Chapter 12
THEY WERE LIKE children with new toys, the Raider thought, watching them touch and poke at the air rovers. It gave him no small amount of satisfaction. His band had little enough to fight with; these vehicles would make a mountain’s worth of difference. They might only carry a half-squad, but they were quick and powerful, and brand new, with fully charged power cells that would last a year at least. They would have to have a charging source then, but time enough to work that out. He—or more likely Brander—would think of something.
Besides, they would serve a more important purpose soon.
Brander left the excited group and strolled over to him. “This has done them good.”
“Yes.”
“Worth the risk.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s next?”
He gave his second a sideways look. “Did you not say this should hold everyone for a while?”
Brander grinned. “I didn’t mean me.”
His mouth quirked. “Of course not.”
“I know you have something brewing.”
“Do you?”
“I can see it. Practically feel it. Your brain is running in the highest gear, my friend. Has been for a while now. You have something even bigger in mind.”
He turned, gestured to Brander to follow him. They stepped into his quarters. It was a chilly day on Ziem, and he could feel the cold from the tunnel, his back way in and out, known only to a few.
He turned his head to look at the man who had stood beside him since before the day he had begun this misadventure. Over and above his knack for clever inventions and unusual tactics, he was uncommonly brave and there was no man the Raider would rather have at his side in a fight.
“I do.”
“But you’re not going to tell me what this plan is.”
“Yet.”
Brander studied him for a moment, then nodded. “All right, my exalted commander.” He added an exaggerated bow. “Do as you must.”
“If you continue with that blathering, you’ll find I must pummel you into oblivion.”
“Now that would be an interesting contest,” a woman’s voice said.
Kye had quietly slipped up behind them. Quietly enough that he hadn’t been aware until she was almost within a double arm’s reach. Kye had become that good. She had become everything he’d known she could be, even as it pained him to watch her change.
“And would you oversee it for us?” Brander asked her with a grin.
“No. It would be embarrassing for me to have to rule against my own cousin for cheating.”
Brander put on an exaggeratedly aghast expression. “I’m hurt, cousin. How can you accuse me of such?”
“Perhaps because you cheated in a game of seek when I was but five?” she asked, her tone sweet. Too sweet.
Brander winced. But there was a twinkle in his sideways glance at the Raider. “Be thankful, my friend, that you do not have a cousin with the memory of a leathertrunk.”
“I shall consider that fair warning,” he said, wondering if that had been Brander’s intent. If so it was needless; he already knew Kye remembered well. Everything. It was why he had to hold himself apart from her, whatever guise he was in.
How much he wished it could be otherwise was something he didn’t dare think about.
He spoke before he could lose himself down that alley. “I am glad you are here,” he said to her. “I have need of your artistic skill.”
“Going to have her do a mighty portrait of you?” Brander teased.
“Better than a portrait of an insufferable creature such as yourself,” she retorted.
“Children, children,” the Raider scolded, hiding a smile. They were like siblings, these two, and sometimes as difficult to keep in line. “I have need of a map.”
“A map? You know this countryside like no other except perhaps Eirlys Davorin. If you need aid, perhaps you should call her in.” Kye eyed him levelly. “She would come in an instant.”
“She is too young.”
“Not for long. And she has promised her brother only to wait until she is of age.” She lifted one brow. “And it could not hurt to have a Davorin alongside you.”
He trusted to the helmet and the scars that masked the left side of his face to hide any change in his expression. And said only, “This map needs to be large enough for . . . a briefing.”
She went very still. “A mission briefing?”
“Yes.” She did not, he noted, ask what mission. He knew she was clever enough to realize that if it required preparation this formal, it was something big. “It needs to cover from Halfhead and the Brothers to Highridge, and from The Sentinel to the mouth of the Racelock.”
Kye frowned slightly. “That’s a huge area. And you know mapping is not one of my greater skills.”
“There are images to be used. Brander got that flyover working.”
