Heroic Hearts

THE RETURN OF THE MAGE by Charlaine Harris

“It’s a rescue?” Batanya said. The signal had come through to the mechs very early in the morning. It had been erratic, weak. But it was a rescue signal.

“No one from the Collective has gone to Coturigo in twenty years.” Clovache, Batanya’s Second Officer, had come to fetch Batanya from a meeting. It had been a welcome interruption. Batanya had been balancing her knife on her fingertip to pass the time.

Since Clovache was on duty, her light hair was plaited and tucked appropriately under a net, and her helmet was in her hand. Batanya’s short black hair was smooth on her head and uncovered. Both wore their liquid armor, which was not liquid at all but a thin and stretchy fabric that repelled most blades and bullets. It was fabulously expensive, and each mercenary of the Britlingen Collective spent the first years of service saving for the purchase.

When the two women arrived at the hub of the Collective, a wide lobby with doors to the entrance to the mercenaries’ wing, the Hall of Contracts, and the Sending Halls, they found a short man waiting. He was a mage, from his long hair and long robe. Like Batanya, the mage looked like a native of the surrounding area: dark hair, slight build, brown eyes.

“You’re Vandler?” Clovache said. The mages and the mercenaries did not mix, as a rule. “This is my First, Batanya.” Batanya was in charge of a klader, three teams of ten mercenaries apiece.

The man nodded. “We received the signal thirty minutes ago. Is one of your teams ready to go?”

“Of course.” Since Batanya’s klaven was on duty, one of the three teams was ready to go, around the clock. “And here they are,” Batanya said, as Geit’s team trotted into the Hall. When you were on the active team, you ran, at a pace you’d been taught in training.

Teams had a contract for missions, and even though this was a team planning to investigate a recovery signal for one of its own, the form had to be followed. Batanya filled in the blanks herself, Clovache signed too, and two minutes later the doors to the Hall of Sending swung open. Vandler, the sending mage, went in with Geit and the other nine mercs. Geit blew Clovache a kiss as he mounted the platform.

That was not regulation. Batanya sighed. She was going to have to recommend that one or the other be transferred to another klaven, and Clovache had been her friend and comrade for years.

There were several grubby mechanics in coveralls around the platform, twiddling with the machinery, going about their mysterious business. Vandler had begun chanting a safe distance away. Geit’s team, armed and ready, stood on the platform.

The mages, the mercs, and the mechs. All the parts of the most expensive, efficient, and well-known bodyguard, mercenary, and extraction teams in the known worlds.

The doors closed and from within came a trickle of sound as the team went to their mysterious destination.

There was no telling when they’d return, so Clovache returned to her duty station while Batanya went for a run. The sprawling Britlingen enclave topped a large hill, and going up and down was Batanya’s favorite exercise. She peeled her liquid armor down to her waist for the downhill run. Her modest bra was not going to shock anyone on this mountain. Going down was fun and dangerous, and Batanya concentrated with her formidable focus. All her klaven would laugh themselves sick if she broke a leg.

At the bottom, Batanya ran in place for a count of thirty, then started back up, bouncing from high spot to high spot, short black hair fluttering. It was a cool day but her sweat dried almost as soon as it appeared.

Batanya glanced up to see that Clovache was waiting for her at the archway on the top of the hill. She knew immediately the news was bad. When she reached the archway, she stopped, and had to exercise a lot of restraint so she wouldn’t lean over with her hands on her knees to pant.

“Speak,” Batanya said.

“Klader Leader Batanya,” Clovache said formally.

So the news was very bad. Batanya gave a short nod. “Second Clovache.”

“Geit’s team is dead, almost all of it.”

Clovache was using as much restraint at Batanya. Geit was Clovache’s lover, had been—off and on—for years.

“Who has returned to tell us so?”

“Therryl. Some of the bodies came back with him. Not Geit or Simone.”

A double disaster for Clovache and Batanya, both personal and professional. “What does Therryl say?”

“He is waiting for you. He is dying.”

The two began to run in the ground-eating trot that all mercs knew like their own heartbeat. In tandem the two women entered the building. “Clear way!” Clovache shouted a couple of times, and those mercs in the hall ahead of them picked up the call.

There was a small crowd at the infirmary doors: friends of the team members, mercs from the other two teams in the klader. They were silent as Batanya and Clovache passed through the doors.

