Khuldhar's War

By Leigh Kimmel

The war was over, but where was the peace the victors had promised? Geidliv the Tyrant was dead, and the rogue nation of Karmandios now lay in ruins, its people prostrate before the occupying armies of the five allied nations. But now the winners are quarreling among themselves, and where brothers fight, enemies will enter to widen the gap. Merekhet is a man torn between competing loyalties, tormented by guilt over his past failures. Raised the scion of a Karmandi noble family, he discovered upon puberty that he was in fact the son of a senior war commander of the telepathic People of the Hawk. Yet he could not entirely disavow his mother's people, and thus became entangled in Geidliv's regime and his nephew Khuldhar's doomed attempt to fight it. Now Merekhet has evidence that Geidliv used telepathy and the bioscience of the mer-people to create a living weapon from Khuldhar's genetic material and hid it in plain sight. Worse, a former ally now estranged is seeking that weapon, and must not be allowed to capture it, lest all the world of Okeanos fall to far greater tyranny than Geidliv could ever have hoped to create. Merekhet must regain Khuldhar's confidence, and together they must find the five young men who are the keys to Geidliv's final vengeance weapon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Starship Cat Press
• Release date: Apr 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215993026

Book preview

ONE

Nothing was evil in the beginning, not even a murderous tyrant like Alkhur Geidliv. To this precept we must firmly adhere, for if we succumb to the temptation to ascribe the crimes of his regime to some innate wickedness on his part, we risk regarding him as unique. If we perceive Geidliv as qualitatively different from ourselves, it becomes dangerously easy to relax our vigilance over our own choices. Down that path lies ruin.

—— Marshal Merkhatl sé Katollin, commencement address at the University of the Land of Vines at Baran-giliath, 1832 Civic Reckoning.

NARAGNIOS, BAHAYARN

Hawkish Occupation Zone

Occupied Karmandios

1832 CR, 5-month, 22-day

The memory of Alkhur Geidliv clung like a bad odor to the city of Naragnios. Here in the Palace of Justice and its administrative annex, it took on a malignant force so intense that even the triumphant Allied Nations having used the court facilities to try his worst henchmen had failed to dispell it. So long as these office blocks had been abuzz with clerical staff hard at work on the prosecution of Geidliv's surviving cronies, Merekhet had been able to shut out that accusing presence and concentrate upon his own work.

With all the big names of the Geidliv regime either convicted of war crimes or acquitted for want of hard evidence of overt acts, the Great Trials had wound down. Justice for lesser figures of the Geidliv regime, the functionaries who'd actually pulled the triggers and turned the valves, was being carried out by local tribunals all across occupied Karmandios, supervised by the local Occupation authority.

The resultant quiet left Merekhet with far too much time to dwell upon his own troubles. Even his efforts to make this barren space his own seemed to only remind him of the painful past.

Like most senior military officers he maintained an I-love-me wall, a space in which he hung mementos of his various career achievements. But his had to be carefully edited to present a particular image of himself, one that did not raise awkward questions.

For instance, take the framed photograph of himself standing in front of an old-fashioned cloth-covered biplane, taken back in the Dynastic War when he'd been a young fighter pilot. A naive viewer might think it sloppily composed, but in fact it had been subsequently cropped to remove the awkward presence of Alkhur Geidliv beside him. He had been Geidliv's flight instructor, and that day Geidliv had not only made his first flight, but also shot down his first enemy plane from that clumsy two-seat trainer.

He had the touch, when he wasn't hitting the sauce. Why did he have to get mixed up in politics and throw it all away?

Merekhet's gaze drifted to another photo, this one of himself in skiing gear, the craggy peaks of the Ilfanes Mountains in the background. The answer to his own question had haunted him for the last decade, and it was the biggest reason the atmosphere of this place troubled him so.

After the Dynastic War's end, when their squadron was disbanded and the pilots demobilized, Merekhet had invited Geidliv to come to the Hawklands and get proper training for his considerable telepathic gifts, talents that had been so critical in his success as a fighter pilot and ace.

But instead of escorting Geidliv and introducing him to his Hawkish family, Merekhet had satisfied himself with handing his former student a train ticket and a letter of introduction. Then Merekhet had gone off for a skiing trip, one that had turned into disaster. In the year and a half Merekhet had spent convalescing and rehabbing himself, Geidliv had discovered the Kreath party and gotten himself so thoroughly entangled in politics that there could be no dislodging him.