Her expression cleared. “Aerial pictures?”
He nodded. “We do not have the paper to print and join them, so I need you to use them as a guide and transfer the necessary details.”
“That I can work with,” she said.
And if he knew her—and he did—it would be as near perfect as could be done by hand. Again, the ache that she was using her talent for such purposes rose in him. He fought it down, as he always fought down his other reactions to her lovely, vibrant presence. In either guise he wore. Drake Davorin might want her desperately, but the Raider—and the rebellion—needed her. So it had to be Drake who pushed her away. It had to be.
“On what?” she asked.
He shoved aside his roiled emotions. “Whatever you can find that is big enough to be seen across the gathering room.”
She nodded, clearly already thinking. “I will see what I can find,” she said, and left the room.
He turned to Brander, who had been uncharacteristically quiet.
“Have them get those rovers under cover. You know they’re searching like sniffhounds. And have them keep them separate, not all in one place.”
Brander nodded, all light-heartedness vanished now. When need be, his second could project incredible command presence. Perhaps because he was so droll most of the time; when he was serious, everyone knew it was time to take notice.
Alone now, the Raider faced the fact that soon he would be regularly alone in his quarters with the one person he needed to keep at a distance. The one person he had to keep separate from. The one person who made him want to jettison everything and grab for some tiny bit of a normal life.
But he was who he was, the Coalition was who they were, and a normal life was nothing more than a fool’s dream.
He was grateful when he was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Galeth, the eldest Harkin brother, came in and handed him a folded page, then stood at attention before him. It still disconcerted him a bit, yet he understood the need for it. Command wasn’t only for battles, it must be ingrained so that there was no questioning when instant decision and response meant getting out alive.
“Where did this come from?”
“It was in the hive, sir.”
He looked the man up and down. There were no visible telltale marks or welts. “No stingers returned?”
Galeth smiled at that. “No, sir. I think Brander’s repellant solution worked.”
He smiled. “Get yourself something to eat.”
Galeth nodded gratefully. Making the comm rounds was a long day. The various message drops were scattered not just all over the mountain, but up the canyon, on the flats, and in town as well.
When he was again alone, he smothered a sigh of frustration. To be reduced to such means was beyond slow and irritating, it was infuriating. To think a people who had once but to activate their wristlet to speak to anyone now had to leave words committed to paper, paper that was in constantly shorter supply thanks to Coalition crackdowns for precisely this reason, stirred up the fury that was never far from bursting to life in him.
He knew it was what they intended by never rebuilding any sort of system other than one for their own use; it was that much harder to conspire against them if you couldn’t communicate easily. And it was effective; each day of checking the drops was a day the runner was out of the fight, and yet they must be checked daily. Even so, information was often received too late to act upon, and a prized target was missed because of the delay.
It was not that they could not reproduce the technology; he knew Brander could put together a system easily, given the time and materials. The problem was reproducing a system the Coalition could not spy upon or jam. And that was beyond their capabilities at the moment. So they made do with things like the hive, their most successful drop. They’d had to change many of the others, the tree hollow, the rock wall, but never the hive. Kye’s idea of adhering several dead stingers to the outside, in a manner that made them appear alive, had been genius. For who of sane mind would dare to stick their hand into what appeared to be an active stinger nest?
But then, the woman was insanely clever.
And a brilliant fighter.
And brave to the point of foolishness.
An old pain jabbed at him at the thought of the danger she put herself in. She should be safe at home, pursuing the talent she’d been born with and the work she’d been born for: creation. Creation of things of such beauty they took human breath away.
Instead, she pursued destruction. Often risking her very life to rain it down on the Coalition.
That it was most often at his own order made it a thousandfold worse.
Shoving that worry aside, he unfolded the page Galeth had pulled out of the hive. He knew immediately who it was from; the graceful signature accented with a drawing of a feather told him. The being that most thought was only fable, the unknown creature he himself never spoke of except to agree she was but a legend, to avoid drawing undue attention, or the suspicion he had finally cracked and lost his mind.
