Sunlord (30 page)

Capac and Myshia followed, then Shaun had pulled
himself up in a quick motion. He was in the process of lowering the
grill back down as the first of the Hartrias stumbled into the
room.

Ashian peered down through the holes in the grill,
seeing the Sunlords from a bird's eye view as they strode into a
defensive formation, their matt green battle armour reflecting
little light. The currach saw the power in their movements,
graceful and deadly like a lion striding through his domain. He saw
for a brief instant the back of one's gloved hand, a span that
would have been able to crush his head. On the back of the clenched
hand was a large claw that looked primitively effective.

Then the Sunlord looked upward, bringing its stout
rifle to bear as its computer spotted movement. A ripple passed
through the minds of those nearby as Myshia reached out with her
consciousness, her fingers running through the thoughts of the
solider. They entwined like waving seaweed about the piers of the
Sunlord's mind and with a sudden pull she tugged at the mind of the
Sunlord. With a scream the Hartrias fell to the ground, blood
flowing from his nose and ears.

Shaun winced - the echoes of Myshia's actions had
made his temples pulse with sudden migraine. He shuddered to think
of what the full force of the blow would feel like.

Myshia shook with the feeling of power that now
coursed through her body, slightly afraid of the new skill she was
beginning to master. She knew she was barely tapping the top of the
reservoir of potential in her mind.

They raced down the masses of tubes, Shaun's head
ducked low to avoid hitting it against the irregular roof. They
moved without talking or stopping. Their only goal was to get away,
and the fear of being rediscovered keeping their leaden limbs
moving.

Darkness began to close in slowly but surely, and
they felt a little relief in the shelter it gave. Ashian had the
telescope out again and was sighting along it to pick the best way
through the hot mechanical pipes and electrical cables.

Shaun called a halt, the low tones of the Federation
language conveying enough meaning for them to stop. Shaun had
noticed a duct leading upwards, a rail running up the side for the
service droids to attach to.

"Up here," he gestured in the semi-dark. He took the
lead as he led his native rescuers up several floors. As they moved
up all sound of pursuit died, and only the regular humming of
machinery dominated the surroundings.

He smiled to himself and shook his head musingly as
he climbed. Well I'll be damned, he thought. It seems like we've
made it away.

He stopped and opened up a sliding door leading to
another level running along the ceiling. He led his companions from
the narrow elevator duct and onto a level not unlike the one they
had just left. He knew they had to keep moving if they were to keep
the Hartrias off their back. At last having a second to collect his
thoughts Shaun withdrew the translator bug from the velcro sealed
pocket of his helicasuit. It was a delicate operation to feed the
tube down his ear channel until it met with the ear drum but Shaun
quickly had the ticklish procedure completed, the clamp-like
fasteners fixed about the flesh of his ear. The computer chip in
the translator could be programmed with four hundred languages and
was attuned to the wearer's body nuisances, projecting Shaun's
voice from the small speaker in an exact duplication of his tone -
except in the natives language.

"You keeping up back there?" he said, feeling
comfortable once more with the sensation of the bug in his ear.

"You can talk again!" grinned Ashian.

Shaun grinned. "I didn't get to thank you guys."

"Thank Myshia, she's the one who found you," returned
Ashian.

Shaun stopped abruptly and sat himself down on his
haunches. The ceiling was low here, so much so that he had to keep
his head bowed. "Is she alright?" he asked. He recalled the strange
sensation of Myshia's mind probing into his own. "She seemed a
little out of it back there..."

Myshia had emerged from the shadows, Shaun seeing
immediately how hollow her eyes looked. She forced a smile, but
Shaun saw she was in pain.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Myshia nodded. "I just feel a little woozy." As she
spoke Shaun distinctly felt some sort of probing in his conscious,
as if images were being forced before his mind's eye.

"You're telepathic," Shaun said abruptly.

Myshia shook her head savagely. "I don't know what
happened...in the heat of the moment it just seemed to
appear..."