Inside the infirmary, bodies sprawled on gurneys pushed about the room. Bits of armor and clothing littered the floor when they’d been ripped from the bodies to see if the mercs could be saved. Wounds gaped and had quit bleeding. None of them would make the trip into the hospital beyond the next set of doors.

There was activity around one gurney. Therryl’s.

The orderly who turned to face them had a smear of blood on his arm and held his hands in the air as a reminder not to touch anything. “The mage is working on Therryl, but it doesn’t look good.” The orderly stepped aside.

The mage was Vandler, who had sent the team to its destination. He was pushing magic into Therryl’s wound and working so hard he didn’t react when Clovache and Batanya appeared at his side.

Therryl himself would not have noticed if a hundred people had entered the room. The mercenary was ridden by pain, his eyes shut, his muscles tense, tears running down his cheeks. Therryl’s bloodstained hands gripped the sheets so hard Batanya was surprised the fabric didn’t shred.

The wound in Therryl’s side was the kind you didn’t survive. It must have been delivered from very close, since the power of the thrust had penetrated the liquid armor. Batanya was sure it was a spear thrust, though she had seldom seen one.

“Therryl,” Batanya said. “I’m here. Report.”

“They didn’t want us to see the man,” Therryl said. He spoke in a burst, between deep breaths. “They fought us back . . . with spears . . . I got everyone close to me . . . best I could . . . to bring back.”

“Who were they?” Batanya kept her voice as calm as she could.

“Coturigans,” Therryl said. “Can I go?”

“Die with honor,” Batanya granted.

Therryl died with a final gasp of relief.

Clovache began the ritual of farewell immediately. The others heard the familiar words from beyond the closed door and a chorus of voices joined in the lament. They bid Therryl farewell, prayed his bones would lie in peace, praised him for having fought, congratulated him on having no more battles to fight.

The mage, looking almost as bad as some of the corpses, leaned against the wall, his eyes shut, listening.

When the ritual was finished, the two women looked at each other, and Batanya nodded. Her armor had been peeled down all this time, and now she pulled herself back together. “This time you come with us,” she said.

The mage opened his eyes. “Me?” Vandler said. “Mages don’t go on combat missions.” He was indignant and more than a little anxious.

“You will. You sent my team to die. Now you’ll go with Batanya and me to retrieve our dead.”

Vandler was gaping at them, his lips curving up in an incredulous half smile. “I won’t be any help at all.”

“You can die with us,” Clovache said. “Geit and Simone are still missing. And we’re going to get them now.”

“Get two injections from the infirmary,” Batanya said. Searching the faces of the onlookers, she said, “Marcus, give me some protection.” She hadn’t been armed for her run, but she needed something now. The burly mercenary tossed Batanya a paraton, not her favorite weapon. It looked like a flashlight and was held like one. Instead of a light, the paraton issued a burning ray. It would do.

Clovache had already trotted off.

“Injections? What for?” Vandler asked.

“In case Geit or Simone is in as bad a shape as Therryl was,” Batanya said.

“I’m not going,” Vandler said, his jaw stuck out.

“Then I’ll give you one of the injections, take you with us, and leave you there unconscious.”

Vandler glowered at her. Mages weren’t used to being given ultimatums. “I have done my job,” he said.

Clovache was back, stuffing two injectors into her belt. She exchanged a look with Batanya. They each grabbed one of Vandler’s arms and dragged him into the hall of sending. The mercs around them opened the doors so they could enter without letting go.

The doors fell shut, and they were in a quiet space. The mechs in the room stared.

“We need to return to the same coordinates,” Batanya told them, her voice as smooth and calm as if she were ordering a drink. “Vandler has agreed to show us where the signal came from.”

The mechs, a man and an old woman, looked confused and glanced from Batanya to Vandler, who was so outraged he wasn’t able to speak. But the mechs started about their preparations. Probably because of the smooth-barreled gun Clovache had drawn.

The two mercs hauled Vandler up on the platform. “Send,” Batanya bellowed, and the mechs obeyed. Since Vandler had done the necessary chanting so shortly before, the sending worked.

Batanya, Clovache, and Vandler arrived on a small island of solid ground in the middle of a swamp. Short trees were all around but glimpses of light blue sky could be seen between the fronds. Birds called and something splashed into the mud-colored water on their left. Vandler fell to his knees. The sending was hard the first few times.

