The Mongrel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 1) Page 18

  Lasher attempted to stand. He was smiling at the old man and the children. Even after the death and destruction he had caused, it felt good to smile at something innocent.

  The old man returned his smile, settling in amid the controlled chaos of the kids vying for his attention. “It is good to smile here. After all, you gave up everything for this. Sit down. Sit down, young man. You've had a busy day.” His final words were strained as he lowered his ancient frame onto the edge of the pit, next to Lasher.

  “Who's this?” Kel asked nonchalantly.

  Yuzheff immediately whacked him in the arm. “Show a little respect, would you?”

  Kel looked as though he had just been caught stealing a snack before dinner. It was an innocent question, obviously made uncomfortable because he didn't know the exact social intricacies of where he was.

  “It's all right, Yuzheff,” the old Tyth said. “Kel Durado is curious of us. If he was not, he would not have seen you safely back to us. My name is Nazrahn ka'Nemani. I was once what you would call a mayor for the family here. I retired some time ago to listen to my grandchildren complain about chores, school, or both. Unfortunately, current events have deemed it necessary for me to take over for a bit.”

  “It is nice to meet you, sir.” Kel said, trying to sound more polite than he was typically capable of.

  Nazrahn smiled. “It is a pleasure for me to meet a cousin.”

  Kel's face asked the question even when his mouth said nothing.

  Yuzheff caught the cue. “He calls you ‘cousin’ because when I left for Kabran City, they were sure I would never come back. When I returned after all that time, I told them about the man who helped me. That makes you 'cousin.'”

  “Thank you, sir.” Kel's words were halting. He seemed unsure of being given so much credit on the strength of another's word. It was clear to anyone who met him that Kel was self-made. He fought for everything he would ever get. To be shown kindness and acceptance put him on footing he wasn't used to.

  “Back to the matter at hand.” Nazrahn smiled, taking in the faces of those sitting beside Lasher. “Do you remember me?”

  Lasher nodded as he crumpled the ration bar wrapper up into his hand. He pulled the towels he was wearing tighter about his shoulders as he positioned himself to face the man more directly.

  Nazrahn looked to the others. “He was a pup then. His mistress brought him here to help with a similar dispute. We were being raided by the Hidek. Violent clashes saw many in the family wounded or dead, including a missionary from the Athalon. His marshal came to help. She was hurt and we used the worms to help. Her connection to the Winds was deep so the worms reacted. You see, it is our bond with Tythian the worms feed upon in order to heal. I believe modern medicine calls it a feedback loop.”

  He touched the doctor's face, causing her to smile. Her angular features sharpened and brightened at his touch. Nazrahn was clearly a cherished member of the family. Doctor Heseth was proud that the family elder knew some of her terminology.

  “We saw quite a few Fire-Wings that time. It was really something to see. Nothing like this time, of course.” Nazrahn said, pointing to Kel.

  The impatient gangster shifted from foot to foot, feeling like a child who wanted his turn or a cookie. Kel wanted an answer and he couldn't wait for the old man to make his point. “But what just happened? Those things started burning and circled him like moths to fire. Don't know if anyone noticed, but the longer they circled him, the brighter they got. Then there was that weird music, humming that shook the mesa and my teeth. So what did we just see?”

  Nazrahn's smile stretched across his narrow Tyth skull. He had the same look on his face that he wore when the children were helping him to sit. Kel noticed it, then noticed everyone else looking at him acting impatiently. “Okay. I'll be quiet now and wait for the most holy elder to explain to the dumb Squat.”

  The old man corrected, “Honored cousin. No Squats here.” He said this with a slight bow. His tone and mannerism brightened Kel's expression. The honorific seemed enough to quell his eagerness for the moment.

  Nazrahn continued. “When the colonists came, they asked for space to build their city. They claimed they would bring trade, which would be good for us. It would help to connect us to the galactic community. We thought it would be good to share our culture. Share the Winds of Change. We were fascinated with the miracles the colonists brought. Technology, ships, clothing, medicine.” He took the data pad from Heseth. He shook it back and forth to emphasize his point, all the while she tried to wrestle it from his grasp. They were both chuckling.