Merekhet looked back to his desk, made from an old door set across two half-height filing cabinets. Except that took his gaze straight to the framed photograph of his daughter Gazilda perched on the back of her first pony, a toy bow and arrow in her hands. Although she wore the riding habit of the lowland nobility of Karmandios, her posture belonged to the People of the Hawk, the proud warrior-telepaths of the high mountains, the nation whose uniform Merekhet now wore, having shed the Karmandi uniform he had worn as a double agent against Geidliv's regime.

And now I am failing her as badly as I did Geidliv.

No, Shandûr my brother.

The stern voice, reinforced by a mental touch, brought Merekhet out of his thoughts. Embarassed at how careless he had become about his barrier-discipline, Merekhet turned to face his Hawkish half-brother. He'd heard Logarindo would be coming up from Hawkish Occupation Headquarters in Mevedin for the celebration to mark the successful completion of the Great Trials. However, he hadn't expected a private visit, since the Commander of Hawkish Occupation Forces had many duties to keep him busy.

In Merekhet's small office with plywood for walls and a sound-baffle for a door, Logarindo overwhelmed the space. Tall even by Hawkish standards, he wore a black cherkessa, the long riding coat with its ornamental cartridge pockets across the chest that was a memory of their origins far from the Ilfanés Mountains where they now dwelled. The padded shoulders and flared skirts made him seem even larger and more impressive.

Merekhet noted the details of decoration that marked Logarindo as the Commander of the Hawkish Occupation Forces, even as his human side appreciated the complaints of the human Allies that Hawkish ranks were almost impossible to read. Not surprising when each regiment had its own pattern of insignia, even its own style of uniform. Merekhet's regiment, the Ghûlramin, wore a close-fitting jacket rather than the more typical cherkessa, and a helmet ornamented with a cowskull badge which recalled the high desert of another world, long ago.

Twenty years ago today, the sight of Logarindo's face had been the most welcome thing in all the world, but today the memory brought only pain.

Logarindo set a hand on Merekhet's shoulder, a firm grip that cut through the leather of his Ghûlramin uniform. Stop blaming yourself. Geidliv made his own decisions, and short of picking him up by the scruff of the neck and dragging him across the border, there's not a lot you could've done.

And I suppose you'll say Gazilda's making her own choices too.

The moment those words were out of Merekhet's mouth, he winced at how harsh they sounded. A lowland human might well have taken offense, but Logarindo's telepathy enabled him to perceive the fear that lay behind the words.

Even so, Merekhet felt naked to have his memories of arguments and ugly scenes laid bare. No matter how long he lived among the Hawks and spoke their language, his childhood among the lowland nobility had left its stamp upon his attitudes.

At least his aides stayed outside, the lowlander side of Merekhet's mind said, even as the Hawkish part knew that flimsy plywood was no barricade to telepathy.

When Logarindo spoke, there was no anger in tone or mind-touch, but neither was there pity. "Don't be too hard on her, or yourself. It's not easy, always being too something, and she's gotten a double dose of it."

Merekhet started to protest, what the heck does that mean? But even as the words came to him, he knew the answer. By raising her in both Hawkish and Karmandi society, he'd produced a situation in which she belonged in neither. Add on top of that the fact she'd been just a little to young to fight in the War...

The two of them were so deep in conversation that neither noticed the mail carrier until her unbarriered flare of embarrassment broke the rapport. Merekhet smiled to her, awkwardly aware of just how much she resembled Gazilda, for all that she was a Karmandi, one of the few locals to have been cleared to work in even these minimally sensitive areas and tasks.

She averted her eyes — blue rather than Hawkish hazel — and mumbled something as she pulled a letter from her mailbag. Merekhet's attention went straight to the stamp — a captured Karmandi one one with Geidliv's portrait overstamped with the pentacle emblem of the Allied Joint Occupation Authority. Ironic that the five-pointed star within a circle should be intended to represent the unity of the Five Powers, now that the Alliance was tearing itself apart.

However, the handwriting of the address brought thoughts less of politics and grand strategy than the private pain of a family divided by one failed effort after another to right a twenty-year-old blunder. Never mind what Logarindo might say about Geidliv and choices, Merekhet knew that if he'd handled matters differently with Geidliv, Khuldhar would never have been maimed in the desert war, and never would have decided tyrannicide was the only way to salvage the sacred honor of Karmandios.

Merekhet's thoughts went back to his childhood in old Castle Shaturinganios, where the Karmandi state of Sikav — a principality in those distant days, two wars ago — had bordered the Hawklands. Such had been the difference in age between himself and his human half-brothers that he was always closer to Avrain's sons, although even they were young for playmates to a lad on the threshold of puberty. Still, Merekhet could treasure the memories of Khuldhar as a merry lad so unlike the dark and driven young man with whom he'd parted after harsh words he'd never stopped regretting.