She and Clovache were back to back, Vandler between them, anticipating an immediate attack. Batanya held the paraton in defense position, her forefinger having already pressed the tiny lever that would prime the weapon, her thumb on the firing button.

“Look,” said Clovache. There was a body a few feet away.

“Simone.” The long light hair was a vital clue. Whatever had slithered into the water had been eating on the body, and much of it was missing.

“Not Geit,” Clovache said, choking on the words.

Batanya knelt by the body. “Go in peace to the fields of plenty, Simone,” she said. It was an abbreviated version of the death chant and all she could manage at this moment. She gave the clearing a comprehensive look, reading the evidence as clearly as if she’d been present.

“Their dead are gone, and Geit is not here,” Batanya said. “His team must have done some damage. I see drag marks.”

Clovache followed the torn mud and grass. “This way,” she said, pointing.

“What is this place, Coturigo?” Batanya asked Vandler, who had finally gotten to his feet.

His jaw was rigid with his anger but he replied. “It’s a primitive place. A jungle planet. But possibly with rich lodes of three rare minerals underneath, which is why the previous party was sent here all those years ago. There was a mage with them, and he had a beacon. They did not have amulets back then.”

Batanya’s hand went to the one around her neck. They called it an amulet, but it was really a tiny machine with a plain veneer. If she pressed the little button on the side, the mechs at home would know she needed extraction immediately, and they would know exactly where she was.

“How this beacon got activated so many years later that we received the rescue signal this morning, I don’t know.” Vandler shook his head. He had gotten his anger under control. “We need to look for your team leader and get out of here. We can send a properly armed team later to follow this mysterious beacon.”

Batanya nodded understanding. Clovache was waiting impatiently for them to move off the patch of dry land and onto the narrow neck of dirt marked with blood and the passage of many feet. Batanya passed her, paraton at the ready; Vandler came behind her, and then Clovache fell into place guarding the rear.

Batanya was sweating as they ran. If the memory of Therryl’s gaping wound hadn’t been so fresh, she might have been tempted to peel her suit down again. On the other hand, she was not getting scratched by the violent plant life and bitten by insects as Vandler was, going by his curses.

“Be quiet. We have to listen,” Clovache hissed. After that, the mage was silent.

Batanya was focused on the ground. Most of the prints were of bare feet or sandals. The drag marks were almost certainly from Geit’s boots.

Glancing up and ahead, Batanya froze and dropped down. She could see Geit through a clump of tall reeds. He was moving, but his stance was odd. Something was very wrong.

“Clovache,” Batanya said, in as quiet and level a voice as she could command. “I see Geit, but he’s suspended in the air and moving . . . not by his own power.”

Clovache crouched down by Batanya. “What is he doing? How is he . . . ?”

“Some kind of an invisible stake moving with magic,” Vandler answered from behind them.

“Stay here.” Batanya crept forward. If Geit had been conscious he would have heard them by now, even with the swamp noise. He was an experienced warrior in all kinds of terrain, including swampland. For him to be exposed and displayed . . . this was clearly a crude ambush, with Geit as bait.

Batanya worked her way closer. She lifted the paraton and looked through the tiny scope mounted on top. Geit’s eyes opened and closed. He was still alive. His chest looked oddly blurry. Batanya figured that some sort of invisible noose was passed around him under his arms. That was what was holding the man upright. Blood soaked the material of his liquid armor, chiefly on his left arm. Batanya winced when she saw tears running down Geit’s weathered face. Just like Therryl’s.

“Geit,” she said urgently.

The merc’s eyes flickered. He began to struggle, suspended in the air. It was horrible to see.

But they couldn’t go charging in. For one thing, he might be rotating on top of water.

“Who would have set off an old beacon?” Vandler muttered. “Who would have called a team here to be killed?” The mage could not seem to think to himself. Batanya wondered if all mages talked this much.

Clovache was creeping closer to Geit, inch by inch. The sun finally made its way through the trees of the swamp. A ray glinted off something in the air around Geit.

“Freeze where you are,” Batanya commanded. For the first time in ten years, she wasn’t sure Clovache would obey.

But she did, at least for this moment.

“There’s a trap right in front of you,” Batanya said. “It shines when the light hits it.”

“I see it now,” Clovache said, after a long moment of silence.

“Throw a rock through,” Vandler suggested. “Or a stick. Anything.”

