Of Wolves and Eagles, Part I Starsiege: Tribes Fiction by David R. Meddish "Look at them," Darvis said, waving his knife in the general direction of several newbloods testing out their new Peltast armor. The four of them were attempting to "skim," a tricky maneuver using the armor’s jump jets to move rapidly just inches off the ground. "You’d think they were children running around the campfire the way they’re acting." "Oh, I can remember a time not so long ago, when you were like a child running around the campfire, playing with your new armor," Old Tyr said, seated upon a rock and scraping his knife methodically along a whetstone "That was ages ago, whitehair," "Really? Seems like only yesterday? Well, when you get to be my age, your memory starts to fail you." "Tyr, when I get to be your age, I’ll need other people to chew my food for me." "Respect your elders, pup," Old Tyr said gruffly, but with a chuckle. His smile exposed the deep lines along his face, and his blue eyes shone brightly in the sunshine, brighter than the now-faded cobalt of the Starwolf markings over his right eye. Darvis allowed a smile to creep along his battle-scarred face, but only briefly. The last thing Darvis wanted was for his charges to see him happy. The amalgam of dread and admiration he inspired kept the newbloods sharp and eager to please; perfect soldiers. "There are six of us, including these four newbloods, expected to hold this position against a superior force of those scrof-eating Blood Eagle. I’d like it if we had reinforcements, or more experienced forces, or at least something a little heavier than this Peltast armor." "Do my ears deceive me?" Tyr asked. He ran a thumb across the blade of his knife, and upon expressing a grunt of satisfaction, sheathed it. "Can the great Talonslayer M’Klannin, Great Sergeant of the First Claw, veteran of a hundred campaigns, be afraid of a few scavenging vultures?" This time Darvis smiled in earnest. "Hardly, old friend. By Harabec, If it was just we two, I’d go up against the best the Wolfslayer Talon had to offer. But I’ve got these four pups to deal with." "A Great Sergeant must be many things, Darvis. Warrior, fighter, leader, and, when need be, mother," Tyr said. "Well, I suppose it’s better than being an Overseer of the Claw, getting soft and lazy plotting attacks from orbit." Darvis replaced his knife in its scabbard and sat next to Old Tyr on the rocky ground. The four newbloods—Karel, Uthil, Perdan and Corbin—were showing that they were actually quite adept at skimming. It was a tricky maneuver that required extremely precise and short blasts from the backpack jets. One error could result in a sprained ankle or torn-up knee. "We’re not that soft, pup." Old Tyr said, tying his long white hair into a braid before tucking it inside his armor. "We still like to mix it up once in a while, before the Great Wolf comes for us in our beds." "At this rate, we shall all die in our beds before any Blood Eagle arrive." "There are worse fates. I would not worry, Darvis. I am fairly certain that the Blood Eagle shall be coming to visit us soon enough." Cryptic as ever, old friend? Darvis thought. The Overseers, the battle-planners and master tacticians, were notably mysterious and stingy with information. It was a maddening trait if you were an intermediary, such as a Great Sergeant. "Well, I am glad you are here today, my friend. It has been too long since we went into battle together." "Too long," Tyr said. "Tell me, have you ever been to Hepta Ourubis II before?" "Here?" Darvis stared out across the pitted landscape. For as far as he could see, it looked like a mined-out quarry, all rocky crags and barren plains, pitted with craters and winding canyons. When the sun reached mid-day, which would be soon enough, the heat and thin atmosphere made it feel like you were in the ovens of hell itself. And the air was still and sterile. Normally, after spending weeks or months on dropships and breathing recycled air, Darvis couldn’t wait to breathe actual air. Here, he wished he was back on the dropship. "Can’t say that I have." "Our pack used to live here, when I was about the age of these pups. We lived in a valley about a dozen clicks north of here." Tyr stood and passed his hand across the horizon. "There used to be forests as far as the eye could see. Ancient forests, older than the tribes. I can remember, looking out over the land in the morning after the sun had risen…and there was this engulfing silence. Absolute silence. Nothing made noise. After spending three straight years in battle with the Blood Eagle, the silence of nature was something to behold. "And you could smell the trees, and the flowers, the scent floating in the breeze. Gods, to smell those trees once more! I remember thinking that when the Great Wolf came for me, there was no place I would rather die than here." A look of great sadness passed across Tyr’s face, and he sat back down beside Darvis. He took a swig of water from his canteen to wash away the dust that coated his