John Dalmas - Homecoming

Or did he know orcish?

You could question other men, and their answers, verbal or sub verbal, told you what you needed to know. With a little mild torture, screening could be broken. But this man made no useful response unless he wanted to. When his joints were twisted and a hot iron pressed to his cheek, his only reaction was simple awareness.

He would spare him for now. Surely some use could be made of him, some advantage gained, and it might be best if he wasn’t damaged.

Though Draco didn’t recognize it, he was awed by Nils, was hesitant to torture or damage him further, and would not do so except under stress.

Even if he could make a pact with the tribes of Northmen, Draco reminded himself, the real danger was Ahmed, and only inside the City could he now match the Sudanese. Outside on the open plain the non-psi dog, with his sky chariot and its weapons, would frustrate and defeat any enemy. And the possibility of getting it from him by force or trickery seemed essentially zero.

Meanwhile Ahmed undoubtedly had some plan in motion aimed at forcing a showdown where his advantage would be decisive. Unquestionably that was why he’d used so few bullets on the Northmen; he was saving them to use nearer home. Psi eavesdroppers had reported that operations against the Northmen had been restricted to scattering their herds and stopping their forays onto the plain.

It was irksome to have no knowledge or even hint of what Ahmed planned. Secrets of importance were usually short-lived in the City; this one was remarkably well-kept. And without knowing at least something of it, counter-measures would be difficult to design. In a situation like this, the only defense was to take the offensive.

What he really needed was a sky chariot of his own.

With sudden resolve he got up and strode purposefully from his sanctum to a small chamber on the same floor. There on a table sat the radio of the star people. Beside it sat the officer assigned to monitor broadcasts. The effort had been of no value so far. Only one band could be monitored at a time, so the set was tuned mainly to Band D, which Chandra had used, with occasional brief scans of other bands.

“Out!” snapped Draco. “Wait in the hall.”

The man rose to attention, saluted, and closed the heavy door behind him when he left.

“Star ship! Star ship! This is the Lord Draco!”

The answer came promptly in a carefully neutral voice. “This is the star ship Phaeacia. Over.”

“I want to speak to your captain! At once!”

“Captain Uithoudt is in his quarters. I’ll call him.”

Draco drummed his fingers on the table, waiting.

“This is Captain Uithoudt. Over.”

Draco’s voice turned oily, like concentrated sulphuric acid. “Captain, I am sure you recall that I hold certain of your people in my dungeon. I believe you are fond of them. Certainly they are fond of you. They are so far unharmed. Their continued well-being is your responsibility.”

He paused for long seconds, letting his words sink in.

“I need your other sky chariot, the one called Beta. It should have all the guns you have, and all your… ammunition and grenades. You must be careful not to cheat me in this. When I am done with it, you can have it back. I will free your people to return it to you. You will land it tomorrow on a roof of the palace at the same hour as your previous landings. A large red flag will mark the correct roof. Do you have any questions?”

Controlled anger was apparent in the star man’s voice. “I can’t send Beta to you. Without it I can’t land to pick people up, or do anything else on the surface.”

“If you do not send it, with weapons, you will have no people to pick up.”

Again there was a pause, Ram Uithoudt’s this time, while Draco enjoyed the man’s dilemma. When the answer came, Ram’s voice was husky, the words hard and separate like footsteps. “Tomorrow at midday,” he said, “I will want to hear the voices of each of my people on this radio so I can know they are all right. I will want to talk with each of them at that time. Otherwise I will send down the Beta with weapons more powerful than grenades and automatic rifles, to show you what I can do to you. I’ll be listening at midday tomorrow.”

The broadcast signal cut abruptly. For seconds Draco sat staring at the set, his face flushed and scowling. Then he got up and strode from the chamber. The fool up there was wasting his bluff; he had no great weapons. And apparently, as he’d suspected, the man didn’t even realize his people were held by different factions.

The die was cast. Draco disliked caution. Now he had put things in the hands of fate, and fate almost always smiled at him. The star man would hear the voices of his people, all right. Two of them. He wouldn’t talk to them nor they to him, but he would hear their voices, clear and loud. That could be guaranteed. Perhaps afterward the man would be willing to bargain.

Ram sat back in the command seat, face drawn, staring at his knees. What else could he have done?

The orcs respected only power. But what would their response be? He felt in his guts that he’d never see the prisoners again, whether he gave up the Beta or not.

Tomorrow morning he’d call Nikko and insist she return to the ship. That would broaden his options. He could change his mind about Beta then without stranding her. If he had to lose the others, he at least would not have to leave her behind

Svarta fagren, sajflikk henne, trant i glumen for d’ lunna Yngling, far t’ tvillingarna pa befanningen a Kassi ty han villa aga jener.

Gryma Kassi, feg erovren,

Belsabubb han a sa hette, stamfar han a orkahodern.

Imperator, dojd va kjaaren, klov ijal a makti Jarnhann, huven ligganne i dyen hel svaadlent fra blori halsen.

Alste hon d’ makti kjampe, dravare a hennes far, han som stypte jatten Kassi.

Alste Ynglingen a villa riska livet, bli d’ nodi a befria ham fra Drcka

[The dark seeress, black-skinned beauty, yearned to hold again the calm-eyed

Youngling, sire of her twin infants by command of the Lord Kazi so that he would hold his genes.

Cruel Kazi, cowardly conqueror,

Beelzebub had been his byname, founder of the orcish armies.

Caesar, rotting by the reed fen, smote to death by mighty Ironhand, proud head resting in the muck now, sword’s length from his severed neck lay.

Yes she loved the mighty warrior, loved the man who’d slain her father, he who’d felled the ogre Kazi.

Loved the Youngling and was willing to risk death if that was needed to deliver him from Draco.]

From THE JARNHANN SAGA , Kumalo translation

Moshe the Cerberus was responsible for the security of all prisoners during his watch. Very personally responsible. Should one escape or suicide, Moshe’s punishment would be slow, excruciating, and terminal. So he disliked anything not routine and would not tolerate confusion. Confusion made it difficult to monitor thoughts and feelings-nearly impossible to read the subtler nuances.

When the Master was still alive, the danger of escape had been academic, and cerberus-dungeon captain-had been an envied job, comfortable and often enjoyable, while the hazard of prisoner suicide could be minimized by denying means and by monitoring.

During the present power struggle however, two attempts had been made to free men from Draco’s dungeon, and rumors of plots were heard almost weekly. Security had been tightened and drills held regularly.

The night watch had been on duty for only minutes when the signal whistle shrilled. It was no alarm, only a signal from the entry guard above, but the two guards at the foot of the stairwell quickly nocked arrows while others clattered out of the guard quarters with pikes or drawn swords.