He turned back to Logarindo. You know I'll have to go to Baran-sikav and talk with Khuldhar's wife—

Tomorrow. Logarindo gave Merekhet's shoulder an open-handed thump, friendly for all it was hard enough to bring an ordinary man to his knees. Tonight there is the reception in honor of the Great Trials' end.

Logarindo didn't remark upon what the other Allied prosecution teams would say if Merekhet — or rather his Hawkish persona, Shandûr igel Tarantû — were not seen at it. Such things were not of pressing importance to Hawks, whose telepathy allowed them to see beyond appearances. Merekhet's own lowland childhood wouldn't let him forget it, for all he knew Logarindo was far more concerned that he had a moment to enjoy himself before heading off to deal with unpleasant family business.

MAIL WAS RUNNING LATE, so severely that it didn't arrive until the band was preparing to leave their transit quarters for the night's gig. Any other day it would've been little trouble, since they seldom received anything other than business correspondence, which the manager handled.

But today Lakhriv was expecting a package, a part for an amplifier that was giving him no end of trouble as the band's sound engineer. So he was delighted when the elderly man arrived with his sack of mail.

Lakhriv was not the only one, for the electroclavierist was pushing his hand forward to grab a cream-colored envelope. Hey, that's for me.

Except the manager grabbed the envelope from his hand. No, Khylas.

That is mine, Faern. Khylas Silphrad always addressed the manager by the diminutive of his forename, a considerable familiarity in Karmandi society.

I'll give it to you after the show. The manager used the tone one might with an unreasonable child. Right now we don't need problems when you need to be concentrating on your performance.

Khylas opened his mouth to argue, then closed it and made a sharp about-face to stalk straight out the door. He slammed it with a sharp bang.

Lakhriv stared at the door, the picture beside it which had been knocked awry. I've heard about musicians being druggies, but right before a show?

The manager shrugged. Khylas got messed up bad during the War. We think it's an attempted mindrip.

Lakhriv nodded in sympathy. When Geidliv was still in power, people spoke only in whispers about his telepathic powers. Now that he was dead, the horror stories circulated freely.

ANGRY AS KHYLAS WAS, he didn't go far. Just over to one of the demilitarized Army trucks in which the band traveled war-ravaged Karmandios. He squatted in its shade, glad of the protection from the burning rays of the White Sun.

There'd been no use arguing that Faern was being monstrously unfair. The simple truth remained that Khylas did have those weird slips of consciousness in which he'd go wandering about memories not his own. He had improved over the past year, to be certain, and no longer moved through a mental haze in which he needed prompting for all but the most basic necesities. But neither had he fully recovered, and when he did slip back into that odd state he could be useless to himself and others for half a day.

Still, he wanted that letter. The familiar-strange handwriting on it still made him long to know who had sent it. Might this person have the keys to his memories, the answers to the questions raised by things glimpsed in those moments when he was transported from himself?

Although he had become more in command of himself, there were still so many things he didn't understand, and the bits and fragments of memory which flashed into his mind only made his confusion worse.

For instance, there was the business of Karmandios as a whole lying under judgment, that as a Karmandi he ought to feel a measure of guilt for something, yet his memory could never offer anything to feel guilty for. And when he tried to ask, he got only angry accusations of pretending not to know.

But the rest of the band was coming to take off, so there was nothing to do but climb into the back of the truck and take his seat under its canvas. Time to focus on getting ready for the show. His fingers moved as if over the keys of his electroclav.

THE WHITE SUN HAD JUST disappeared beneath the horizon when the truck lurched to a stop. Khuris pulled back the cap with which he had shielded his eyes. The pale light of the Pilgrim Sun sufficed to illuminate the roadblock with its barricades and guardhouse. Beside the guardhouse hung the distinctive vertical standard with its black silhouette of a raptor stooping upon prey, the flag of the People of the Hawk.

We would have to catch one last checkpoint, right on the city limits.

Khuris slipped his hand into his pocket, alongside the falsified papers that enabled him to pass these checkpoints. His hand closed around the quartz crystal wrapped in an insulating cloth of fine muslin. A flick of his fingertips bared the mindstone and mental energy flowed.

Did he dare draw it out, use his growing telepathy fully? The city of Naragnios was garrisoned by the telepathic Hawks, who would know he was not drawing a weapon.

However, telepaths would also recognize the origin of this mindstone. Khuris did not relish the thought of explaining to a hostile occupation officer how he had come by Alkhur Geidliv's mindstone. Not when the leaders of all five Allied nations were still cursing their failure to take the man alive. Even thinking his name in the presence of telepaths could be dangerous.