mouth. "Now I can think of no place I would rather not die." "It sounds like this was a good place, once." "The Blood Eagle used an ecospheric contaminant, damn their miserable souls. Just to kill one woman, they destroyed an entire planet and the few remaining claws of the Ourubis Pack," Tyr swore. "Damn them, damn them all." For a time, the two friends silently watched the newbloods in their youthful playfulness. Like young lions, what they learned in play would be put to test when the time to kill came. "Your oldest is about their age, isn’t she?" Tyr asked? "Just about. She’s training with the Fourth Claw with her mother somewhere in the Priam system, I think." "When did she get that old, Darvis?" "Gods, when did we get that old?" Darvis said, laughing. "I can remember holding her in my arms after she was born, such a tiny thing." "I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got a child of her own by now." A gentle beeping from Darvis’s helmet broke the brief melancholy reverie. Quickly, Darvis put it on and activated the armor’s HUD. "Looks like you were right about the Blood Eagle showing up, old friend. Proximity alarm, 277 degrees. Just about due west." Darvis removed his helmet, stood and whistled to his young charges, who rapidly lined up before him: Corbin and Uthil, the twin brothers, black hair plastered to their foreheads. They were the children of Parthian Greyne, a legend among the Freidan’s Nebula Pack. She was one of the finest shots with a plasma rifle Darvis had ever seen, and if her children shared that aptitude, they would be fortunate indeed. Perdan, the eldest, stood well over two meters, gaunt and sunken-cheeked, almost unhealthy in appearance. He could be sullen even in the best of times, much like his father, and had yet to master the finer arts of marksmanship, but with a sword in his hand and with his long-armed reach, he was an awesome hand-to-hand combatant. Then there was Karel, the standout in many ways. The lone female of the unit, Her hair was long and coppery compared to the close-cropped black of her comrades, and even in her armor she only stood about one meter six. But she possessed a willowy grace uncommon in one of her height, and she took to battle-teachings like a veteran. Darvis saw great promise in her, and had already made her his second. "We have visitors, newbloods; The Blood Eagle have come to taste our marrow. They are expecting nothing but token resistance on their way to victory. But we shall have a surprise for them, neh?" Darvis began, pacing in front of his charges. "They think we will just roll over and let them slaughter us in our sleep. The think they can simply take this planet, our planet, and turn it into scrof, and we will just smile about it! They think wrong!" One by one, Darvis brought his face to within centimeters of each of the newbloods. They did not shrink, or blink, or wipe the spittle from their faces, as they had in the past. "Our brethren cry out for justice from the grave. Let our actions speak as their voice! By the Great Wolf, these damned Blood Eagle shall know that they faced the Starwolf this day, and they shall be dispatched straight to hell!" Darvis stepped back and brought his voice low, almost to a whisper, soft enough to hear the pounding hearts of his young charges. "Just as the hammer and forge are used to create the weapon, so to shall you become the instrument, the weapon of destruction. You shall be put to the fire this day, and some of you shall gain your battle name. Others may fall to walk with the Great Wolf. But, by Harabec and Jonssen, these vultures shall know that they faced the First Claw this day!" "Are you ready?" Darvis shouted. "Yes Great Sergeant!" came the deafening shout. "Good. Very good. Perdan, take the point. Heading 277. We have Blood Eagle to kill. Move out!" * * * * * * "There’s only three of ‘em" Uthil whispered over the commnet. Only three, Darvis repeated mentally, rolling his eyes. Peeking over the rim of the canyon wall, he could make out three Blood Eagle in Myrmidons, ambling down the floor of the canyon, sunlight glinting off their polished red-and-gold armor, decorated with freshly painted Blood Eagle symbols. They all carried Stormhammer hypervelocity cannons, explosive spinfusor disks held in their magnetic grips. Each footfall stirred up a miniature explosion of dust. Just one of these behemoths carried enough firepower equal to a full squad in Peltasts or Hoplites. But the Wolves were only six, with four newbloods in their number, and only he and Karel were carrying Stormhammers, one of the few weapons capable of dealing heavy damage to such armor. Darvis switched his commnet over to a private channel between him and Tyr. "What do you think, Tyr?" Darvis asked. "I don’t think Harabec himself would take these odds." "Not exactly in our favor, are they, neh?" "That would qualify as an understatement." Behind his faceplate, Darvis quietly scowled. The easiest thing to do would play hit-and-run, sniping and falling back, he thought. They