stir, watching the temperature stays below ten degrees.”

Farkesh took the small eyedropper and pulled about three drops of glycerin into the glass tube.

Farkesh: “I’m adding glycerin carefully dropwise to the acid surface and gently stirring.”

Stent: “He’s adding glycerin carefully dropwise to the acid surface and gently stirring.”

When finished, Farkesh watched the thermometer for several minutes before stating, “Glycerin was added, and the temperature is now below ten degrees.”

They repeated the cycle until the entire surface was covered and the stirring stopped. Everyone breathed easier. They waited fifteen minutes for the nitroglycerin to finish forming a layer that floated on top.

Klyndun: “Slowly and carefully transfer the acid/nitroglycerin beaker contents to the beaker of water.”

Farkesh: “I will slowly and carefully transfer the acid/nitroglycerin beaker contents to the beaker of water.”

Stent: “He is slowly and carefully transferring the acid/nitroglycerin beaker contents to the beaker of water.”

Three minutes later, Farkesh announced, “The entire acid/nitroglycerin beaker has been added to the beaker of water.”

Then they waited for the nitroglycerin to finish settling to the bottom before siphoning off as much of the top layer as they could without disturbing the nitroglycerin layer. They removed the latter by eyedropper and put it in an alkali solution made from pulverized limestone. The sodium bicarbonate neutralized residual acid. Acidity was checked with a native plant’s dried flower petals which changed colors when exposed to strong acid to strong base. Two changes of the alkali layer were needed to remove all trace of acid.

Klyndun put a small drop of the presumed nitroglycerin on a steel plate and ignited it. The blue flame confirmed nitroglycerin.

“Yes!” Yozef pumped a fist. “It worked, and what you’ve made is nitroglycerin. Now we can move on to gradually increase the batch size and begin testing its potency.

I also need to alert Chief Medicant Tolerez in Orosz City , thought Yozef. He still wished Diera Beynom had stayed as the dean of the Medicine and Biology Department of the University of Caedellium, but Tolerez was as intelligent a person as Yozef had ever met, even if he was abrasive at times. Yozef would arrange to meet with him and explain how nitroglycerin could be used to treat angina, the chest pain caused by insufficient oxygen to the heart. It was up to Tolerez and the other medicants to work out dosages and side-effects. Any lingering reservations about using the scientific method and Yozef’s innovations had finally been wrung out of all but the island’s most hidebound medicants and scholastics.

Yozef’s attention came back to the moment, as the young Farkesher removed the first batch of nitroglycerin by eyedropper to an opaque brown bottle, stoppered it, and placed the bottle on straw in a cellar pit dug fifty yards away.

When the cellar door was closed, everyone breathed easier for the first time in four hours.

“It’s not going to be this nerve-racking every time you make the damn stuff, is it?” asked Toowin.

“I hope so,” answered Yozef. “The more nerve-racking, the less chance of someone making a mistake.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to happen anyway,” Yozef told Maera and Anarynd, as they sat together after evening meal. “It’s only a matter of time. As hard as I’ve tried to convince the workers about the importance of safety, one day someone will drop a container of nitroglycerin, a glass vessel will break, or something unforeseen will happen, and then BOOM!”

“I know you say only sufficient shock will ignite the damned stuff but are you sure?” asked Maera. “What about fire, sparks, or a musket ball?”

“As I told you, we set fire to a drop from the first batch to confirm the final product was nitroglycerin. It burned but didn’t explode. The same for sparks. As for shooting at nitroglycerin, the impact isn’t strong enough for ignition.”

I hope , thought Yozef. I think a high-power rifle might impart enough muzzle velocity, but I don’t think Anyar’s black powder muskets and pistols can provide the shock needed.

“Tomorrow we’ll try igniting the little nitroglycerin we made today. Assuming it explodes as expected, we’ll move on to larger batches. I’m hoping for liter amounts within the next two sixdays and ten liters per batch in two months.”

“I worry when I hear you two talking about this,” said Anarynd. Her arms were crossed, hands clutching her upper arms. “Even if you’re careful, all it takes is for someone else to make a mistake.”

He patted her arm. “I’ll only be around the production another few times and then get the workers going on producing the dynamite. Once the nitroglycerin is mixed with finely ground sawdust and pressed into sticks it becomes far more stable, though there are still precautions.”

“Maera,” said Anarynd, “maybe you should talk with Toowin just to be sure . . . you know.”