“Try it,” Batanya said, after mulling it over.

Clovache reached down to pull a branch from the sticky earth. With some caution, she scooted forward a bit and held her arm directly in front of the circle of the trap. In one quick move, she tossed the stick through and snatched her arm back. There was a clear, but small, popping sound.

Instead of falling back to the ground, the stick was suspended in midair, rotating along with Geit.

“Crap,” Clovache said. The trap was sprung.

Batanya heard the slightest noise in the brush behind her and knew they’d been diverted for too long.

“Ready!” she said. Though Vandler was puzzled for a moment, Clovache wheeled, her back to the oblivious Geit. Clovache drew her gun in one hand and a knife in the other. Batanya leaped into the tiny clearing, glad to discover it was solid, and turned to face the other side.

Vandler came with them. He caught on instantly and raised his hands, popping a shell around them.

The first volley of weapons bounced off the shell. Those were the fierce spears that had wreaked such havoc with the first team. Vandler’s shield held for the blast, but shivered. “Won’t hold them for much more of that,” he said.

“Thanks,” Batanya said. It might be the last thing she ever said to Vandler. Since he’d stopped bitching and started helping, it was the least she could do.

Clovache screamed, not a shriek of pain or fear, but an attack alert. She fired, her Salton gun making the soft tat, tat known through many worlds. Two of the attackers fell before they had a chance to retrieve their spears.

There was one of those odd pauses that can happen in the middle of a fight. None of the attackers were quite within range, and it seemed they were not going to throw more spears.

Into this pause ran a young man, maybe seventeen, his copper hair streaming behind him. He wore only a loincloth and was waving his arms while yelling.

Batanya couldn’t understand him, but she was pretty sure he was saying, “Stop! Stop!”

The war party came out of their concealment. They appeared to be led by a tall woman with golden skin and long copper hair, tied back.

The boy deliberately stepped between the war party and the Britlingens and began to deliver a long harangue, his hands gesturing wildly.

Batanya took advantage of the moment to examine the Coturigans. They were definitely golden, taller than the Britlingens, and they were robust. In this tropical climate, all the locals were dressed in some kind of covering between the waist and the knees, but otherwise they were a clothing-optional crowd. A few of them carried spears, but those had been thrown, except for the tall woman’s weapon. A few carried bows and arrows, machetes, and slings. The rest were armed with knives and clubs.

Batanya could reach two spears that had been stopped by Vandler’s shield. She crouched to pull them under Vandler’s protective spell. She herself might not be skilled in spear throwing, but at least the hostiles would not have them.

Then she watched the result of the young man’s oratory.

It was clear the attack team was dismayed.

“Maybe they were lucky with the first crew?” Clovache said.

“I think the boy has magical training,” Vandler said. He was so full of curiosity he sounded like a different man. “He’s very young. But some of his hand movements look familiar.”

“He’s the one keeping Geit up in the air?” Batanya said.

Vandler shook his head. “No, that’s a crude and almost made-up spell. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the woman. I think she’s his mother.”

“Huh. Can you talk to him?”

“I can try.” Vandler straightened from the crouch he’d fallen into at the first hint of danger. “You, magician,” he said, loud and clear.

The boy, whose coppery hair was mostly plaited and decorated with feathers and bones, stared at Vandler. “Yes, mage?” he said, in accented though understandable Britlingen.

“He can speak our language,” Clovache said. That was significant and strange. Normally, only the people who hired Britlingens could speak with them, another piece of mage-work.

“I can speak your language. So can she.” The young man pointed at the tall woman. “My father taught me,” the boy said, haltingly. “My mother didn’t know . . .” He hesitated for a long moment. Clearly, he was about to lie to someone. “She believes you have come to steal him.”

There was a lot to chew over in that sentence. The safest answer was “Maybe,” but Batanya didn’t think anyone would be satisfied with that.

“We don’t know who we were to see here,” she said, which was the most diplomatic answer she could think of. There followed ten seconds of everyone wanting to stand down but no one wanting to be the first. Just in case.

“Let us talk,” the tall woman said. Her accent was much heavier than her son’s. “I promise your safety. On my son’s head.” She repeated herself in her own tongue, turning to look at the war party.

The war party looked relieved.

“I’m lowering the shield,” Vandler said. “If you believe her? I do.”

“Me, too,” Batanya said.