  “We were so taken with the miracles man brought us we forgot the miracles we already had.” Nazrahn said in a sober tone. “The worms use the Crucible to connect to the patient, healing as they feed. When the Tyth connected more to technology and less to Tythian, the worms fed less. They replenished less. Worm sites died out. Now the colony has become colonies. Corporations want more space. More resources. They give more colony miracles as places like this are gradually forgotten.”

  The elder took a moment to gather his thoughts. He was clearly not used to speaking in Trade-2. He was searching more for each word. It seemed like he might not be used to talking this much anymore. Lasher reached over and took his wrist. The contact seemed to invigorate the ancient leader. He gasped, eyes wide open and seeming youthful. “Yes! That is what drew them to you. The power of the Crucible. But also, your loss. The worms fed on your anger. They joined to your rage, and in doing so, you woke something, didn't you?”

  Yuzheff had been sitting transfixed. He spoke just loud enough for the small group to hear, “the old gods.”

  Nazrahn parsed his lips. “That is what we used to call them. Heseth's science might call them something else. The point is that the old gods are connected to the Crucible, oftentimes through the worms. They were fed your anger and were...” The words lingered at the end of Nazrahn's waving hand, as though stirring the air and saying it in his native tongue might bring the word he needed.

  Lasher spoke, “Revived.”

  “Yes! I can feel them in the Wind. I can feel them through your grip. I can feel them in the ground. They are not just awake; they are moving. I can feel the Fire Flights too. Spreading. Awakening.” Tears began to well up in the elder man's eyes. He looked like he had just found a long-lost relative or told a story, only to have it come true. “They share your anger. They want Tythian as it was, before the colonies. A storm is coming. While they bring much needed rain, sometimes there is also lightning. I fear that there will be much damage before growth. I can't see if this is good or not.”

  Lasher expression hardened. “My vengeance and theirs are the same. We have an understanding. They connect me to the deeper Way and I act for them. For now.”

  Nazrahn pulled his head back a bit. “Why ‘for now’?”

  “Because events are in motion. We both move and grow stronger, together. But I'm only the thunder. They're the storm.”

  Lasher pulled on the thick T-shirt from a basket at his feet. It was freshly laundered and had a scent similar to lavender. The shirt dove to his belt line, covering the last of his tribal tattoos. The tattoos were no longer complete, separated by crisscrossed scars and old injuries.

  The basket had been brought by the same children who had accompanied Nazhran. All of the possessions Lasher had walked in with had been cleaned, laundered, or polished according to its design. He thought of the worms. They had done the same to his worn body. He stood and rocked his shoulders, feeling the knitted bone and healed tissue, testing it with motion to see how serviceable it was. There was work to do and he had to be in the right shape to do it.

  He latched the securing buckles of a holster to his thigh. He tested it before settling the X-9-A Chimera pulse pistol back home. The thing was a beastly weapon. Old and savage, from a time when men clawed their way into the universe. Blasters were all the rage among the civilized races in the galaxy. Keep them, Lasher thought. Civilized has
no place in what comes next.

  “Okay, Your Holiness. Now that we know we are all connected to the mucus-spewing worms and that the gods have decreed we use our miracle powers to get revenge, what's the next step?” Kel asked.

  Lasher locked the securing strap of the weapon. “You've already taken it.”

  “If you start going all holy-roller monk on me where I never get a straight answer, I'll turn you over for the bounty myself.”

  Lasher grinned and slapped Kel on the shoulder. “Would you be so kind as to prime the ship? We have things to do.”

  “Are you good? I mean, it hasn't been long since you sprouted up from the dirt with your magic butterflies.” Kel spread his hands, wiggling his fingers as he raised them toward his head. “You had a busted ankle, torn shoulder, and a giant hole in your side. You ready to go another few rounds on your road to revenge?”

