The Forlorn(95)

The third thing had been a thought that had come to Keilin in one of the quiet lulls while the guitarist had played one of those slow instrumental pieces. How had Leyla been able to produce a black opal so like the missing piece from Amphir to even fool what must be an experienced Jewel Recovery Unit officer? It was with this in mind that he had excused himself from the cheerful crowd at the table. He'd heard that Cap was already long abed and, when stowing their gear, had been shown which room Cap was occupying.

It was child's play second-story work. He knew where Cap kept the sections, and the man was deep asleep. It took him only moments to locate the soft leather bag. His fingers slipped into it. He touched a familiar chain. Yes, Cap always used that one. To taunt him perhaps. The cold stone seemed to welcome his touch. But his fingers went on. Other settings. Other stones.

All as lifeless as the moon.

There was only one core section in this bag. All the others were substituted stones. Keilin knew that only one person in their party had the background and skill to have done that. As he slipped away out of the window, and back to the party, he wondered for which piper Leyla really danced . . . and who paid that piper.

He was rather thoughtful and silent for the rest of that evening. Which was not something you could say about the quarrel between Beywulf and his son the next day. At breakfast, Cap had mentioned the coming attack and the need to call up an army.

Wolfgang had been waiting at their table—and volunteered.

"You are not going, and that's bloody final!" raged Bey.

Of course, it wasn't.

* * *

Dublin Moss was boiling over. There weren't going to be many able-bodied men or women left on the whole Moss Peninsula in three days' time. In the meantime the citizens were frantically organizing, and frenetically partying. They seemed convinced that there wasn't a single decent thing to eat in the rest of the world. By the time they'd stocked up to survive the terrible rigors of an army life, they'd each need about four pack ponies. Yet, underlying it all, there was a dreadful seriousness. They were going to fulfill an oath of allegiance. And few of them expected to come back.

The Gene-spliced had had weapons training from the cradle. They drilled weekly. Mock battles were the peninsula's abiding passion. Cap told the assembled eleven thousand that they were about as military as a bunch of dung beetles.

Each little battle team on the peninsula had its own strategy, drills, and weapons of choice. Cap set to organizing a more conventional force. And was stopped in his tracks by S'kith, who never questioned an order, who never took one step out of line. He walked to the front of the lecture that Cap was delivering on standard battle tactics. "No." There was a stunned silence.

Before anyone could recover he pointed to the diagram on the easel Cap was using. "That I learned when I was ten. Also the counter. When I saw the drills these men showed to you, I did not know how to counter their attack. Morkth fight by instinct, but mostly you will fight Morkth-men. They fight by training. They learn every attack. They practice every defense and every counterattack. Over and over again, until they can respond without thinking. These men . . . I have never been trained to deal with their methods. I could not respond, because I do not know how."

Cap did not like being interrupted. But he was also no fool. Now that S'kith had stated it, it was too obvious to deny. "Very good, Morkth-man. So I want to know every tactic you do recognize. Those we cut. See what weapons you know. We'll try to use only the ones you don't have defenses against. I'm going to work your butt off."

* * *

They advanced steadily through the state of Rampar. Once the locals had realized that the well-disciplined army took nothing and killed no one, every evening camp brought streams of local traders, entertainers and whores. The latter were generally disappointed by an army where females actually slightly outnumbered the men. Fishing for news of Shael's father, Keilin trolled among local folk. Rumor abounded, but no solid facts.

The local Duke sent an envoy to discover what they were doing on his territory. Cap sent back an official crew-stamped letter, demanding his levy of troops, and the Duke himself to lead them against the Morkth. Not surprisingly, that was the last they heard of him.

They marched out of Rampar and into Morkth-occupied lands. Now the scouts and vanguard probed warily ahead. Tension built as they attempted to sneak an army past EastHive. People snapped easily, arguments flared, and it was mostly foursomes of legs under the blankets in the nervous nights . . . and they wove their way unopposed past Morkth farms and outposts, just as S'kith had said they would. "A wild human would think of striking deep into enemy territory. Morkth would attack the outside and cut their way in. They would never leave live enemies behind them. As long as you do not touch the farms, or go too close to their way-stations they will ignore you."