could tie them up indefinitely, perhaps long enough to get reinforcements. If there were reinforcements. If the Blood Eagle hadn’t already overrun any other positions. If they only had heavier armaments. If their forces were spread so thin that newbloods had to be pressed into service. Too damn many ifs. "If we are going to stop them, it’s going to have to be here, or we might as well escort them into our base," Tyr said dryly. "Then we stop them here," Darvis replied, switching back over to the common frequency. "Karel, come here," he said, and the young newblood scuttled over to his position. "Yes, Great Sergeant?" "What do you know about Myrmidon armor?" Darvis asked her. "It gives as good as it gets, but it’s slower’n scrof." "Weak points?" "Myrmidon doesn’t have any." "No, it’s got weak points all right. Everybody, listen up and listen up now. Myrmidon armor is weakest at the joints. Karel, see that gap where the helmet meets the shoulders?" "Yes," Karel answered. "You put a Stormhammer round in there perfectly and…well, have you ever taken a carbohol can, shaken it up and shot it?" "Uh huh." "It looks something like that." "You’d have to get mighty close to hit that weak point, Great Sergeant." "That’s the plan. Can you do it?" "Do the Blood Eagle eat dirt?" Hidden behind his faceplate, Darvis smiled. "Good. This is the plan. Karel and I will jump to the opposite side of the canyon and draw their fire. Once we’ve done that, you four will open fire with your plasma rifles. Once you get their attention, Karel and I will jump down to the canyon floor and give those Blood Eagle a proper Starwolf burial. Got me?" "Yes, Great Sergeant," came the reply in unison. "Good. On my mark, then." Slowly, the three Myrmidons made their way down the canyon, making no pains to disguise their coming. There was no noise, no sound, save for the gentle thumps of the Myrmidons footsteps in the thick dust of the canyon floor and the faint whine of their spinfusors. Wait for it, Darvis thought, timing each step taken by the Blood Eagle. He deactivated the safety on the Stormhammer and heard the reassuring magnetic hum as the explosive spinfusor disk slowly spun up to speed. He wiped his hand across his faceplate, trying to get as much of the clinging dust off as possible. Karel wisely did the same. "Now!" Darvis cried, and he and Karel burst from cover, pushing their jump jets to maximum output. Each let a Stormhammer fly, and both found their mark, striking a Blood Eagle full on. The Myrmidon armor held easily. The Eagle let fly with Stormhammer volleys of their own, but they were firing at moving targets and into the sun, and their shots were far wide. As Darvis and Karel landed on the opposite side of the canyon, Tyr and his charges opened fire on the Blood Eagle with their Dragonsbreath rifles, spitting yellow-orange balls of plasma at the Myrmidons, sizzling and spattering like meat on the skillet. Most shots were wide, but those that struck did do damage, burning brightly against the armor of the giants for a few brief seconds, leaving ashen sear marks on the brightly-polished metal. The Myrmidons turned towards their new targets and began gouging out great chunks of earth with their Stormhammers, quickly reducing the cover available to the now-pinned Starwolf, hoping to flush them. Darvis waited anxiously during the few seconds it took to jump packs to recharge, observing the carnage below. Typical Blood Eagle strategy—if brute force doesn’t solve your problems, you’re not using enough. Seconds would determine the fate of his people, and those were seconds he could not spend waiting for the jump packs to recharge. His HUD showed them charged to fifty percent—that would have to be good enough. He leapt, letting gravity take him to the canyon floor. Just before impact, he turned the jets on full-force, absorbing much of the momentum, but not all. He landed on his feet, but hard. Something in his right ankle gave, but he still stood. Karel landed far harder, and Darvis heard the sharp crack of breaking bone, but to the newblood’s credit she did not fall. The nearest Blood Eagle turned to face them, not more than ten paces away. Quickly, but with precision born of a lifetime of practice, Darvis put a Stormhammer round right under his chin. Indeed, the effect was just like shooting a shaken carbahol can. The Blood Eagle’s helmet, with his head still in it, landed a good hundred meters away, the body toppling to the canyon floor, twitching ever so slightly. The remaining Blood Eagle now turned to face them. Karel tried to mimic Darvis, but her aim was low, hitting her target full in the chest—a crippling blow, but not fatal. The Eagle responded with a Stormhammer round of his own, and Karel, standing on one good leg, could not evade it. The blast sent her body flying, bouncing twice across the canyon floor before it came to rest in a heap some meters away. Let that be your final act, dirt-spawn, Darvis swore, and unleashed a second Stormhammer round that finished off the