Vandler lowered his hands with a sigh of relief. He was bleeding from his left arm, Batanya noticed. Grazed by a spear before he got the shield up, looked like.

“Why have you come here?” asked the tall woman. The young man was very anxious to hear the answer to this, Batanya noted.

“We sent a team here to answer a distress beacon,” Batanya said. “As soon as they arrived, they were set upon and killed or injured. Their bodies came back to us since one of them had enough energy to press his amulet, which brought them back to the Britlingen Collective. We three came to retrieve the last two. One of them is dead. The other hangs in the air behind us.” She didn’t turn to look, but she knew Geit was still turning in the air.

“You are invaders, out to abduct our mage and take him away,” the woman said.

“Then who set off the beacon? Of course we assumed whoever was here was ready to come home,” Vandler said rather crossly. He was not even looking at the woman, because he was intent on healing the gash. The sleeve of his robe was blood-soaked.

Vandler didn’t realize, but Batanya did, that everyone in the war party was staring at him. After a couple of minutes, during which time the gash disappeared, the silence penetrated his spell-casting, and he raised his head to look around him inquiringly.

The tall woman said, “You are a mage who can heal wounds?” She was staring at Vandler with hungry eyes. “You are a Britlingen, though?”

Vandler, surprised, said, “Yes, all that.”

Things were moving well, Batanya thought, but Clovache had had all she could stand. She was looking back at Geit and her face was stripped down to basic emotion. She decided to hurry things along, since Clovache would not be able to remain calm for much longer. “Lady, I am Batanya, a leader of the Britlingens who fight. This is Clovache, a fighter too. The mage is Vandler. He is a great healer. If you will let Geit go, we would like to get him down.”

The woman glanced down at her son, who nodded mutely.

“My name is Perro.” The boy inclined his head toward the tall woman. “Marla, my mother.”

Exchanging names seemed to seal the deal on Coturigo. Marla twisted her fingers curiously and Geit dropped abruptly to the ground. Clovache sprang to him and crouched down.

“How is he?” Batanya asked, turning her head slightly to be sure Clovache heard her. The woman might have made a promise, but she wanted to keep her own eyes on the situation.

“Far from well,” Clovache said, a savage edge to her voice. “We need to avenge Geit and leave this place.” She sounded angry.

“The woman released Geit from the magic,” Batanya said. “Willingly.”

“Yes, First.” Clovache didn’t say that with any enthusiasm or regret, but she said it.

Vandler stepped back from the boy, who had come close to Vandler to stare at his non-existent wound. “Like it was never there,” Perro said to Vandler, admiringly.

“Yes.” Vandler sounded calm, assured, but he looked exhausted.

“Vandler, evaluate Geit,” Batanya said. “Sit beside him.”

Vandler gave her a grateful look before doing his best to walk briskly to Geit’s side. He sank down on the grass to examine the mercenary carefully. Combat and healing had taken their toll on the mage, but he was doing his best to conceal that. Batanya approved highly.

“A superficial knife wound to the ribs, which has stopped bleeding. His armor did a good job there,” Vandler called. “It’s the blow to the head that is serious. Geit needs to return to the Collective.”

Perro and Marla looked at each other.

“If you will agree, my second here will accompany the wounded man and the body of our comrade back to our base,” Batanya said. She felt Clovache’s muscles jump in protest. Clovache would not feel right leaving her here.

“No,” Perro said, for his mother. “The other woman warrior must stay, but you can . . . send . . . the body of the dead woman and this soldier.”

“I agree,” said Clovache before Batanya could ask her. “Let me get Geit and Simone home, and I will stay with my leader.”

Marla nodded. “Then you three must return to our village to meet our chief, Hannuman.”

“Hannuman?” Vandler was clearly astounded. “Really?”

He turned his back on the tribesmen to tell Batanya, “Hannuman is the only mage who has simply vanished. Quite a legend in our world.”

Only among the mages, apparently.

Batanya made a come on gesture with her fingers.

“He was the nastiest son of a bitch who ever walked the halls of the Collective, and then one day he vanished when he’d been detailed to come here with a mining party from Sentra. Hannuman was a metals mage. The Sentrans didn’t want to pay for a rescue attempt, and Hannuman’s beacon did not start sending. No one heard from him again. That’s what the older mages tell us.”