  “Promises to keep to friends first. Then revenge. Good business to keep a promise.” The look Kel gave him was more than accusatory.

  A deep breath preceded Lasher bending to retrieve his armor. The plate carrier had been repaired. Some type of resin had sealed the carrier, and although it was visible, it was very serviceable.

  “Surando do good work. Ya know, it kind of looks like a wolf.” Kel remarked.

  That fits, Lasher thought. Although not a wolf. Wolves are pure animals. He was what they called him. A product of two peoples. One human. One Vosi. Mongrel.

  He latched the last buckles of the armor in place, eliciting a painful grunt. Knocking on the plate, he noticed that it had also been replaced. He hopped up several times to test his ankle before nodding in satisfaction. Lasher turned to face Nazrahn. “What do I owe?”

  “When you came here, you lost a second mother. No one should have to suffer in this way. For your service to the Surando, Tythian has made you her adopted son. Family doesn't pay with money, if you take my meaning.”

  “I do. Yasham.”

  Nazrahn smiled at the use of the Kesthi word for “thank you.” They had several words to say thanks. This was the word to use when thanking someone related to them. Both men took each other’s wrist.

  “Would you be so kind as to ask your people to go to their homes and lock up tight.” Lasher asked.

  Nazrahn stood, continuing to hold Lasher's wrist. His brow went upward, his head tilting slightly, clearly puzzled by the request. Lasher's eyes flashed, turning from grey to red-tinged yellow. Nazrahn's eyes responded in turn, going from a light green to deep blue. Both men returned to normal, taking note of the mesa entrance. “Oh.”

  Lasher watched the old man turn and move off at a pace that was unreasonably fast for one of his mature demeanor. Old dogs still have teeth. To Kel, he said, “We have company. I would like to take care of things fast and then get out before more arrive. That little light show earlier has clued anyone with abilities like mine to track us.”

  “Is that why I'm priming the ship? Do you want me to fight with you? I can fight, ya know. This guy's not just another pretty faced fast-talker.”

  “I know you can. Your fight is coming. For now, I need Kel, the pilot who gave a heavy weapons squad a run for their money. Please prime the ship.”

  Kel took off at almost a dead run. “Yu! I need you, Buddy!”

  Lasher walked from the mesa. He stopped just ahead of a small dip in the landscape. Twenty meters ahead, where the dip climbed back to join the rest of the steppe, stood a robed man wearing a hood. The red robes looked the color of blood in the near darkness before dawn. The man's hands were folded in front of him and no weapons were visible.

  “Greetings, Deputy Marshal Orin Lashra. My name is Chief Inspector Castillo, of the San Verone Monastery. I was wondering if I could approach so we might talk.”

  Lasher nodded. He had expected Marshals Templar to show up with a military force of lancers to augment the team already hunting him. He didn't expect a Vernai monk. These pompous mag-rats were devious in how they investigated, interrogated, and apprehended. Lasher had to be cautious.

  The man dipped into the landscape and almost tripped when he came to the other side. Lasher watched his motions. While he feigned loss of balance and slipping on loose rocks, Lasher could tell the affair was orchestrated. It was similar to masters of “drunken” fighting styles from Old Sol. The movements were set to look like inebriated stumbling while they were used to goad an opponent into making mistakes.

  “Whew! Slippery landscape,” Castillo said.

  Lasher didn't respond. He just continued to stare at the monk. His expression was unreadable.

  “So. We heard that there was a fight at the old fort. Are you injured?”

  Lasher continued to stare. He seemed neither in pain nor swaying from pain medication. He was standing perfectly still, grey eyes taking in the first hints of dawn on the horizon. Both men understood that this was both the best and worst time for a fight.

  The Inspector glanced toward the light, savoring the gorgeous landscape and the gentle swaying of the grass before continuing. “Right, then. So we have this matter of potentially dealing out justice for a crime against an entire tribe rather than the individuals involved. I was wondering if we might take a trip back to the garrison to discuss it as well as avoid any further unpleasantness.”