No, best to re-wrap it. Khuris glared at the driver. You told me this way was clear.

Sweat ran down the old man's face. Please, it's new. I didn't know—

Shut up. Khuris eyeballed the distance to the stand of challa trees.

He might make it to cover, but if the guards saw him, they would know he had something to hide. He couldn't outrun bullets, or worse, overflame. Whereas his papers might well pass muster if he remained calm, kept his barriers firm but not so tight as to attract attention. Even Hawks couldn't mindscan every passing local.

Although the terms of the Occupation forbade Karmandi nationals to carry weapons, his fighting knife was designed to look like an ordinary workman's utility knife. Unless they had reason to handle it, even Hawks wouldn't notice the anomaly of its precise balance and heft.

The guardhouse door opened and out walked a pudgy man with clipboard in hand. Not a Hawk, not a telepath, just one of their Karmandi collaborators.

The driver pulled his identity papers from a clip on the sunshade, extended them through the opening where the side window should've been. The functionary looked the documents over, checked them against his clipboard.

He hooked a thumb at the cargo of fresh vegetables heaped to the side-boards of the truck bed. Sales permit? He spoke Karmandian with no Hawkish shrill to his vowels. Definitely a local collaborator.

Right there. The old man wagged his forefinger for the functionary to turn the page. Six-month vendor's permit for Naragnios, signed and sealed by Mandistrû zil Zulhandra himself.

A curt nod, a pucker of the lips — was he ever trying hard not to look impressed at having an old man casually drop the name of the commander of Naragnios' Occupation garrison. Probably wondering if it were a prelude to asking some favor contrary to the rules.

Looks all right. The official looked back inside the cab, straight at Khuris. Who's that with you?

Just a friend from back home. The old man laid on the peasant dialect a little too thick, until he sounded like a cheap actor.

Careful there, you'll make him more suspicious.

Hope he's got his papers too. The functionary looked back at his clipboard. We can't let every random farmhand come through on a friend's say-so, you know.

Khuris passed over his documents — not too fast, and not too hesitant either. Make it look casual, hope this drone wouldn't ask any questions.

The longer the functionary took examining each page of Khuris' falsified papers, the more nervous Khuris grew. Just getting back at the driver, or genuine suspicion?

Sweat ran down Khuris' forehead, but he didn't dare wipe it away. Too much chance that drone would notice, wonder why he should still be sweating after the White Sun had set. On the other hand, the air was still hot, with that muggy closeness that presaged a thunderstorm.

At length the functionary snapped the passbook closed and returned it. Your papers appear to be in order. Was there a hint of regret there, even resentment that they had given him no excuse to exercise his mite of authority? Khuris resolved to find another way out once his business here was done

The functionary waved and the barricade creaked upward to open the path. All right, you're set to go.

The driver eased out the throttle and the truck resumed its lurching progress along the road. Khuris closed his eyes in an effort to re-compose his thoughts. Even behind tight barriers, some thoughts were simply too dangerous to think, but it was futile to try to not-think them.

Better to concentrate upon things that would not raise suspicions. The minutiae of his information on the venue, the young man he was to contact.

Khylas Silphrad. A name cognate to his own, a tug at buried memories.

But there was much he'd learned to simply accept, ever since he'd awakened in the steel-and-glass cocoon, to be helped from it by Mykhor the Nix. Questions it was unwise to ask, memories he dared not pursue, for Geidliv destroyed those he suspected of disloyalty. Now that Geidliv was dead and Karmandios had fallen to the armies of the five Allied nations, that danger had only increased, for Khuris' service had gone from honorable to criminal.

And I don't even understand why, or dare to ask for an explanation.

Although he had originally planned to ride all the way to the market square, Khuris decided not to risk encountering further Hawks there.

Stop here. Khuris indicated a minor intersection.

The driver nodded, but it didn't matter. Even as he reached for the brake, the engine sputtered and died with an exhalation of smoke.

Khuris suppressed a smile of amusement. He couldn't have arranged more perfect cover if he'd tried. A casual observer would assume he'd gone for help. The old man raised the hood, from which poured more smoke and the acrid stench of burnt glycol.

Khuris' long legs put distance between himself and the breakdown. Here and there people looked out from the wreckage of their homes, but with only casual interest. He could hope none of them would recall his activities if the O-forces asked questions.

Even well away from that old shambles of a truck, smoke still hung in the air. Had he gotten it in his clothes, something to tip off a suspicious soldier?