“Presumably it was he who set off the beacon?” Batanya was helping Clovache raise Geit to his feet. Geit barely knew where he was, though he recognized Clovache and leaned against her. He was having trouble making his muscles obey his will. The blow to his head had been serious.

What if Perro and Marla changed their minds? Geit would die. “I’m going to help my soldier get this man back to the body of our sister,” Batanya said, loud enough that the attackers’ party could hear her. “I will return as soon as they are gone.”

“No,” Marla said instantly. “If you two leave with your wounded, what’s to stop your people from sending even more soldiers here?”

A very good point, since that was exactly what Batanya would have done if Vandler hadn’t been with them.

“I will send Geit and the body of our sister back to the base,” Clovache called. “Batanya and the mage will stay here. I’ll return. You have my word.”

“This man will go with you to make sure you comply,” Perro called. The boy and not his mother, Batanya noticed with interest, waved a big man with a club forward. “He doesn’t speak your language, so don’t think you can talk him into anything else.”

That’s a boy who’s used to being deceived, Batanya thought.

“I accept,” Clovache called. “Let’s get moving.”

Marla gave the big man an order in their language. He dropped his club and came forward. These people were not trained or dedicated warriors. The big man seemed so eager to help that Batanya immediately knew he was the one who’d hit Geit in the head.

Between them, the Coturigan and Clovache managed to steer Geit in the right direction. Geit made an effort to help, but he had no control over his body.

Just in case Marla had said in Coturigan, “Big Guy, kill them when you’re out of sight,” Batanya waited on the alert, a spear in one hand and the paraton in the other. Vandler seemed unconcerned, and he and Perro looked at each other with unabashed curiosity.

In less than four minutes, Clovache and the big man returned. Clovache said, “Done, First.”

Batanya felt a wave of relief. Geit’s survival was out of her hands now. She spared a moment to wonder what was being made of the return of an injured merc and a dead merc, with no sign of the three who had gone to look for them.

Any response from the Collective would take longer since she and Clovache had acted so hastily in forcing Vandler to bring them here.

Marla talked to the war party in their own language for a minute. As a result, the largest men stayed to carry the bodies, while the wounded gathered behind the Britlingens.

Marla looked at Batanya and said, “Come.”

The Britlingens walked for a while in silence, careful to follow in the footsteps of the people before them. Something large thrashed around in the boggy water just out of sight. Marla said something to Perro and smiled at him, but the boy kept his grim face on. “We hardly knew how to use magic before Hannuman taught us,” Marla said to Batanya, looking back at her.

“Hmmm.” Batanya didn’t think this was idle history. “And you learned our language from Hannuman.” She sped up a little, hoping for a conversation.

“Yes. He was sure the Keechobish would return for him.”

“What does that mean?” Vandler said, just as neutrally as Batanya. The mage was surprising her again.

“Alien People with Weapons.”

That pretty much said it all, Batanya thought. “So Hannuman taught you some mage craft?” Batanya asked, since it was her turn.

“Oh, yes, that was why he was given me as wife,” Marla said. She spoke calmly, but her expression said that some of the teaching had not been pleasant. “It helped us so much, having a mage. He could do things for the village that we didn’t know how to do.”

From the corner of her eye, Batanya saw Vandler’s hands curl into fists. The mage did not like that tidbit at all. “So Perro is your son with Hannuman.” Vandler managed to sound no more than mildly curious.

“Our middle son. We have three.” For the first time, Marla smiled.

Batanya could not feel sure how the local woman felt about Hannuman, but she could read loud and clear that Marla loved her sons.

The edge of the village was within sight by now. It had been built on the largest area of solid land Batanya had seen, possibly the edge of a major land mass.

First were outhouses . . . no trouble recognizing those. Then there were huts scattered at random in the cleared area. It must be a constant battle to keep the forest at bay, Batanya thought.

As they progressed into the heart of the village, there were pens of animals, some Batanya couldn’t identify, with children guarding them. She saw a well, a large communal cooking pit, and what might have been a village oven. Most of the people looked well-nourished and able, and there were plenty of children.

“Not many old people,” Clovache said quietly.

“No signs of any mining,” Batanya said. She would have liked to look longer, but Marla and Perro had picked up the pace.

An anxious group waited in the center of the village. The wounded were surrounded and taken off to a small hut. Perro peeled away to stand with two other young men, one golden-skinned but blond, one lighter but copper-haired. His brothers, Batanya figured. The three began to whisper to each other, but she could not interpret their expressions.

