The Wolf Worlds (27 page)

In the hundred-meter-square bunker there was no one but Khorea and himself.

Sten's foot touched something. He knelt and picked up the computer mouse. Tossed it ahead of him, and then nearly died as fire sparked out of the blackness not at the mouse's thunk where it hit something, but in a level arc behind the sound.

Sorry, General, Sten realized. I thought you were dumber than you are.

Lie here on the concrete and think about things. Ignore the war going on topside. You are here and blind in the dark trying to kill a blind man who has designs on your body.

Breathing from the diaphragm, eyes scanning emptiness, Sten crawled forward, knees and hands coming up, sweeping down, feeling for obstructions. Ah, a microphone with a cord attached… Interesting… A long cord.

Sten moved to a wall support and looped the cord around the support. A strand of the cord ran through the trigger guard of his hand weapon, and there was enough extension for him to slither five meters away.

The weapon was now lashed to the vertical beam. Sten pulled the cord experimentally. The weapon flashed, and the round ricocheted wildly off the ceiling, floor, and walls.

And Khorea triggered a burst at the flash.

Sten yanked the cord as hard as he could, and the weapon went back to full-automatic, and the darkness became a strobe-flare of flashings as the hand weapon spurted its magazine into the bunker and Khorea came up from behind a terminal, aiming carefully at the flashes and was aiming for the shot that would end the duel in blackness having only time to catch the blur of Sten in the air toward him and the flicker of the knife in Sten's hand and the knife drove into the side of his head and Sten smashed into the dead general and then painfully into a careening table.

And then there was no sound except from outside as the Bhor began their victory chant and grenades and small-arms fire resounded and Sten could hear the howl of his mercenaries and the Companions as they broke out from their death perimeter and came in for the final slaughter of the Jann.

And then Sten hooked up a chair with his leg and sat in the blackness, plotting his revenge against Parral.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

THE MEETING WAS on neutral ground—a planetoid in the Lupus Cluster's no-man's land. It was a Holy of Holies. It was the first place the founder of the religion, Talamein, landed when he fled to the cluster.

It looked a bit like a park, with broad meadows, gentle streams, and woods thick with small game, and one small chapel, the only building on the planetoid.

Two sets of troops faced each other from opposite sides of the chapel, with ready weapons and nervous trigger fingers. The soldiers were the personal guards of the two rival Prophets. After generations of fighting and atrocities on both sides, they were waiting for the signal to leap at each other's throats.

First Theodomir and then Ingild stepped away from their bodyguards and began the slow walk across the grass toward each other. Both men were edgy, not knowing what to expect.

They stopped a meter or so apart.

Theodomir was the first to break. A huge grin on his face, he threw out his arms in greeting. "Brother Ingild, what joy it brings my heart finally to see you in the flesh."

Ingild also smiled. He stepped forward and gently hugged his rival, and then stepped back again. Tears streamed from his eyes.

"You said 'Brother.' How appropriate a greeting. I too have always felt as if you were my brother."

"Despite our difficulties," Theodomir said.

"Yes, despite them."

The two men hugged again. Then turned and walked arm and arm toward the chapel, before which was a small table covered with a white cloth. Shading it was a small, colorful umbrella.

And on either side of the table were two comfortable chairs.

There were documents on the table and two old-fashioned pens.

The two men sat, smiling across the table at each other, Theodomir was the first to speak.

"Peace at last," he said.

"Yes, brother Theodomir, peace at last."

Theodomir did the honors of pouring the wine. He took a chaste sip. "I know that at this moment," Theodomir intoned,

"Talamein is smiling down on us. Happy that his two children have heeded him and are laying down their arms."

Ingild started to take a large gulp of wine, then caught himself. He took a very small, priestly sip. "We have been very foolish," he said. "After all, what are our real differences? A matter of authority, not theology. Mere titles."

You lying sack of drakh, Theodomir thought, smiling broader.

You great bag of wind, Ingild thought, smiling back and reaching a hand across the table for Theodomir to clasp.

"Brother," Theodomir said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

"Brother," Ingild said, tears dripping down his nose, equally emotional, wishing for all the world that he had dared to trank up with a few narco leeches.

"Our differences are so easily settled," Theodomir said. He shot a glance at Ingild's guards, wanting so badly to grab the wizened little drug addict by the throat and choke the life out of him.

"It came to me in a flash," he continued. "From the very lips of Talamein."

"Odd," Ingild said. "At that very moment I was thinking the same thing." And he thought of his awful casualties, and, more important, the terrible cost to the Holy Treasury. For half a credit he would gut the cheap piece of drakh right now.

"So," Theodomir said, "I propose a settlement. An ecumenical settlement."

Ingild leaned forward in anticipation.

"We cease all hostilities," Theodomir said, "And each of us assumes the spiritual leadership of our rightful regions of the Lupus Cluster.

"Both of us will be called True Prophets. And each of us will support the claim of the other."

"Agreed," Ingild said, almost too quickly. "Then we can end this stupid bloodshed. And each of us can concentrate on his primary duty. Our only duty."

Ingild bowed his head. "Saving the souls of our brethren."

And in two years, he thought, I'll raid Sanctus with half a million Jann and burn your clotting throne to the ground.