Shaun saw her discomfort and realised they should be
moving on. Although Myshia's powers opened up a new dimension
regarding the natives of L/Cn-41a, he had more important concerns.
For one, he knew probe droids would not be long in the coming.
Second, he knew that if he were captured for a third time Avatar
would not let him go.

He broke off the chatter and lead his small band into
the unknown.

Chapter Eleven

League of Steel.

"Steps have been taken, a silent uproar,

Has unleashed the dogs of war,

You can't stop what has begun,

Signed, sealed, they deliver oblivion,

We all have a dark side, to say the least,

And dealing in death is the nature of the
beast."

- Pink Floyd: "The Dogs of War."

The blind old man strode through the ranks of milling
people queued up by the newly arrived carts, his long flowing cloak
billowing behind him.

Dark was falling and the fighters of the League of
Steel herded up in lines with empty bowls and empty stomachs,
waiting for their turn to be served. A team of horse drawn wagons
loaded with rice and soup had pulled up as nearby farmers lent a
hand to aid the League in any way they could. Some four hundred
currach sat around thirty different bonfires, huddled around
makeshift tents erected on the open plainlands.

The old man gazed eastwards, as if seeing something
in the distance with his milky white eyes. Perhaps he sensed
something, for at that moment deep in the heart of the forest, five
days trek away, a village was dying, and the Elder had breathed his
last breath upon Myshia's shoulder.

A cool wind blew upon Locantar's face, drawing his
mind back. He turned his head back to the ground and stepped
forward, his wrinkled visage showed no emotion. He moved easily and
without tripping on any obstacles, hood pulled over his head and
clouding his face in shadow. Anybody watching Locantar picking his
way carefully through the crowd could not have guessed that the old
man was blind.

A tall thin currach dressed in a dirty and torn tunic
surreptitiously merged with his path and spoke casually. He kept
his head diverted, as if spying something interesting on the
horizon, speaking without looking Locantar directly in the eye.

"I've heard reports that they're planning to make a
poison gas," the thin currach said.

Locantar nodded sagely, continuing along his path
towards the end of the soup-line. "I have heard that also. Rumour
has it that some bright spark chemist approached Shata with the
idea. The gas is simple to make and highly effective."

The other bowed his head, shadowing his face as he
spoke. "That is so. Shata-Bera loved the idea and has order
production be started immediately. The unwitting oaf!"

"Your words ring true, my friend. Never have
scientific studies been degraded so far to be used like this. If
our forebears knew what atrocious crimes are about to be committed
thanks to their work they would be horrified. We must stop this
project from going ahead - see to it."

The thin Currach pulled away into the shadows and
noise of the camp without further comment. Locantar knew that word
would be passed among his few confederates who worked for the cause
of Abas, and in covert meetings like this one, they would arrange
some sort of plan.

Locantar stood, leaning heavily upon his staff
feigning frailty. As he shuffled along the line he could feel the
growing sense of tiredness descend upon the camp for the day's
training had been hard.

Locantar too was tired. He had moved among the
trainees with waterbags and fresh fruit, laying his hand upon their
forehead and uttering a blessing. His efforts had had a remarkable
effect - a vast number of the soldiers had sensed the aura of power
and religion surrounding the old man, despite his dusty black cloak
and scuffed shoes. Many had simply sat there after their meeting,
staring into space, suddenly wondering if they were doing the right
thing in joining the League. It was the result Locantar had hoped
for; by reminding the Currach of their duties to Abas he could turn
them away from this pointless fighting.

But dealing with Shata-Bera was another thing. The
leader was a madman, driven into insanity by pain and emotional
grief. He was an impressive figure striding among the soldiers, his
shoulders square and his gait proud despite his slight limp.
Shata's face struck fear into other's hearts, his scarred visage
demon-like if any should invoke his wrath. He was the reason
Locantar hadn't drawn attention to himself and preached to the
masses. He wasn't ready for a confrontation with this blood thirsty
maniac. Locantar would have to bide his time, waiting for an
opportune moment in which to speak openly and form a procession of
currach to trek back to the city.