Beside a broken door, a woman turned several skewers of meat cooking over an eight-sided firepot full of coals. You probably don't want to know what kind of meat those shashliki are. In the worst of the Siege of Baran-lidreth, people had hunted mice, after having eaten their dogs, cats and ferrets.

Ahead, the steel of new construction gleamed over the treetops. No doubt funded by the Allies. Union in particular had been quite generous with their Merkhatl Program money. They could afford to be generous, since their vast nation on the continent of Markanios far across the Sea of Darkness had remained untouched by the fighting. They handed their grants and loans out right and left to every collaborator and turncoat in sight, while those loyal Karmandi patriots who refused to sign an oath condemning Geidliv and the Kreath Party continued to live in ruins. Giras' words on the subject came easily to his lips

Careful, dangerous thoughts. Khuris quelled his anger. He would do Giras no favors by alerting Hawkish telepaths.

Twice Khuris glimpsed mounted Hawks, proud men like raptors given human form. Once he heard them before he saw them, the clatter of their horses' iron shoes loud on the cobblestones.

In a city where few street lamps worked, some people had set paper lanterns by their doors to provide a modicum of illumination. They became more frequent as ruins gave way to new construction. It should've given him cause to rejoice, except what Giras said about who got the money to rebuild.

Khuris was within blocks of his goal when a patrol of Hawkish warriors came down the cross street. He ducked into the recessed door of one of the buildings and listened for the clopping hooves to go on by.

...such a total idiot. Dumps all the crap on me and gives all the good stuff to Raida.

Gazilda, Agnor is your supervisor. You should have some respect for him.

The name tugged at buried memory. Khuris looked through the iron grille into a walled garden where two women sat at a small white table. The older woman had her back to Khuris, but he had a full view of the younger one, who was playing with a pet ferret.

I know her.

She wrinkled her nose and curled her upper lip. And therefore he's right by definition.

Gazilda, your attitude leaves much to be desired. Do not forget that your father has used many connections to get you a comfortable job at the hospital. If you really want to advance to a more responsible position, you need to pay your dues by working diligently at this one first.

Gazilda rolled her eyes. Mother—

That's quite enough, Gazilda. If I don't see a serious change in your attitude, you can anticipate some serious reductions in your privileges.

Gazilda's hand stopped in mid-stroke down the ferret's arched back. What kind of reductions?

I've been quite lenient about letting you go out with your friends—

But Suthukar is picking me up for the concert tonight—

I can always tell him that you will be staying home tonight.

Please, no. All trace of flippancy had vanished from Gazilda's demeanor. Not when he's taking me to Amontcor.

Amontcor? So she was going there too? Khylas realized that he had become so engrossed in this familiar-strange young woman's conversation that he had not even noticed the Hawks passing beyond earshot. Face warming with embarrassment at his lapse, he hurried onward.

He arrived at the Amontcor to the sounds of a band doing final sound checks. The big man at the door didn't even bother asking for papers, just took his money and waved him through. Of course it helped that he had Union money instead of Occupation scrip.

Inside, Khuris had to work his way through the crowd before he could find a table. A lot of the audience wore the uniforms of Allied officers, not surprising when they had the money. The rest would be collaborators— Best be careful about such hostile thoughts around telepaths.

Particularly considering he was surrounded not only by Hawks, but also by the elqui of Numindios and the mer-telepaths of Union, the freshwater Sei and marine Nixes. For that matter, there was a good chance human Unioners would have some measure of useable telepathy, given their potential-development programs.

Khuris settled on an unoccupied table near the back. If he could keep it that way, he wouldn't face the risks of making polite conversation.

To his right sat two men in Union-blue with the bars of junior officers' rank. One was human, but the other had the pointed ears and gill-slits of a Sa, one of those annoying telepathic merfolk. It took Khuris a moment to make the mental shift and understand the Condor-tongue, the binding language of Union's hundred-plus tribes.

...making a right regular mess.

And he claims to be a patriot. No mistaking the bitterness in the human's tone. If you ask me, Yikhanos myv-Kartholo's done more to undermine the Army's efficiency than any damage Geidliv's forces accomplished. Start off accusing President Ralathmon of setting the Fleet up for Kapé, and now he's seeing Qal-symps all over the government. He's having a grand time, pointing the big finger right, left and center.