Myrmidon. That left one final Blood Eagle. Darvis discarded the Stormhammer and reached for his "slug-spitter," the old-fashioned Rolling Thunder chain gun holstered across his back. A quick blast from his jump pack enabled him to evade a spinfusor round that left a wide crater where he had stood a half-second before. Darvis began pumping shot after shot into the Myrmidon, timing the recharge rate for the Stormhammer. He continued to swerve and juke left and right, "hopping," using the jump packs for short burst into the air over the Blood Eagle, continuing to rain fire upon the Myrmidon. Like trying to catch a chicken, Tyr had once taught him, that’s how to beat the heavy armors. As his ammo count drew low, the giant finally fell; his once-pristine armor now riddled with bullet holes and scorches. The soldier inside struggled in vain to fight on, but the weight of his armor now worked against him, and he could not bring his gun up to fire another shot. "Surrender or die, Eagle. The choice is yours," Darvis hissed at him, bringing his chain gun under his foe’s chin. After a few seconds, the Eagle surprisingly decided upon surrender, slowly removing his armor to the accompaniment of pneumatic hisses. Tyr and the newbloods came down from the canyon wall to guard the dismantling Eagle while Darvis went over to the broken body of Karel. The armor was totally destroyed; unsalvageable. The dry ground had hungrily absorbed all the blood, leaving a rust-colored stain around the corpse. What had once been a young woman with a promising future was little more than a pile of gore. You earned your battle name today, Darvis thought, and I shall see that at the next gathering, all the Starwolf know your name, and of your deeds this day, and you shall walk with the Great Wolf forever. The Blood Eagle, now surrounded, now stood naked, his armor in pieces around him. He was tall, lanky, and looked surprisingly young to be entrusted with armor of this value. Over his right eye was the despised red-and-gold tattoo of the Blood Eagle tribe, the sweeping eagle design still crisp and new. "How many more Myrmidons do you have here?" Darvis asked in Tribal standard. The Eagle stood stoically, unanswering. "How many people do you have stationed here? Where is your base of operations." "It’s bad enough he surrendered," Tyr said. "To be captured by an enemy is the worst thing that can happen to a Blood Eagle. He’d rather die than talk now." "That can be arranged," Darvis said, and in one swift motion, brought his knife under the chin of the soldier, forcing him to stand on tiptoe, and brought his face within centimeters of Blood Eagle, eyes narrowed, displaying just a hint of anger. "Go back to your people. Tell them what has happened here. You tell them who defeated you. You tell them that you were defeated by four newbloods. You tell them that this planet belongs to the Starwolf, and that those who oppose us will only find death. We shall fall upon you with the power and fury of the Great Wolf himself, leaving nothing of your people but carrion for the scavengers. I, Talonslayer M’Klannin, Great Sergeant of the First Claw of the Ourubis Pack promise you this." In one brutally quick motion, Darvis pulled the knife away, then extended the razor-sharp "wolf’s-claws" from the fingertips of his armor and swept them across the face of the prisoner, leaving deep gouges through the Blood Eagle tattoo. The Eagle gasped and fell to his knees. Let these scars be a reminder, mendicant, that you live because I let you, because it serves my purpose. For that reason alone, you live. Darvis gave the Eagle a swift kick in the ribs, eliciting another cry from his naked foe. "Run, now, unless you want another taste of my mercy." Gasping, the Eagle stood and began a staggering run, back to whence he had come. "They’ll be back," Tyr said to him, quietly. "Let them come," Darvis responded, loud enough for the three newbloods to hear. "By Harabec, we just destroyed three Blood Eagle in heavy battle armor with little more than sticks and rocks. The Great Wolf himself watches over us this day." While Tyr and the newbloods began stripping the dead Eagle of their valuable Myrmidon armor, Darvis returned to Karel’s corpse. Custom dictated a lengthy funeral process, but that required time and that they did not have. Forgive me, Karel, he thought, taking a Dragonsbreath and powering it up, but I lack the words of a shaman, and I will not allow your bones to be desecrated upon a Blood Eagle banner. "Go with the Great Wolf, Little Fang," Darvis whispered, and with one shot from the plasma rifle, set the body ablaze. For a time, the air was filled with the scent of charred flesh and ozone until the dry, unforgiving winds of the late afternoon blew them away, leaving the taste of dust in their mouths once more. "An impressive victory," Tyr said as they walked back to their encampment, loaded down with salvage from their victory. The sun had set, and the oppressive heat would soon be replaced with bitter cold. Already, stars were