Theodomir patted the documents in front of him. They were treaties, hastily drawn up by his clerks for the meeting.

"Before we sign there, brother," he said, "shall we celebrate together?"

He pointed at the small chapel.

"Just the two of us," he said, "in front of the altar, singing our prayers to Talamein."

Oh, you slime, Ingild thought. You heretic. Is there nothing you're not capable of? "What a marvelous suggestion," he said.

The two prophets rose and walked slowly into the chapel.

Parral eased back in his chair, watching the two on the monitor as they opened the door, disappeared inside, and closed the chapel door behind them.

Tears of laughter were streaming down his face. He had never seen anything so funny in his life. Two sanctimonius skeeks with their "brother this" and "brother that." Hating each other's guts.

He rang a servant for a jug of spirits to celebrate. What a master stroke. Theodomir had fought him when he had suggested the meeting. He'd screamed, almost frothed at the mouth.

And then he had become suddenly, silent, when Parral explained the rest of the plan.

Parral leaned forward as the hidden monitors in the chapel picked up the two men inside. This is going to be very interesting, he thought.

He congratulated himself once again for having the foresight to remain on Nebta. Because, despite his assurances to Theodomir, he wasn't too sure how things were going to work out.

The two prophets were nearing the end of the ceremony, their chanted prayers echoing through the little chapel. It was taking way too much time, Theodomir thought. Normally a High Joining took about an hour to go through. But each man was trying to outdo the other, keeping the prayers slow and solemn.

Each word was enunciated as if Talamein himself were listening.

He thanked Talamein that only the moving of the book and the blessing of the sacrificial wine were left. The two men turned to the altar, out of time, of course, and waved their incense wands at the huge book, which sat in the center.

Then they took two steps forward, both lifting the book at the same time. Ingild started to move toward the right. Theodomir the left. Suddenly the two men found themselves in the middle of a tug-of-war.

"This way," Ingild shouted.

"No, no. you fool, to the left."

Then, almost at the same moment, they both realized who they were. Nervous glances around the empty chapel. Theodomir cleared his throat.

"Uh, excuse me, brother, but on Sanctus the book goes to the left."

"Is it in the treaty?" Ingild asked suspiciously.

Theodomir covered his impatience. "It doesn't matter," he said with difficulty. "In the spirit of ecumenism, you may put it where you like."

Ingild bowed to him. And shuffled off to the right, pleased with the small victory.

They moved quickly to the last part of the ceremony: the blessing and drinking of the wine. The golden chalice of wine sat inside a small tabernacle with a slanted roof. They opened the tiny doors, pulled it out. and then quickly chanted the last few prayers.

Theodomir pushed the goblet toward Ingild. "You first, brother," he said, urging him to drink.

Ingild eyed him, suddenly suspicious. Hesitated, then shook his head.

"No," he said. "You first."

Theodomir grabbed the cup impatiently and chugged down about half of its contents in a very unpropnetlike manner. Then he shoved the cup at Ingild.

"Now you," he snapped.

Ingild hesitated, then slowly took the goblet. He raised it to his lips and sipped cautiously. It tasted fine. He drained the rest of the cup and then set it carefully on the altar.

"It's finished," he said. "Now should we sign those…"

He began to cough. A slight one, at first. Then it came in ever

increasing frequency. His face purpled, and then he grabbed his sides and began to scream in pain.

"You fool, you fool." Theodomir cackled. "The wine was poisoned."

"But… but…" Ingild managed through his anguish, "you drank, too."

He toppled to the floor, writhing in agony, blood streaming through his lips from his bitten-through tongue.

Theodomir began dancing around him. Kicking him.

Screaming at him.

"It was sanctified for me." he shouted. "Sanctified for me. But not for an addict. Not for an addict."

Ingild tried to struggle to his knees. Theodomir booted him down again.

"Who's the True Prophet, now, you clot? Who's the True Prophet now?"

Parral laughed and laughed and laughed as he watched Ingild's dance of death.

Then he flicked the monitor off. It was over. Oh, indeed it was over.

For a moment he wished young Sten were sitting in front of him. He thought the colonel would have appreciated his plan.

There are so many ways to win a war.

And then his heart froze, and he unconsciously ducked, as rockets screamed overhead and sonic waves boomed and jolted his palace.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"GAD, COLONEL," FFILLIPS said dryly. "The villains have armor." The woman appeared absolutely unworried as the mercenaries and Companions took up fighting positions.

The Bhor, now seeing the commercial potential of backing Sten. had gleefully agreed to help in the landing on Nebta. They had scattered enough window and diversionary missiles over Nebta's capital to confuse even an Imperial Security screen. The Bhor transports had then slammed into the outskirts of the capital. Sten thought that the Bhor skippers had deliberately tried to take out as many monuments, mansions, and memorials as they could.

For once, Sten was glad to note, he'd made an invasion with no casualties—other than one of Vosberh's men, who'd managed to get drunk on stregg and fall headfirst off the landing ramp.

The three hundred soldiers had quickly formed up in battle formation and moved toward Parral's mansion. And then tracks had clanked and the ground rumbled and Sten realized that Parral had given himself a second line of defense. Men against armor.