“Oh, I will,” said Maera, casting a distrustful eye on Yozef.

“Are you sure Toowin will tell you the truth?” asked Anarynd. “Yozef is the Paramount, and Toowin might have been told not to say anything about the danger.”

“You know, I am sitting right here,” said Yozef, exasperated.

Maera snorted. “Toowin didn’t fall far from Wyfor’s branch of the Kales tree. You’ve been around Wyfor enough to know he’s not intimidated by Yozef.”

“You don’t have to be intimidated to do what someone tells you to do,” replied Anarynd. “He’d do anything for Yozef.”

“Possibly, but not if it puts Yozef in danger. Besides, if Toowin is intimidated by anyone, I’ve tried to make it be me .”

One month and five sixdays later, the first practical application of dynamite took place at a rock face in Bultecki Province.

“You’ve explained how this will work, Yozef,” said Teresz Bultecki, “but standing here looking at eighty feet of rock makes me wonder.”

Yozef slapped Hetman Bultecki lightly on the back. “Don’t worry, Teresz. The concept is fine. I’m only worried about the execution. I haven’t actually done this myself, so I’m only guessing at how deep we should drill holes for the dynamite sticks. We’re starting off with only one hole and two sticks to see what happens.”

Bultecki picked up a dynamite stick from the table next to them. “Amazing that something so common looking can be put to such a purpose,” he said, turning the stick over to examine the waryob bush leaf covering. The common shrub had large, waxy leaves that when warmed could be pressed into shapes that retained the form with overlaps that sealed after cooling. Each dynamite stick was sealed by the leaves to increase its stability and provide a layer of cushioning. Added to handling was the mandate to turn sticks weekly to prevent nitroglycerin from weeping out and pooling, and the requirement that sticks be used within two months of production. It all amounted to what Yozef hoped was as much precaution as necessary. If it wasn’t, the lack would eventually make itself known.

Bultecki stuck the little finger of his left hand into a snug cavity on one end of the stick. “And this is where you put the fuse?”

“Right. The plug of gunpowder is shoved in there, then the fuse attached to it is lit. The fuses are long enough that you should have several minutes before the gunpowder goes off and ignites the nitroglycerin in the dynamite, but the men are still ordered to run away once the fuse is lit.”

Yozef pointed to another table twenty yards away. “It’s also why I insist the dynamite sticks and fuses are never in close proximity until the dynamite is either placed in position, or if that’s not possible, then just before placement.”

“All ready, Paramount,” said Klyndun. “The two sticks and fuse are in the hole. We’re ready to light it.”

Klyndun was supervising the first practical tests, but thereafter the tunneling crew would be responsible, once Yozef was convinced they were competent.

“All right, Ser Klyndun, go ahead.” Yozef turned to Bultecki. “We’re far enough away, and it’s a small-enough charge that we’re in no danger. It’ll be a loud explosion, and once the smoke and falling rock pieces settle, we’ll walk over and see the result.”

Klyndun talked to two men, one of whom walked up to the rock face, did something they couldn’t see, then raced away.

Bultecki grunted. “I take it the fuse is lit.”

“Yes,” said Yozef. “Should take about three minutes.”

Five minutes later, nothing had happened, and Klyndun wiped his forehead as he walked over to Yozef. “What do you think, Paramount? Should have gone off a couple of—”

BOOM!

Bultecki fell to the ground, Klyndun crouched, and Yozef appeared unfazed.

“I guess the fuses were a little off,” said Yozef loud enough for all the workers to hear. “Just shows you can’t be too careful. Okay, so let’s go see the result.”

Klyndun led the way, and Yozef touched Bultecki’s arm to signal the hetman to lag behind. When Klyndun was ten yards ahead, Yozef whispered to Bultecki, “I substituted longer-burning fuses just to reinforce that you can’t depend on anything .”

The dozen workers parted when Yozef and Bultecki got to the rock face.

“Worked,” Klyndun announced with a wide grin shared by most of the workers. A three-foot-deep, six-foot-diameter hole had been gouged into the rock. Surrounding rock showed new cracks.

“All right,” said Yozef, turning to the foreman of the tunneling crew and the surveyor chief, “Klyndun will help for another day or two. Let’s experiment with how many holes to drill and how many sticks of dynamite per hole. As soon as you’re satisfied, I leave it to you to finish this tunnel. I’ll come and inspect once you reach the other side.”