Where had he heard the name myv-Kartholo? Khuris searched his brain, only to regret it when overwhelming memory poured into his mind:

Red velvet curtains covered the windows of the Caucus Room, in which the hearings were to be held, only amplifying the choking closeness of the atmosphere created by the severe crowding. Although only a few senior correspondents from Union's major news outlets had been permitted entry, and they kept strictly to their table on the far side of the room, clusters of emblemed microphones had been placed in strategic locations throughout the room. A whole cluster sat on the front table. Each seat at that table was marked with a brass nameplate on a holder of polished challa wood, but at this distance he couldn't read the delicate squiggles of the Condorish alphabet.

Eleven people took their places at that front table. Admiral Kiernoth nudged his elbow to indicate the one in the jacket of black velvet ornamented with silver trim over a pale-gray shirt edged in black. That's Senator myv-Kartholo. If he can't get us justice for Kapé, I don't know who can.

By sheer force of will Khuris beat back the vision. He couldn't afford to lose control while surrounded by enemies. And not a moment too soon, for the MC chose that moment to announce the band's first set.

Actually seeing them step up to their instruments shocked Khuris. No matter how many times Giras had described Khylas Silphrad, even shown him publicity photos, there still was nothing that could prepare him for seeing another man wearing his own face.

Once the initial shock passed, Khuris could see the small distinguishing marks — a freckle here, a tiny scar there. Yet all of them were but superficial changes rung upon the same bone structure, even the same basic patterns of expression.

Khuris' alarm rose again. Surely anyone who looked at him would wonder why he should bear such a close resemblance—

No, hasty action would ensure he attracted attention. Only patience would enable him to identify the most opportune moment to make contact.

At least this band was reasonably competent, although Grand Union music wasn't quite to Khuris' tastes. Not to mention that the audience was following the Union custom of whooping and stamping feet to amplify applause. Karmandian etiquette regarded such acts crude displays of disapproval, not applause. On consideration, was it so surprising that collaborators should adopt the barbaric habits of their conquerors?

The band was just finishing their set when a young woman grabbed his sleeve. Khuldhar!

Khuris looked up into the eyes of the woman he'd seen in the garden. Gazilda?

Beside her stood a young man in the uniform of a Hawkish hussar. No, Yakhel, it's just a chance resemblance. Your cousin couldn't possibly... Crowd noise obscured the rest.

Khuris never thought he'd have reason to feel grateful to a Hawk. Gratitude gave way to irritation when he realized the interruption had distracted him just long enough for the band to go backstage, leaving their instruments for the road crew to pack.

Khuris' efforts push his way through the crowd met resistance at every turn. The growing anger of the crowd quickly convinced him he'd do far better to go with the flow of traffic and catch the band outside.

He got out just in time to see the band members pile into a groundcar. He just managed to overhear the address the band leader told the driver, and then they were off.

Nothing to do but follow on foot, under the flashes of heat lightning that illuminated the clouds. By the time he trailed the band to a house not far away, Khuris was seething with frustration. Trust a simple mission to go sour. Every other one had—

Except he didn't dare think about them, not in a city full of Hawks. Concentrate on the present, on getting inside and contacting Khylas.

A burly man stood at the entrance. Khuris didn't even get up to him before his expression of bland professionalism turned into a scowl.

Private party. No admittance.

Khuris gave the human bulldog his best ingratiating smile. Please, a friend of mine is in there and I need to give him a message.

Sorry, buddy, if you ain't invited, you ain't getting in.

Khuris extended an open hand appeal. It'll only take a moment—

Rules is the rules. The big man poked a thick forefinger into Khylas' chest. You gonna leave, or do I call the cops?

Cops would mean Hawkish O-forces, or their collaborators. Either could involve a telepathic examination of his mind, something he could not afford. Khuris lowered his gaze, edged away. Better to try his luck elsewhere.

The tradesmen's entrance also had its guard. This one wielded a length of rubber hose with blatant eagerness to use it.

Khuris worked his way through the shrubbery. Maybe there'd be another way in, a basement door, or a window he could force.

Whoever hosted this party had been thorough. Damn professional of them, to lock every window.

Khuris' nose twitched. No, that acrid smell on the breeze was not just people cooking over makeshift firepots in the ruins. Not unless they were using some really dangerous fuels.

A flame licked along the sash of the window. Khylas' heart raced.

Should he wait outside, hope Khylas would have both sense and opportunity to escape? Should he smash a window, try to find his quarry in rooms and corridors that would soon fill with smoke?

A door banged. Out ran a tall figure.

That's Khylas. The inner tug of mental linkage only confirmed what his eyes told him.

Khuris bolted from the shrubbery. No time to worry about any guards.

A flash of motion in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned his head to see four men, swift and supple as weasels. Ordinary as their clothes might be, they could not conceal the truth visible in their muscles.