Now most of the villagers held back in a cluster. Only two sturdy Coturigan men and Marla led the newcomers forward. Marla’s sons followed close behind, looking grim.

There was one man waiting for them, under a sort of primitive pavilion.

The floor was beaten dirt and the posts holding up the roof were painted in bright colors. There were seats under its shelter, not the stools Batanya would have predicted, but real chairs with backs and arms and cushions to soften the wooden seats.

The largest chair, the only one occupied, held an old man who must be Hannuman. His hair was white and streamed over his bare shoulders in true mage style. His skin, after twenty years under the Coturigan sun, was brown and freckled, not the attractive gold of the local people.

“A mage, all right,” Clovache said with a grunt.

Hannuman had disdainful pride draped on his shoulders like a cloak.

Batanya, Clovache, and Vandler watched the old man for what seemed like a long time. Though he wasn’t looking back at them, at least not directly, Batanya was sure he was giving them a thorough examination. It appeared the old mage was not going to welcome them or acknowledge them first. But then, he’d been king in this swamp for two decades. It was a humble kingdom, but his own.

“Are we expected to bow?” Clovache whispered.

Damned if I will, Batanya thought. But she thought again, and inclined her head at the same moment Vandler did.

And Batanya noticed that despite his aloof air, Hannuman was gripping the arms of his chair so fiercely his hands were white.

Marla went to one knee in front of her husband and began to talk to him in their language. While Hannuman appeared to be listening, his head inclined, his eyes were actually on Vandler.

Batanya did not like the old man’s expression. Not good. Why wasn’t Hannuman delighted at the arrival of another mage? Surely he was all excited about taking his family back to the Collective—or at the very least, he’d be full of the chance to tell his own story at last.

After all, he’d set off the beacon.

When Marla fell silent, Hannuman raised his hand. The few conversations among the people behind them stopped.

Batanya had to clamp her lips together to repress a sigh. Someone had a god complex.

“After all these years you have finally returned to get me,” Hannuman said coldly. “At least, I presume that the warriors my wife has told me of came from home?”

So this was Hannuman’s reaction. He was angry at them. Batanya remembered the bodies of her team strewn around the infirmary, and she shuddered. “Our people have died, and some of yours, too,” she said. “Why did you tell your people to attack when you had activated your beacon?”

“What?” Hannuman was shocked. It was genuine, if Batanya was reading him right. “The beacon worked after all these years? How can that be?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Batanya caught the two brothers rounding on Perro, their eyes wide. “Yes,” she said loudly, to keep Hannuman’s attention. “We sent a rescue squad immediately. They are almost all dead because they answered the summons of your beacon. We three came to find the remaining bodies.”

Hannuman glared at her. “The hell you say!”

“I do.”

“Who are you?” Hannuman asked Vandler directly. Apparently, he was done talking to Batanya.

Batanya didn’t dare look at Clovache.

“I’m Vandler, a healer and destination mage from the Collective.”

Hannuman could not have looked blanker if Vandler had declared he was a monkey. “I am one of the great mages of my age,” Hannuman told them with calm certainty.

Vandler didn’t speak. He might have been struck wordless by the claim.

“Do they not still talk of me?” Hannuman said.

“From time to time,” Vandler answered carefully. “It’s been twenty years.”

Marla had backed away from her husband, but she was still on one knee. She was listening intently.

“Twenty years,” Hannuman said slowly. “That long. I lost track.”

All three of the sons had had birthdays, which surely they observed somehow or another. That should have marked the time clearly enough.

“I had long given up working on the beacon. Who repaired it and activated it?” Hannuman said, as if the Britlingens were sure to know.

Vandler shrugged. “There is no way to tell. The signal came in quite faintly. It took the techs some time to be sure they’d tracked it to the right location.”

The old man’s eyes swiveled to the three young men and he fixed his sons with a terrible glare. “Was it you, Bertol? Or you, Ronoldo? Or . . . Perro?” And Hannuman’s voice snapped on the last name.

It was a frightening glare if you were a kid with an overbearing and conceited father. Marla cringed, too.

Batanya hated bullies.

“Does it make any difference?” Batanya demanded. She wanted to skip this family drama and begin their exit from this place, with or without Hannuman. She had to accept that her team had died for an asshole. There was so much to do at the Collective. Relatives, if the mercs had any, had to be told. Bodies had to be committed to the fire. “We are here to take you back. Are you ready to go? What about your family?”