appearing in the evening sky. "We were fortunate." "Yes," Tyr said, letting the single word hang for aching seconds. "So, Overseer, what does this mean?" "It could mean nothing. Or everything." "Tyr, are you planning on becoming a shaman, or do you simply enjoy talking in riddles now?" "I am sorry, old friend. Today was but a microcosm of the greater battle. It could be a harbinger of things to come, or, simply an aberration. I do not know." "Why are we fighting here, Tyr? Why are we fighting for a dead world?" "It’s what we do," Tyr replied, looking skyward at foreign constellations, suns with names long since forgotten. "It’s what we do." Of Wolves and Eagles, Part II Starsiege Tribes Fiction by David R. Meddish "You let him live, my liege?" Rulan asked. Jirard sighed as he clasped his cape to his silvery epaulets. Rulan was an effective aide-de-camp, but the finer points of managing an army eluded him. "His shame—and those scars—should spur him to do better next time." "Captain Rilius would have had him executed before a general assembly of the Talon." "Which is why Captain Rilius is always running short of troops. Mistakes will be made, and it is best to learn from them, not kill for them. My father used to say that." "I should point out, my liege, that Myrmidon armors are not that easy to come by." "And we lost what? Four, five of them? And how many of those mangy Starwolves did we ferret out and flay? Fifty, sixty? A good trade by my standards." "We killed a few scouting parties, that is all." "That’s all the Starwolf have is scouting parties. They are little more than an annoyance at this point." Jirard looked in a nearby mirror. The crimson cloth flowed like water from his shoulders over his brightly polished ceremonial armor, gleaming before the large mirror in his otherwise spartan quarters. Beneath the halogen lights, the silver armor gleamed like cobalt. "Tell me, Rulan, do you prefer the red or the black?" "Whatever you wish, sire," Rulan answered. "Matters of an aesthetic nature are not my strong suit." Jirard considered chastising his less-than-enthusiastic aide, but decided against it. He was not going to let the pessimistic attitude of Rulan get to him. "Harabec’s eyes, Rulan, too look and listen to you, you’d think we were losing this battle." "We have been unable to either pinpoint the Starwolf base or determine their number on this planet," Rulan replied dryly, "and our supplies are growing perilously low. In light of this information, or lack thereof, I merely advise caution, lest we leave ourselves open to the possibility of counterattack." Which is why you will never reach high rank in my Talon, Jirard thought, turning to look down on his aide. "Perhaps, someday, when you have actually killed in battle, you may give me advice on how to subjugate an enemy. Until then, do not presume otherwise." "Understood, sire." "Good. Now, what other news do you have for me?" Rulan returned to reading from his clipboard. "One last item: First Sergeant Amacor reports he is having trouble with raiding parties on our eastern flank." "First Sergeant…what happened to Captain Vanderwal?" "He was the latest victim of a Starwolf raiding party." Jirard sighed disappointedly. "Dispatch another triad of Myrmidons to First Sergeant Amacor." "That will bring our numbers in reserve to only two." Jirard turned and looked down upon his aide-de-camp with eyes narrowed. "Just do it, sandraker." For a moment, Rulan looked as though he might actually get angry, raising a thin eyebrow, but responded with another flat "understood, sire," and stepped back out of the light, leaving Jirard to his ministrations. Jirard could not understand Rulan. Did his veins not run hot with the ichor of the Blood Eagle? He seemed more passionate about his precious reserves and printouts than with actually meeting the enemy face-to-face and delivering the killing blow. It mattered not, Jirard thought, controlling his emotions. He does what he does well, even though he would fit in better with the ‘sworders. "Go tell Onyko and Havasi that I will be there momentarily," Jirard ordered, and Rulan bowed slightly, quickly, and left. Jirard pulled his face close to the mirror. His long brown hair was meticulously styled; not a one was out of place. The crimson markings of the Blood Eagle on his face had been freshened and touched up, but the scars across his cheeks seemed to be fading slightly. I shall have to have them deepened, he thought. A final glance in the mirror, and he left to attend to the matters at hand. The command center was already crowded with the leadership of the Second Wing. Colonel Marko Havasi of the Starkiller Talon was already seated within the octagonal command kiosk, freshly shined boots placed upon one of the command consoles. He was tall, thin, and fiercely proud of his Terran-Asian ancestry, right down to his epicanthic folds and darkened skin. Rumor had it that this was artificial rather than genetic, a rumor vigorously denied by Havasi. This was in contrast to Colonel Gund