The Spirit.
When the first note had come years ago, he had scoffed and tossed it. He had thought it the work of a prankster, or perhaps even a Coalition spy, attempting to set them up for a trap.
But later, when he was in a more reflective mood, he had remembered the note and its claim. And when the opportunity arose unexpectedly, he set out himself to see if there was any truth in it.
It had been all true. From his hiding place above the Coalition compound, he had watched as they unloaded cases of rich food and kegs of brew, things his own people had not seen nor tasted in years. Had he believed the information in the note, they could have waylaid the shipment before it was delivered. The big cargo ships could only land on the flats, which meant transport from the landing zone through the high valley. And he and his band could take anything less than a full battalion in that narrow valley. They had. He had learned early on to use the Coalition need for uniformity, precision, and unthinking obedience against them.
The next time a note signed with the feather had come, he had again watched and found the information to be both valid and valuable. And again, until the string of accuracy became too clear to deny. And the next day another message had come, saying only, “Trust me.”
So while he still didn’t believe this was truly the legendary Spirit, rather assumed it was someone using the myth for their own reasons, the next time he took a small squad with him. And had managed to liberate three cases of fuel cells, leaving the Coalition scrambling for power for nearly a month. Although they could not use them, the thought of the Coalition existing in the same darkness they had brought upon Ziem had been beyond sweet.
The next result of one of the notes was a cache of fresh crops shipped in from some other world the Coalition held and looted, that had fed them for days. He had even allowed those of the band with families to take some home with them, with the instruction that, were they discovered, they must lay the blame at his feet. The Coalition was already after his head, so he would lose nothing. And build the Raider’s reputation in the process, not because he wished it, but because it would help rally the people.
And that had been another bit of advice that had come from the one calling him or herself the Spirit. Along with the suggestion of a calling card, to be left at the site of each successful foray. Eventually he had seen the sense of it. The people—and the Coalition—needed to know not all had buckled. And while having the occupying troops on high alert at all times had both good and bad sides, he could see that the wear and tear was worth the danger. And besides, being always on edge could lead to mistakes. And they could capitalize on mistakes.
This was, after all, a war. The Coalition might not think it so; they might consider Ziem well and truly conquered, but as long as even one man stood, they were wrong.
And so he had turned even then to the one person he knew could do it. He had sent Brander to Kye, to ask her to draw something that could represent the rebels, something both stark and taunting, to be left for the Coalition to find. Then still trapped in Zelos with her paralyzed father, she had seized upon the small idea with relish, and what she had presented them with mere hours later was a triumph. The bold sweep of the traditional Ziem saber with the words she had pulled from his statement of their mission, “Without Warning,” had encapsulated what he’d wanted it to say. And that symbol had been left clearly visible after every successful raid, until not just the Coalition but everyone was buzzing with it. Were it not for the fact that it would betray them—some lived here in the mountain ruins, but many more led double lives, responding to his call but otherwise staying with their families—he thought many of his force would have it permanently etched on their skin.
And now, three years after they began, they were established, practiced, and effective. Including Kye, who made his life both easier—her staunch support and sheer nerve were irreplaceable—and harder. Every time he saw those rare, turquoise eyes fastened on him, he had to remind himself there was no place in this life or this time for the kind of things she made him think.
He shook himself out of the reverie. He rarely had time for dwelling on the past, and supposed it a sign of his weariness that he had done so now. He brought his attention back to the note he held. It was short, with the feather taking up as much space as the words.
You have become much more than a mere nuisance to them, and an inspiration beyond price to your people. Well done.
He swallowed against the sudden tightness of his throat. He wondered at how he could feel pride at words from someone he did not even know. And yet he did.
He had never set out to be a legend. Had wanted it even less. But he had come to realize that it would take a legend to keep this fight going. And so he had accepted that burden along with the others.
Do not think too small. You have power and momentum now; use it.
