William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

Richard had expressed no reaction to this, assuming all along that the Kazan would be no different that the Bantag or Merki, and Hazin had stepped past the issue as if sensing that there was no purpose in elaborating.

During the years of the civil war, the Order, as it was simply known, had served as assassins for all sides. Once there had been an attempt to wipe them out, an effort led by the grandsire of the current emperor, and he had paid the price, his death an object lesson. From the way Hazin had talked, Richard guessed that the Shiv numbered in the tens of thousands, and he wondered why the Kazan would allow such a strength, which could perhaps turn against them the way the Chin had against the Bantag in the last days of the Great War.

The conversations were strange, perplexing, as if Hazin was educating him to some purpose Richard could not divine.

They had talked thus for days, but today was different. Hazin had not come. Richard remained alone, wondering if something had changed.

In the evening he heard anxious whispered comments in the corridor outside his bolted door, then the swift scurrying of feet. From beyond the vent opening he soon heard someone speaking slowly, as if giving a speech. He made out the Bantag word for dead, “sata,” spoken solemnly, followed by an outcry, the high keening wail of their race when mourning.

Shortly afterward, he heard other angry voices, shouts, and then the sounds of fighting, grunts of pain, and the crack of gunfire. In the corridor outside he heard more voices, the sound of someone struggling, as if being forced or dragged down the corridor, and a door slamming shut. He had drifted off to sleep then and was startled awake by the sharp report of a gunshot followed by laughter.

When the door to his cell swung open, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Had Hazin merely been toying with him? Was someone coming with a gun to finish it?

He was surprised, and relieved, to see that it was Hazin. An entourage of half a dozen Shiv and several of Hazin’s own race followed behind him. Hazin motioned for them to wait and then closed the door so that the two were alone.

“You are intelligent enough to realize that something is happening here,” Hazin said, and Richard saw a look in his eyes of excitement, of satisfaction.

“It is kind of hard to sleep when there is shooting going on in the room next to you.”

Hazin laughed. “His name was Dalmata. A rival, or should I say, a former rival.”

Again the satisfaction was evident.

“My congratulations, then,” Richard offered. “Was it ordered by the Grand Master?”

Hazin smiled. “I am the Grand Master now.”

You killed him, didn’t you? Richard thought.

“Yes. I, shall we say, arranged it,” he said in English. “Why are you telling me this?” Richard asked, and he realized that there was a touch of fear in his heart.

Hazin laughed. “Perhaps because I have to tell someone, ahd it might as well be you. That is the problem with such triumphs. There can never be an audience, never someone to share the moment with. In my world such victories are achieved alone and celebrated alone.”

At that instant Richard found an answer to a question that had bedeviled him ever since he had met Hazin. Why was he being spared? Was it just sadistic amusement or was there another purpose?

Hazin went over to the single chair in the room. A chair sized for a human, so he seemed almost absurd sitting in it. “I was born of the lowest caste,” Hazin said. “Every step has been a clawing upward. You, Cromwell, understand that better than most, saddled as you are with the name of a traitor. When I was first told who you were I was intrigued. Why would the son of a traitor wear the uniform of the nation his father had turned against? Why as well would such a nation trust you? It was an interesting skein to unravel, a diversion, even, from the more weighty concerns I was struggling with.”

Richard bristled slightly at being referred to as “a diversion,” but said nothing, curious to hear what Hazin would reveal.

“I sensed that you more than some might actually be worthy of conversation, and you’ve proven that. In fact, Richard Cromwell, you even have, as best as I can offer it, my respect.”

Startled, Richard said nothing. He had learned enough of Hazin to loathe him. Hazin was remorseless, cunning, casually brutal in the way he spoke of assassinating an emperor he had served for nearly twenty years. Yet what was disturbing was that Richard found him interesting, almost appealing. His intellect, his curiosity to know more about the world, and even, no matter how twisted, his dream of ending the conflict between humans and the Horde.

“The guards outside are waiting for you, Cromwell.”

“For what? My execution?”

“No. Your escape.”

Richard shook his head and laughed. “I try to escape and then they kill me. Even if I did escape, where would I go? How far am I from Republic territory?”

“One of my navigators will discuss that with you.”

“I’m not sure I understand you.”

“I’m letting you go, Cromwell, so that you can go back to your Republic.”

Richard was tempted to scoff, but a look at Hazin’s eyes made him realize that the new Grand Master was in deadly earnest.

Stunned, Richard stood up from his cot. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“Call it a gesture.”

“For what? Am I to go back with some message? Is that it?”

“No. I have no message for your Republic.” Hazin shook his head. “Oh, if they should decide to offer submission, removal of their government to be replaced by those whom I choose to rule, that would be acceptable.”

“You know that will never happen.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“After what my people went through in the last war, they will not tamely submit, especially to one of your race.”

“Your forthrightness is a trait I find interesting in a world where such things usually bring an untimely end. Your words might actually have just changed my mind. I could have you killed instead.”

Richard stared at him coldly.

“Actually, Cromwell, what I might offer could be the only way out in the end. Is your race ready to fight a genocidal war? To hunt down every last one of mine and kill them? I don’t think you have the stomach for it. Your Keane showed charity against a hated foe. I heard the story of how Schuder saved the Bantag Qar Qarth’s life. You realize that you would have to slaughter every last one of the Bantag, even the abject Tugars, though I daresay that you might actually derive a certain pleasure from seeing all the Merki put to death.”

Richard shifted uncomfortably, for there was a kernel of truth in Hazin’s words. His observations always seemed to reach straight to the heart of the matter.

“If you are letting me go, there must be a reason. I don’t suspect that you have any feelings of friendship, especially to one of my race.”

“No. I’ve never had a friend, Cromwell, I’ve never touched love, I never had desire for a mate. Always my focus was elsewhere. Some might think that a pity, but I can at times be moved to a certain admiration, and that you have earned. It wasn’t just the foolish sentimental display of trying to protect your hapless friend. Rather, it was the coldness when faced with pain and death.

“You were born to that and learned to shield yourself with it, yet ultimately it never fully hardened you. You could, in fact, be noble, purely for the reason that you feel that it is right and proper to be that way.”

Looking at Hazin, Richard almost felt a brief instant of pity. His voice held a note of loneliness that was disturbing.

“The old Grand Master of your order. He was your teacher, your instructor, wasn’t he?”