Memories welled up, of battles and atrocities in the southern deserts. The war against the Qal Hai, who had come very close to becoming a sixth Allied power.

As if the Council League weren't any less nasty, and those fastidious Unioners were still perfectly willing to hold their noses and call them allies.

Khuris' hand closed around for the hilt of his knife. Thank all the gods he'd insisted on taking it, even over Giras' objections. The blade slid from its sheath with a *snick*. Now he'd see if designing it to look like a workman's tool had compromised its balance.

The four Qal paused, faces illuminated by the flames. At an unspoken signal, they broke up. Two continued toward Khylas while the others turned, light as dancers on the balls of their feet.

Damnation. Khuris' gut knotted with dread. Two Qal Hai, alert to his presence — not good odds. He'd fought against two opponents at once, but only in practice with wooden knives.

The dance of lunge and feint stretched into infinity. Khuris called upon every trick of his banned order to confuse them, but succeeded only in keeping a hair ahead of the Qal. Already his energy was beginning to flag, just enough to make the difference.

Lightning flashed, now unshrouded by clouds. The bolt illuminated the tableau in blinding light, the firefighters training their hoses on the fire-engulfed house, the gathering crowd of rubberneckers indulging the monkey reflex.

A hot line of pain exploded down Khuris' arm. No time to tend his wound, not with both Qal pressing the advantage.

His only hope was a mental attack. He shifted his knife to his left hand, lunged, a desperate movement to distract their attention while his right grabbed his mindstone. His fingers closed around the facets and his mind opened. Need and pain-rage mingled within his nerves.

Static electricity crackled in the tree. From the clouds overhead dropped a stepped leader, the precursor of a lightning bolt.

Khuris drew it onto the electrical potential that rose from the tree. The circuit closed and seared the air. With a flash and smoke the trunk split its entire length. Fragments of bark rained upon the combatants.

The Qal stared wide-eyed at the riven tree. In that moment of respite Khuris drew out his hand and flashed his mindstone.

Dgherri! Dgherri! The word lashed out like a whip from the throats of both Qal at once.

Witchcraft. Khuris drew in a gasping breath, so harsh it burned all the way down. How could he have forgotten their superstitious dread of all mental powers?

He seized the advantage, plunged his knife deep into the gut of the closer Qal and jerked upward with all his strength. The Qal grunted, an animal sound of pain.

For a terrifying moment Khuris feared that his blade had embedded itself in the bone of the Qal's ribs. It slid free on a lubrication of blood even as the Qal sagged to his knees.

Now for the other one. Khuris turned, only to see the retreating back of his former opponent.

That left two, and Khylas to retrieve. Khuris scanned the area, saw a second Qal sprawled on the ground, a knife protruding from his chest. The fourth Qal must have fled as well.

Damn, but he wished he had a pistol so he could put a few holes in their retreating backs. He'd like the insurance that they wouldn't recover their courage and come back for a grudge match.

Where was Khylas?

The immediate danger over, the adrenaline faded from Khuris' bloodstream and with it the energy that had enabled him to keep fighting. Memories welled up within his mind, overflowed against the barriers that protected him from becoming lost in the past. Images rushed in:

The desert stank with burned hydrocarbons and the sickly-sweet fecal odor of death. Amidst the charred wreckage of a halftrack fluttered the tatters of a flag. The emblem of the crossed chain and impaling stake upon it remained recognizable.

*Flip*

The bombers had come again, raining death and destruction from the sky. From the rubble of a collapsed building came the thin wail of a trapped child. Even as the would-be rescuers dug, the cry faltered, grew fainter. An arm jutted from under a slab of concrete that had ripped itself free of a building to come crashing down upon a crowd of people leaving a bomb shelter.

*Flip*

It's blood loss. Khuris fought the intrusive other-memory back.

His determination held for a moment, then failed:

He bounced about in the back seat of a groundcar. The driver sped through the crumbling ruins and only bothered to dodge the actual bomb craters. Beside him the old man grumbled that all Union soldiers drove like maniacs.

*Flip*

Bullets whizzed past his head. He shouted orders to his troops. A detached bit of his mind found that possessive amusing. Another wailed that continuing to pose as their officer would end in his betrayal.

*Flip*

The plane had already made one pass, spreading death and devastation. As he struggled to help his aide from the wreckage of his staff car, it made a second pass. He looked up at the emblem painted upon the rudder — the crossed chain and impaling stake. The pilot opened fire and there was only blackness and burning pain.

*Flip*

I have to fight this down. Khuris gasped against the rising panic. If I don't get these cuts treated, I'll bleed to death.