That had been the Spirit’s advice as well, and had spurred him to make the rover raid. And their success buoyed him. He knew he might not see victory in his lifetime, especially as their forays became bigger, bolder. He had accepted that.
His job, as he saw it, was to make sure the battle continued after he fell.
“YOU’RE CERTAIN IT was him?” Major Caze Paledan, the new commander of outpost Ziem, asked.
He hadn’t even unpacked yet, and he was already in the midst of an apparent crisis. Things appeared worse here than he had been led to believe. The reports he’d read in transit had been short on details and long on excuses. And his briefing had been sketchy, filled more with speculation and rumor and exaggeration than could be credited. They were building the man into a legend, for surely no one on such a backwater planet could be so fearsome.
Or so he had thought.
“Yes, sir,” the young trooper said. “I saw the silver helmet, and those scars are as nasty as everyone says.” He swallowed visibly. “And they found that calling card he always leaves, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” Paledan answered. It was in his pocket right now. That image of a Ziem saber, like the ones crossed on his office wall, and the slogan, “Without Warning.”
This had certainly been without warning.
But it had been openly claimed afterward.
So total secrecy was not the Raider’s goal. The opposite in fact. And it had been exquisitely planned, timed, and carried out.
So was he a tactical genius who wanted everyone to know it?
Paledan pondered this as he made his way back to his quarters to finish his unpacking. And he couldn’t reconcile what his instincts were telling him with the image of a man who wanted notoriety. The use of a simple device Sorkost called primitive, but which had clearly been very effective. And the fact that the men caught in that sticky, heavy net had not been slaughtered outright as they helplessly struggled. He would have killed them when he had the chance, while they were helpless, as per Coalition policy. Any chance to lessen the numbers of your opponent should be taken.
And yet the Raider had not done it. He had used no more force than was necessary to accomplish his goal.
Was he soft? His heart not in this battle?
That did not fit, either. Only someone completely dedicated would have kept going this long. And a half-hearted leader could not keep this ragged band together, could not inspire them to raids like this, so audacious in the face of Coalition might that it was difficult to believe.
And yet Paledan sensed no ego here, for there had been opportunity enough to take the steps that would assure the man even more fame, and he had not done so.
So not glory-seeking, and a true leader.
Which left him only with the option that what his instincts were telling him was true, despite the fact that he had only just arrived. He had learned to trust his instincts. He’d honed them in too many fights to count and across the entire sector.
The Raider did not let himself be seen, that silver helmet gleaming amid the black, matte armor of his band, the scars clearly visible, and the calling card left to both announce and taunt, because he wanted fame and glory.
He did it to keep the attention on himself. Not because of ego, but because if the focus was on him, then no one was looking for the others. They barely noticed the others.
A true leader. The most dangerous kind of opponent.
Admiration sparked in him.
He smiled inwardly. It had been a long time since he had had such a truly formidable adversary. It was simple to outnumber your opponent, or out-think those who had never fought for anything in their lives and shrank at the very idea, like the few Ziemites he had met thus far.
It was an entirely different matter to deal with someone like this. Whoever this man was, whoever he had been before, he was a warrior now. Even though this remote, mist-shrouded planet had apparently never seen war, it had spawned a fighter worthy of the appellation.
And worthy of his own skills.
He had no doubt what the end would be. The Raider might be a great thinker, brilliant leader, and courageous fighter, but Paledan was better. He’d been proving that since he’d put on a Coalition uniform.
He laughed at himself, for having all the ego the Raider apparently lacked. He allowed himself that, for he also had the wisdom to understand that no man was infallible, and to appreciate that his enemy was clever, quick, and fearless.
It would take no less of a warrior than himself to take this one down. And take him down he would.
And in the process, he would enjoy the fight. No true warrior passed up the chance to sharpen his skills on a worthy opponent. He would test this raider’s mettle before he ended it.
This backwater planet was turning into quite the interesting assignment.