  “I don't answer to you,” Lasher said flatly. “I don't answer to your Faith Revere. I no longer answer to the marshals. This is not your concern. You can go.”

  Cas took a second to compose himself in the face of Lasher's reply. He took a breath before straightening a part of the robe that had been tousled by the wind. “I see. And you don't see the intentional death of thousands of people as a gross execution of your duty?”

  “My duty was to protect the delegations from violence. My duty was to protect my marshal. My duty was to protect the lancers assigned to us. I failed. At that point, my duty was to seek justice. Justice has almost been served. It stops when I find those responsible.” Lasher's voice remained calm and steady. He was the predator calmly sizing up a rival.

  The monk's hands dropped to his side. From his sleeves, duradium vambraces, a trademark of the Vernai, were visible. He held his hands to his sides, palms out, in supplication. “Orin, you have suffered terribly. You might not be thinking clearly. Come back with me. Just two brothers of the Faith in search of the truth. We'll get to the bottom of this and find who's responsible. We can do this together. Please.”

  Lasher huffed out a small puff of air in the crisp early morning. The slightest bit of steam escaped his mouth when he did so. The steppe was a place of extremes. It was warm during the day and cold at night. Cas thought this was an interesting metaphor for the current situation. Violence one minute and cold calm the next.

  “You speak as though we have a history.” Lasher stated.

  “We both serve the Way, Orin,” The monk noted, trying desperately to establish a rapport. “That is our shared history. Please, let's not resort to violence, and settle this like civilized people.”

  Steam and condescension slid from between Lasher's teeth along with his next words. “The only violence here, monk, is that which you brought with you. You keep saying you want to talk, yet you brought a group of rangers along with your team. I can feel them slithering in the darkness, setting up two CR-331s. I didn't think you San Verone types were into that stuff.”

  Cas looked stunned that Lasher had specifics on his team. Not only had he pinpointed the support team, he knew how they were equipped.

  “If you really want to talk, you can follow me into the mesa and hear what I have to say. If you still want to bring me in, then we can have a nice little showdown to entertain the Surando,” Lasher hissed.

  Nineteen

  Lasher placed a hand on the old Tyth's shoulder. “You don't have to be here for this.”

  Nazrahn stared curiously at the monk accompanying Lasher into the mesa. The large open space that served as entry hall, bazaar, and gathering area was now empty except for the wizened former ma
yor. “Where else would I be? As acting leader, it is my duty to greet guests who would turn my home into a war zone. The least I can do for not shooting first is offer some tea.”

  Both men turned to regard the monk. Cas had his lips pressed tightly together and was in the midst of sighing to calm his temperament. It was not often that he was called a warmonger. He thought himself a man of peace, preferring a good conversation to a good fight. “How do you know I would endanger you, sir? Do you know me?”

  Nazrahn walked the two to a folding table that had been set up just inside the entrance. He reached to a wrought-iron tea pot that sat in the middle of the table, steam writhing off of it like the worms in the pit. Lasher went to pour for the old mayor, but had his hand slapped away. “Hey, now. Don't deny an old Tyth his privilege to use tea to suss out the measure of a man.” He winked at the monk. “As for you, sir, I do know you. The Wind speaks of you. While not as connected to it as either of you, I can still hear it from time to time. It says you hide your sword in your smile.”

  For the second time tonight, Cas felt caught off guard. He was prone to reading ancient texts from Old Sol, on occasion. The smiling sword comment was a passage from one of them. Both Lasher and the aged Tyth seemed to be strongly connected to the Crucible.

  Lasher waited until Nazrahn was done pouring all three cups before he helped the Nazrahn into a chair. The mongrel stood, holding the steaming cup, staring at the monk.

  “So,” prompted the mayor, “what brings you to our lovely home?”

  Cas choked on the tea. While it was bitter with a hint of sweet, the straightforward comment had caught him off guard. He was not used to people being this up front. He was usually the one on the offensive. A Vernai monk was typically the one to prompt, entice, or coax. “Is there honey in this?”