Onyko of the Swordbreaker Talon. Short and thick, his hairless skull was crisscrossed with scars and slashes. Onyko had a reputation for brashness and indominatability, for "leading with his head." To look at the deep purple wounds across his head, this reputation was well earned. He idly cleaned his fingernails with a long dagger, leaning against the wall. "How goes the war, gentlemen?" Jirard asked nonchalantly, appearing interested in the many displays and readouts along the walls of the command center. "It goes." Onyko grunted, not bothering to look up from his mentally intensive task. "Ignore him," Havasi said, smoothing his short white hair. "He’s just pissed that his kill ratios are down. Some of us can’t help it if we’re above eighty percent." "Eighty percent? Is that all?" Jirard asked facetiously. "I have my sergeants flogged if we ever fall below ninety-five." "Then you must be doing a lot of flogging, Jirard," Onyko replied. "Quiet," came the booming voice as General-Prime Makoto Obadashi, leader of the Second Talon, strode into the room. Like Havasi, he retained the skin color and epicanthic folds of his Terran-Asian ancestry. Unlike Havasi, he was a good two meters tall and built like an ox. His armor, while well polished, showed the wear of many battles. The purple cloak of leadership was draped across his left shoulder. "You can bicker later after this world is purged. Reports!" Havasi wisely removed his feet from the console they were resting on and moved to a more formal, albeit still relaxed position. "My Starkillers have been making continuous inroads against the Starwolf positions to the north." "While the curs continue to inflict heavy losses?" "I would not call them heavy losses, General." "Really? What would you call them?" Obadashi asked, turning to Onyko. "Onyko? What would you call losing ten Myrmidons in one day against a ragtag pack of Starwolf?" "I would be inclined to call those losses…heavy," Onyko replied. His knife had been sheathed and he now stood more or less at attention. "Good. Then I won’t expect you to tell me your losses were ‘light.’" "No, General. The Swordbreaker talon has…taken casualties. We are, however, maintaining our defensive perimeter." "I should hope so, after that embarrassment you called an offensive. I’ve seen many offensives in my day, but yours has to be the first one where you actually lost ground to an opponent. Simply unbelievable." "I would not blame Onyko too much," Jirard said. "He was only doing the best with what he had." "And what is that supposed to mean?" Onyko growled. "What are you getting at, Jirard?" Obadashi asked. "I’ve had the same problem Onyko and Havasi have had. Myrmidon armor is fine in a more open setting, but among these rocks and crags that are a sniper’s paradise, we’re playing into the hands of the Starwolf." Jirard moved over to one of the larger displays along the walls of the command center, displaying a top-down view of the Blood Eagle positions. "I have moved my Myrmidons back to a more defensive position here, here and here," he said, pointing to positions along their secure perimeter. "But I have been having much better luck with sending lighter Hoplite armors deeper into the Starwolf holdings. "Hoplites, you see, give my people more maneuverability with sacrificing too much in the way of firepower. And as you can see, the results have been very promising. With the Myrmidons protecting our vital assets, my talon has made deep incursions into Starwolf territory." "So I see," Obadashi noted. "What we really need," Havasi said, now standing, "is reinforcements. If we had another Talon here, we would have this planet swept clean in a matter of days." "What I really need is leaders who do not complain about being cowed by an inferior force from an inferior tribe, Colonel Havasi. Or is it Major? I can never remember," Obadashi said, not bothering to turn to face Havasi. "Most respectfully, it is Colonel, General Obadashi." "My apologies…Colonel." "None needed, General." "You can complain all you want, but we will take this rock with what we have. I will provide no reinforcements or resupplies. If you are unable to defeat an inferior opponent with what you have, then you have no business leading a Talon." As Obadashi prepared to launch into a full tirade, Rulan stepped into the room. "Forgive the interruption, General, Colonels," he said humbly, "but we have a prisoner, a Starwolf commander." "Bring him in, Rulan," Jirard said. "With your permission, General." Obadashi nodded in assent. Rulan snapped his fingers, and two guards dragged the Starwolf in, barely able to walk. His body was crisscrossed with cuts and welts and covered in dried blood and grime. "General, if I may?" Jirard asked. "Do with him as you wish, Jirard," Obadashi answered. Jirard stepped up to the prisoner and waved the guards away. He was young, probably no more than twenty years, by his guess, thin but wiry. The Starwolf tattoo looked fresh and new across his one good eye, the other being blackened and