He groped for something to bind his bleeding ribs. The images rose again:

With the eyes of a child he looked up at one of Uncle Merekhet's friends. This one seemed human enough, except for the formidable claws on his webbed fingers. Uncle Merekhet explained that Gan was a Sa, one of the mer-people of the Markani Union.

*Flip*

The heat of the burning sands beat upon him. Nearby another officer cursed how the Qal Hai could ignore heat while Karmandi machinery broke down and soldiers collapsed from heat exhaustion, more casualties than from Qal bullets—

Desperate to break free, Khuris bit his lip, hard. The pain provided the necessary anchor to the present and the rush of unwelcome memories ceased.

Khuris had just finished dressing his wounds when the sound of hoofbeats approached. Hawks.

Down the street came two mounted hussars from the Naragnios garrison. Khuris knew better than to dismiss their swords and lances as antiquated, not when these men wielded mental powers that could devastate whole neighborhoods with purple overflame if fully unleashed.

They reined in their horses and surveyed the scene. Their gaze went straight to Khuris.

His first instinct was to barrier his mind. No, that would only arouse their suspicion. Even if he weren't already depleted, he could not hope to hold out against full-blooded Hawks. They would simply smash their way through and let their mindbirds tear away at his mind with beaks and talons. What a full mindrip left would barely be able to breathe without mechanical assistance.

The wind shifted to blow smoke from the burning house in their direction. The Hawks' mounts flared their nostrils and sidled.

Khuris tensed to take advantage of the distraction. Before he could move, weakness overcame him and his knees gave way. Khuris last thought before the blackness overcame him was that he couldn't afford to be captured, not by telepaths.

TWO

After five years of bitter struggle, the rogue state of Karmandios lies prostrate before us, her warmaking capacity crushed by the combined military might of the Allied nations. Alkhur Geidliv, instigator of these horrors, has reaped the full harvest of his crimes and died by his own hand.

Having attained our objective, we are tempted to relax our vigilance. Eighteen years ago we completed what we called the war to end all wars. We believed we had fought a crusade to defeat despotism and establish democracy once and for all. In our satisfaction we grew complacent and ignored Geidliv's threat until he became too powerful to dislodge, save by full-scale war. Will we permit that pattern to repeat itself by pretending that we have eliminated all threats to freedom by vanquishing Alkhur Geidliv?

Already the Qal Hai grow restless. They find it offensive that we dare dispute their enslavement of the peoples they overran while combating Geidliv's southern adventures. The question is no longer whether we will have another war, but how soon.

—— Marshal Daekhar Yakhashnariv's final briefing of Allied commanders prior to stepping down as supreme commander of allied forces, 1830 C.R.

BARAN-LIDRETH

Joint Allied Occupation Zone

Occupied Karmandios

1832 CR 5-month 23-day

The steady rhythm of the train rumbling its way to Baran-lidreth should've lulled Khylas to sleep. Yet he found only fitful slumber, full of nightmares. At every bump he would lurch to wakefulness, but only for a moment before he drifted asleep. Straight back to that place full of the screams of friends trapped by the flames, and of the guttural speech of men supple as weasels given human form, and as bloodthirsty.

Light on his face brought him fully awake. Khylas squinted and looked out the window of his compartment at the rising White Sun reflected on water. Which river would it be? The city of Baran-lidreth was almost completely surrounded by water, the Hithlivra River and its tributary the Shephran. But other rivers lay between Naragnios and Baran-lidreth, so the train might yet have a distance ahead of it.

More importantly, they had left the previous night's thunderstorm behind. Only a few clouds, small and fluffy, remained in the sky. The White Sun would burn away the last bits of rain-mist before the Pilgrim Sun rose, and the puddles along the railroad right-of-way wouldn't last much longer.

Khylas' jaw throbbed. He ran his fingers along the clotted-over gash and wished he could get it examined. Except a doctor would ask awkward questions about how he got it, and right now he did not want to deal with O-command.

Better to locate his former mentor, General ru-Lirth. The Hero of Lirth might have been disgraced by his role in Geidliv's rise to power, but he still had clout and a sharp mind.

Not to mention a house in Baran-lidreth, former capital of Karmandios. Khylas didn't think the Allies would have confiscated the property, especially since they had decided not to prosecute ru-Lirth in the Great Trials, and he had co-operated fully as a witness for the prosecution.

Buildings thrust over the tops of the trees just ahead. Although some remained in ruins, cranes moved girders into place on several under construction. A few had been completed, ugly crackerboxes of the sort that people were slapping together all over Karmandios, using money from Union's generous recovery program.

Speaking of Union, two of