Five figures converged from the shadows, moving
swiftly through the crowd. The haggard farmers-cum-fighters quickly
stood aside as they recognised the crimson sash about the
newcomers' waists - a sign that these were Shata's bodyguards,
trained in forest craft and weapons by the leader himself. They
called the small select group of five currachs the Karita, and each
carried a long curved knife at his belt as token of their rank. The
army was not well established enough to have a ranking order as
such, but when the Karita spoke all listened.

The Karita were hand picked from the League and had
been undergoing training in the two weeks since they first arrived.
Shata-Bera knew that he had few fighters at his command, so had to
make up in skill for what he lacked in numbers. It was his plan to
teach the five Karita all he had learnt from K'iop. The Karita were
taught how to operate the Sunlord's machine guns and how to survive
in the forest, and in turn each of the Karita would each teach five
others, and so on until every member of the League knew as much as
he.

Locantar paused as he sensed the crowd opening up
around him. The old man stopped as a murmuring broke out.

"Hold it right there!"

Startled, Locantar stiffened as one of the Karita
leapt close and grabbed Locantar's upper arm in his grasp,
surprised at how firm the old man's muscle seemed to be under the
dirty black cloak.

The four other Karita converged and began to shepherd
Locantar towards Shata's tent.

"What is the meaning of this?" Locantar feigned
surprise, resisted weakly and flailing about with his cane. "I have
done nothing. Have you resorted to beating up old men?"

The watching crowd had grown, onlookers stopping and
staring open mouthed. One of the Karita quickly dispelled any of
the doubt surrounding their moves.

"You head an undercover network designed to uproot
the League. Shata will have no more of your slimy tongue."

This seemed to gain the crowd's support, and already
some were looking upon Locantar with scorn. The Karita wasted no
more time and dragged the old man, one each arm, towards Shata's
tent.

Locantar was calm and his breathing controlled. He
saw no point in resisting so followed the Karita's lead, although
his heart was filled with foreboding. Locantar wondered briefly how
Shata had found out of his movements. Probably one of his own had
told a little more than they intended, he mused dismissively.
Besides, that was the past - he had to look to the future.

As they moved through the camp the ground underfoot
became progressively rockier. Bedrock started appearing through the
hard-packed soil, pieces of strewn rubble making footing difficult.
Locantar knew they were approaching the side of the cliff face
where the ancient ruins lay. Shata had chosen to set his main tent
almost on top of the crumbling foundations of the ancient building.
Nobody knew much about the creators of the buildings, but it was
gathered that the prehistoric race must have existed many thousands
of years ago.

Locantar was carried further into the ruins and a
short time later was thrown at the foot of a large tent, his grip
loosening on his staff as he fell. He heard it clatter away, and
was just rising to his knees to search for it when Shata-Bera flung
aside the animal hide tent flap.

"So you are the deceiver," he cried in mock surprise.
"So good of you to join me, please come inside where we may
talk."

Locantar upturned his blind eyes, sensing instead of
seeing the horribly disfigured man, his face rippled along the
cheek and his right arm twisted uselessly to his chest.

Locantar flung back the hood of his cape in a quick
gesture, his milky white eyes meeting with Shata's blazing gaze. It
was only then that Shata realised Locantar was blind. He felt the
old man's stare bore a hole through his head, as if the other could
see something of great importance in the space where he saw
nothing. He shook off the feeling and grabbed his prisoner by the
scruff of the neck.

Locantar was surprised at Shata's strength, for he
had used only his left arm to propel the man inwards. Without his
staff Locantar seemed to be missing a part of himself for it had
backed his confidence and authority.

A small, bent figure strode from the shadows, barely
a metre tall and hunched over in shadows punctuated by two beady
eyes gleaming from the hood of the robe.