The Forlorn(96)

By dusk on the fifth day they stood just at the crest of the rise before FirstHive. The scouts had dispatched the watchmen in the guard towers. Below them the hive and its wide plowed lands stood, unaware.

Beywulf stood surveying the low-walled hexagon from behind a high rock, his professional mercenary instincts surfacing. "Pity they've nothing worth looting. We'll go through there like stewed prunes."

Beside him S'kith shook his head. "They have stutter-burst energy weapons on all the towers. The walls have embedded proximity-triggered microwave devices. The gulleys leading to the gates are kill zones for centrally-timed pre-ranged explosive projectile fire. There is a zethwide, that is . . . about three-quarters of a mile wide, infrared detection zone, linked to the energy weapons in the towers. And what you see is only a tiny part. A hive goes down thirty levels and spreads across several square miles. We are standing above part of it now. There are half a million Morkth-men, with eighty thousand warriors trained at various levels. There are about six thousand Morkth warriors. Most of the Morkth workers have died, but there used to be twenty thousand of those." He turned to the encampment behind them, hidden below the ridge. "This is a flea-bite army."

"Does Cap know all this?" asked Beywulf, his voice dangerously quiet.

S'kith shrugged. "He is not a very good listener. I tried. He told me the Beta-Morkth have all the technology. That is not true. They just have far more."

"Hell's teeth! Come with me. We've got a lot of officers to talk to." Bey grabbed him roughly by the arm.

S'kith shook his head. "They will listen. But they are loyal. When Cap gives the order they will obey. No. I will fix it. I have one last request. I have bought many fine ingredients. Gather our companions. Reconcile with your son. Tonight may be your last chance. Together you must prepare us a great meal."

"Cap's put a ban on all campfires."

S'kith, the most obedient of men, turned and said, "To hell with him."

It was a strange meal. Hidden in a high dell, where the wind would not carry the scents of the cooking food to the keen noses of those below, they sat and ate. There was a kind of forced gaiety about it. S'kith however smiled his clumsy smile often, taking joy not only in the food, but at being the host. His pièce de résistance was a small bowl with a red goo in it. "For the great chef and his son, I have this delicacy. You are always seeking new tastes. Here is something rare. It is a Morkth dessert, only served on holidays. It doesn't smell very good . . . but the taste! Please try it."

They cautiously put spoons into it. Tasted. And looked into their host's face trying to compose suitable expressions and comments. The Morkth-man was sitting on a treestump, pursing his lips, rocking slightly.

It was Wolfgang who ventured first. "Er, rather earthy . . ."

At which point S'kith fell off the stump, making odd little gurgling and snorting noises.

"I . . . didn't mean to insult it . . . I . . . I'm sure . . ."

"We've been set up," grated Bey. A smile began to evolve. "This is just a dish of mud. I should have smelled a rat. Morkth don't have bloody holidays or, I'll bet, bloody dessert. That bald-headed coot is laughing. He's never done it before, so he's not doing it very well. Well, I'll be dipped . . ." He began to laugh, too.

It was fifteen minutes before any real kind of sanity began to return to the small gathering. Then S'kith set them all off again by explaining that he hadn't really lied: this was the taste of a Morkth-man meal, first course, main and dessert on all days. Beywulf and son still sat with an arm around each other's shoulders struggling with aching sides. S'kith sat on his stump. He was smiling. And now it no longer seemed clumsy or forced. It was natural and supremely happy. "I understand jokes now. They are good, too, like wild-human food. Teach them to my children, too, honorable man." Then he stood up, walked around the circle and hugged each in turn. Then, taking Leyla by the hand, he walked off into the darkness with her.

A small sniff came from Shael. Keilin, sitting beside her, turned. "What's wrong?" he asked.

A tear ran down her cheek. "Don't you see? He thinks he is going to die tomorrow. He believes it so much he probably will. And . . . it's as if he just learned to be a person. I . . . used to hate him. I was horrible to him. Now, he's going to get killed just when I've learned to like him."

Bey replied somberly, "No use crying over spilt milk, lass. I did the same. I reckon that's one hell of a human, especially when you think about where he came from."





CHAPTER 17


The strike was set for dawn. The waking call was an hour before. Keilin was hurrying towards his preassigned position, well out of the fighting—now he had other troops, Cap was taking no chances with any of his telepaths being hurt—when a worried Beywulf came up. "S'kith. You seen him?"