“It’s about fifty yards to the other side of this ridge,” said Bultecki. “How long do you think it will take them to get through?”

“I have no idea,” said Yozef. “I’ve never done this or read about it, so we won’t be able to estimate until we have an example. I picked this spot because it’s one of the shorter tunnels we’ll need.”

Bultecki shook his head. “I must admit I’m still trying to visualize this ‘train’ that moves along ‘rails,’” said Bultecki. “If it was anyone but you saying how it works, I don’t know if I’d believe them.”

“Don’t worry, Teresz. Something new is hard to envision for us all. Trust me that a year after the first train delivers Bultecki iron ore to the smelters we’re building in Pewitt and Stent provinces, you’ll have forgotten what it was like before trains.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Some things will never seem commonplace, especially for older Caedelli like myself. I think trains will be one of those things.”

Bultecki took another look at the hole made by the two dynamite sticks. “Do you have any idea when the first trains will be working?”

“I’m hoping for six months, but so many things could slow us down that it could take a year or even more. At least, we’ve got the roadbed finished, except for the tunnels, and most of the crossties and rails are being laid as we speak. Hardest will be the first few months. Narbor wood is strong, but the trains will wear on the rails something terrible. We’ll be constantly replacing them. It’ll improve once we start producing the steel caps to put on top of the wooden rails. Of course, once we have all-steel rails, most of the wear problems will go away.”

There were other problems that Yozef didn’t elaborate on. The “trains” would hardly have qualified as such on Earth. There was a practical limit to how large the horse teams could be and how much they could pull. The planned rail lines would also be much longer than would have been necessary with steam locomotives, in order to lower the grades for the horse teams. All-steel rails and steam engines were the final goal.

The complicated, interlocking nature of what he planned was an act of faith more than Yozef would admit to anyone, even Maera. The crude rail line between the huge iron ore deposits in Bultecki Province to extensive coal fields in Pewitt, Stent, and Swavebroke would be completed without assurances that the horse-drawn trains would work and before the steel mills in Pewitt and Stent were operational. It was parallel development, rather than serial. Rail lines, steam engines, and steel mills were all necessary to establish a true steel industry. Once the mills were operating, they would work to switch from bronze to breech-loading steel cannon, armor-plated warships, and so much more. Not all the development could be utilized on Caedellium, but the island would serve as a development center for Fuomon and any other allies that were identified and trusted.

Proceeding stepwise would have taken many more years than Yozef feared they had. Word had come from a Fuomi sloop picketing the seas north and east of Caedellium. A Narthani fleet of warships and troop transports had left the Narthani northern port of Ezarkin and was sailing south toward the Landolin continent. Eina Saisannin, the Fuomon ambassador to Caedellium, had speculated that the Narthani’s likely first target was Naskin, the northernmost of the Landolin kingdoms. However, the number of troop ships weren’t enough for a full-scale invasion, so Kivalian suggested that the Narthani intended to first establish a staging base—similar to what they had failed to do with Caedellium. No further information was known. It was good news and bad news; good because it meant the Narthani had bypassed Caedellium for now, but bad news because it confirmed Narthon’s expansion plans. If all of Landolin fell to the Narthon Empire, it would only be a matter of time before the Narthani turned their attention once again to Caedellium.

END OF BOOK 5

About the Author

Olan Thorensen is a pen name for a long-time science fiction fan (emphasis on “long”) who has jumped into independent publication with all its pitfalls and unknowns. He thinks all colors go together: clash, what clash? A fan of Dilbert, Non Sequitur, Peanuts (even if old strips), and still thinks the end of The Far Side was a tragedy. In his youth, Olan served in the US Special Forces (Vietnam:SOG). He has a PhD in Genetics, around 200 science publications as author and co-author, and is a Fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. The author lives in the Blue Ridge country of Virginia, and thinks it’s totally cool someone can read his stories and enjoy them. He loves fireflies, and thunderstorms, is eclectic in music, and thinks four seasons are better than one.

Please email any comments to olanthorensen@gmail.com or through the web site at olanthorensen.com where color maps of Anyar are available. He promises to read all emails, though he won’t be able to personally answer every one.

Reviews

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Acknowledgments

Thanks to my wife, Kathleen, for encouragement, tolerating my sequestering away for endless hours writing and revising, and for reading drafts. Thanks to Felicia Sullivan, Patricia Waldygo, and Julia Wilson for improving the book. Cover by Damonza.com.