The Forlorn(13)

Her lack of decision was probably just as well. She had no real idea where she was. She had always been escorted and taken to places. She had no real notion of distance or direction, for someone else had always taken care of this. She only knew that she was tired and sore, her feet and legs bleeding from a myriad of small cuts and scratches. On top of this she was also hungry, thirsty and cold. The sky was pale now, but the dawn breeze still sliced at her dew-wet legs. If only she'd kept the sack, she thought, she could at least have wrapped it around herself. Then it occurred to her that she did have two large shirts and, once unwrapped from her arms, they made reasonable short dresses on her small frame.

The comfort of the garments, and the first rays of sunlight lifted her spirits considerably. She raised her arms and shook her small fists, jangling her bracelets defiantly. She looked at them and smiled to herself, for the first time since her life had abruptly begun to unravel. On her arms was a small fortune. Perhaps, perhaps she had the means to some power. In Shael's mind power and security were automatically equivalent.

She was still trying to work out the best approach, considering each of her father's generals in turn, when she stumbled upon the stream. She was unsure how one did this rough drinking: usually a servant brought drinks on a silver tray in a container of some kind. She settled for kneeling and scooping water up rather ineffectually with her hands. The water was cold and peat-stained. A day before she would have looked at it, raised an eyebrow and rejected it disdainfully. Now she drank until her side had a stitch in it.

Her vanity was still intact however. Shael was still kneeling, looking at her reflection in the pool when a coldness began creeping down her spine. Small, almost hidden sounds told her there was someone behind her. Slowly she turned. She steeled her face for calmness, but the muscles in her neck were jumping with tension, betraying fear which was mounting towards panic.

Well, he was no Morkth-man. Those were always clean-shaven, both on the head and face, and clad in black. The heavy stubble on his cheeks was the only thing that was black about this man. He was long-haired and his clothes had once been a Tyn States uniform, a lancer's at a guess. He attempted a disarming grin. The blackened stumps of several rotting teeth made it less of a success than it could have been. He touched the hank of limp, greasy hair on his brow, his shifty eyes darting about. "Morning, missy. You alone?"

Her first inclination was to run. Her second, on realizing that this was totally impractical, was to claim a score of companions.

"My . . . my servants are just back there. Lots of them. If you touch me, I'll scream and they'll come." Despite her training her voice belied her.

He was certainly not fooled. He snorted derisively. "Likely bloody story, missy. They're hiding in the grass, belike? Calm down, I'm not gonna hurt you."

She relaxed slightly, even if it was not a credible performance on his part either. This slightly run-to-fat goliath might be physically stronger than she was, but she had other skills. Words . . . and certain other talents. She was unaccustomed to being alone. She felt sure she could manipulate him easily. Then he would provide her with company, protection and—most important right now—food.





CHAPTER 3


Humans are the vertebrate equivalent of the cockroach. They can, and will, adapt to nearly anything. The Alpha-Morkth hives pushed this adaptability close to its limits. At this point most humans crack. Some go insane, some try to rebel, and some become catatonic. Still, after more than three hundred years of selection, the Alpha-Morkth had to weed out about seventy percent of each crop of humans they bred. The culls went back into the food supply for the others. The remaining thirty percent were almost all perfect Morkth-men. Almost all . . . but there were always a few exceptions. Adaptation to survive could always be pushed one step further. A few of the humans the Morkth bred had learned not only to survive, but to exploit the system. S'kith 235 was one of those. He was a great danger to the entire hive system. Not only had he learned to exploit it, but also he still had his balls.

The Alpha-Morkth wanted uniformity, absolute obedience, and antlike industry from the humans they bred to replace workers and, reluctantly, warriors of their own species. The warriors were a problem. A good fighter needs a certain amount of flexibility in their response to an enemy. A degree of tactical adaptability is also needed. A soldier may also have to be deployed at a variety of tasks, given the chaotic nature of war. The sheer stupidity bred for in workers was thus unsuitable, but with too much intelligence and flexibility the warrior Morkth-men could be dangerous to their creators. The cull rate here was over ninety percent, and the resultant warrior-breds were still somewhat less effective than wild-human fighters. The selection bias toward strongly left-brain-dominant warriors failed to adequately deal with the erratic nature of hand-to-hand combat. It was the main reason for the hive cities' lack of speed in their advance against the internecinally squabbling city-states.