swollen shut. He stood on wobbly legs, breathing heavily. "Have we gotten any information out of him?" "No, my liege," Rulan answered. "The inquisitor has been questioning him for six hours, but all we get out of him are oaths and curses." "Strong, for one his age." The Starwolf stood straight, or at least as straight as he could manage to pull himself up to, and began clearing his throat. "I hope you’re not going to try and spit in my face," Jirard told him. "That’s so trite." "I…I challenge you…to ritual combat…as is…as is my right," he panted. "As set in…the tenets…" "The tenets, yes, yes, I know them quite well," Jirard replied, annoyed. "You are just prolonging the inevitable." "As are you," the Starwolf rasped. Jirard gestured to Rulan and had him give him his sword. Jirard then drew his sword and presented them to the Starwolf. "Pick your weapon, cur," The Starwolf looked over his choices, and after examining each weapon for heft and balance, chose Rulan’s curved scimitar-like blade. Rulan stepped forth to remove Jirard’s cape. "You should have a second," Jirard said. "Onyko, how about you?" "I require no second," the Starwolf replied, cutting off the venomous reply Onyko was no doubt about to deliver. "As you wish." Jirard swished his sword through the air a few times before turning back to the Starwolf. He brought the sword up to his face, hilt skyward. "The tenets require that I ask you if you wish to resolve this amicably." "I do not think that possible here," the Starwolf replied, mimicking Jirard’s gesture as best he could. "Very well. I am Jirard Arbo, leader of the Eviscerator Talon of the Crimson Hand Pennant. We are the Blood Eagle, the first tribe, the great tribe, the one tribe. Whom do I have the honor of facing this day." "I am but one Starwolf, one of many who shall bring about your destruction. My name…is unimportant." "Then you shall die nameless. It matters not to me." "We shall see." "Begin," Rulan commanded. Jirard advanced slowly, sword held up and back in an offensive posture. In the background, he could hear the low murmur of the others talking, no doubt making wagers as to the outcome of the fight. If Onyko bets against me, I’ll kill him next. With a mighty yell, the Starwolf charged, wielding his sword like a club. Jirard easily blocked it, but the Starwolf then kicked Jirard hard at the ankles, tripping him. As soon as Jirard hit the floor, he rolled right, barely escaping the axe-like swing of the Starwolf. Sparks flew from the impact of the sword against metal. Jirard scrambled to his feet, sword extended defensively, inwardly cursing himself for falling for a basic feint. Playing possum, eh? he thought. Well, not again, cur. For the next few minutes, Jirard worked to wear down the Starwolf, circling him, forcing him to defend against feints and thrusts, until his sword grew heavier and heavier. The initial attack by the Starwolf had clearly exhausted him, using up what little energy he’d had. As it dipped below his wait, Jirard made his move, skipping inside of the Starwolf’s guard and ramming his sword home, up and under the ribcage. The Starwolf slumped against Jirard, gasping. "We…we shall yet…be…victorious," he whispered, and died. Jirard pulled his sword from the Starwolf, letting the body fall to the floor. "That will not happen," he said. Rulan approached with a towel, which Jirard took to wipe his sword clean. "I see you have not lost your skill for defeating an inferior opponent," Onyko noted. "I didn’t see you stepping up to deliver the killing blow." Jirard responded. "Dispose of this carcass," Obadashi said, gesturing to the guards. "No, wait," Jirard said. "He may only be a Starwolf, but he acquitted himself well today. Have the body flensed and placed upon a banner. In fact, my banner. He has earned that right, at the very least. "Now, gentlemen, if we have no further business or entertainment today, I shall excuse myself. Colonels, General, good fighting." Jirard strode out of the command center, grabbing his cape from Rulan as he passed and tossing it over his shoulder, silently seething that a Starwolf had managed to make him look like a fool. He used the walk to his quarters to cool down. Learn from the mistakes that do not kill you, Father had said, so you do not make the ones that do. The prospect of a short nap was dashed by the gentle beeping of the commnet when Jirard entered his quarters. As he moved to answer it, a knock came at his door. No rest for the warriors, he thought. Sighing resignedly, Jirard went to answer the door, leaving his caller on indefinite hold. General Obadashi’s form filled the doorway. "Good work in there, Jirard." "Thank you, General. This is a surprise. Please enter." "Thank you, no. Let me be blunt, Jirard: I don’t care for Onyko or Havasi. They make no pains to disguise their desire for power." "Understood, sir." "Don’t take that as a compliment. I don’t like you either. You’re even worse than those two. But you, at least, get results. I like people who can get me results. Continue your success, and I might find a place for you on my staff." "Thank you, sir." "Don’t thank me yet. Until every last verdammt Starwolf on this rock is dead, you, Onyko or Havasi aren’t getting a damn thing except a trip to the Outer Worlds to join what’s left of the Wolfslayer Pennant. Am I clear?" "As crystal, sir." "Good. Now wash that Starwolf stink off of yourself," Obadashi stepped back, and the door slid shut. Absorbing this information, a slightly stunned Jirard moved to answer his incoming message. The hologram flickered to life before him. The three-dimensional image was that of a woolly-looking man, with a unkempt beard shot with grey, and a wizened, craggy face that had seen its fair amount of what life can throw at a person. A fairly hardy individual, this Nathaniel Rusk, Jirard thought…for an Imperial. "Is the transmission secure?" Rusk asked, with a grating rumble that passed for a voice. "Of course. "You look like hell." "The goddess of beauty you aren’t either, Rusk. What do you have for me?" "Six Myrmidons, twenty Hoplites, twelve Stormhammers, several cases of spinfusor rounds…the usual mix of gadgetry." "That will be adequate." "And what do you have for me?" "We will have this planet free of the Starwolf shortly. After that, the entire Ourubis system of planets will be free for your mining operations." "That is good. My patrons grow…impatient." "Trees do not grow in a day, Rusk." "Did your father tell you that one, Jirard?" Rusk asked, eyes narrowing. "Did he also tell you what would happen if you ran out of supplies?" "We will have cleared this planet within a month. Within six, this planet will be yours. That should more than support your timetable." "Very well. One month," Rusk said, and the hologram faded to black. "There is an old Terran saying about playing both sides against the middle." It was a wispy croak, obscured by the shadows. Slowly, the gaunt, frail figure stepped into the light, the too-young body with its too-old eyes. The youthful blond hair, the spotted hands; a walking paradox. "But I forget how it goes." "All I want right now is a short nap. Harabec’s Bones, who’s next? Harabec himself? Are you hiding old Petresun’s ghost back there?" "Poor Jirard, you are so put upon. You should be happy you’re still alive right now." Jirard ignored his visitor and pulled a flask of water from a cabinet, taking a long, refreshing pull. "Feeling bold today, old cat? You usually keep to the underground until nightfall. Why so frisky today?" "Do not mock me, Jirard," came the reply, an angry hiss that was not to be ignored. "No insult intended, o wizened one," Jirard replied, bowing slightly. "What is so important that it could not wait until later." "You have underestimated the Starwolf once again, dear Jirard. You are far more vulnerable than you think." "So you say. The situation is well in control." "We will see if you sing that tune tomorrow, Jirard." Jirard eyed his companion through narrow eyes. "What do you know?" "Tell me, Jirard, when is an animal most dangerous? When it is cornered? Wounded? Hungry?" "Do you mean they intend to strike our supply depots? Impossible!" Slowly, the gaunt man pulled a parcel of cloth from beneath his arm and unfurled it. Even in the low light, the golden fabric gleamed brightly, almost glowing. "Is that…" "Yes, the raiments of the Great Eagle, Jirard. Do you still want them?" Slowly, Jirard stepped forward, until he could touch the soft, silken cape. As he did so, a skeletal hand wrapped around his throat, forming an impossibly tight grip. "If you want this, then you will listen to those who know! If you act now, there will be more glory for you, and your ascension will continue. If not," the gaunt man whispered, releasing his grip, "there are always those who recognize good advice when it is given to them." As the gaunt man stepped back into the shadows, taking the golden cape with him, short raps at his door indicated another visitor. Hunter, who now, Harabec himself? "Come in," he commanded. Rulan entered the room, immersed in his figures and paperwork as ever. "My liege, is everything all right?" "Of course it is. Why do you ask?" "You appear rather flushed, my liege." "Of course I do, Rulan, I just had to kill a Starwolf soldier, something you wouldn’t know of. Now, I have orders for you. Have the security details at our supply depots doubled immediately." "May I ask why, sir? Intelligence reports nothing about the Starwolf in those areas." "Those are my orders, and I expect them to be followed immediately. Is that clear, Rulan?" "Of course, sire. It will be done." "Good," Jirard said, removing his cape and tossing it at Rulan’s feet. "Now put this away while I clean up." And with that, Jirard stalked off to the communal showers. Rulan picked up the cape, dusted it off, and then pinned it to his own shoulders, admiring himself before an imaginary audience. Had Rulan been listening, he might have heard a low, raspy laugh off in one corner of the poorly lit room before it trailed off into silence.