“My family?” Hannuman looked as if he couldn’t understand the connection.

There was an appalled silence as they all realized that Hannuman had not even considered taking his wife and sons with him.

Marla went from cringing to furious. It was great. She was on her feet, eyes flashing, her plait of copper hair swinging. Her spear was in her hand in a throwing position.

“No, no, stop, please stop,” said Clovache in a monotone.

Batanya had to bite her lips to hide a smile.

In one violent motion, Marla broke her spear over her knee and tossed down the two pieces. “I divorce you!” she said in Britlingen, and then repeated it in Coturigan.

Her sons were frozen with astonishment. Suddenly, Perro grinned.

“Excuse me,” Vandler said loudly. “Hannuman, what is your intention? Will you stay here with these good people, your wife, your sons? Or do you intend to return to the Collective with us? And when you have answered that, maybe you will impress us with the story of how you came to be the only survivor of the mining company party.”

Hannuman skipped the hard questions for the easy one. “Because I popped on a shield to cover myself at the first sign of an attack. Everyone else was killed within minutes. But the local people saw what I had done, and that made them curious about me. They kept me alive to learn from me. Gradually they understood what I could do for them. I became their king.”

Vandler had popped a shield over all of them when they’d been attacked.

“And you will come with us?” Batanya was anxious to get this settled.

Not to Batanya’s surprise in any way, the boy Perro stepped forward. “We will let you take him without further struggle,” he said, imagining he sounded scary and noble. “But you must leave behind the mage you brought with you. We have not learned enough. Our father knows about finding minerals, and he knows about protecting ourselves, and he knows about punishment. But you, Vandler, you know other things. Things we need.”

This was another conversation stopper. Marla flushed. Maybe she was wondering if she’d have to have children with Vandler, too. Maybe she was delighted she might get rid of Hannuman. Maybe she was humiliated that her husband might walk away from her and their children without a second glance.

“No one’s arguing that they have to keep him,” Clovache whispered. That hadn’t escaped Batanya’s notice.

Hannuman shrugged. It was obviously okay with him if someone else sacrificed his freedom for Hannuman’s.

Batanya and Clovache formed a little huddle with Vandler, who was clearly stunned.

“Can you make our conversation private?” Batanya said.

Vandler made some gestures in the air and chanted a little. Batanya watched a chickenlike bird raise its head and crow perhaps five feet away, but she heard no sound.

“That worked,” she said.

“Of course it did.” Vandler gave her a wry smile.

“Hannuman’s return won’t be any asset to the Collective. If you want, we’ll just walk out of here and leave him to face the music for showing them how little he cares,” Batanya said.

“He’s a rare shit,” Clovache said.

“He’s a rare shit who can order everyone in this village to attack us. The odds look good that they’ll obey him, maybe excluding his immediate family,” Batanya said.

“They’ll obey,” Vandler said. “You see that framework over there?” He pointed.

A sort of bamboo grid, about the size of a man, was set upright into the ground on one side of the clearing. There were strips of gleaming metal running through the lattice structure.

“That’s a punishment device,” Vandler said. “It looks like nothing. But you don’t want to know how painful it is when it’s powered by a strong mineral mage.”

“And yet Hannuman can’t heal,” Batanya said. “That’s what’s impressed Perro. Thanks, Vandler.” She met his eyes.

Vandler sighed. “Here’s what I think . . .” he began.

Three minutes later he removed the quieting spell and Batanya wheeled around to face Hannuman, whose face was twitching with impatience.

“Hannuman will return to the Collective with us, as he wants. Vandler will stay for a year,” Batanya said. “He will teach whoever can learn. Then he must have the right to return to the Collective. In peace. If I don’t see his face a year from now when I get to this spot, a larger force of us will come and you will be annihilated. I swear to this, as a Britlingen.”

She turned slowly so she could look each villager in the eyes. She wanted to be sure they knew how sincere she was.

They appeared to believe her. A few flinched.

“Then we are agreed,” Hannuman said regally, standing.

Vandler stood straighter. “We are agreed. I will see my rescue party in a year,” he said to Batanya. “Don’t forget to make sure they come for me.” He tried to smile.

“You make sure they don’t attack us when we get here. This coward has already cost enough lives.” Batanya said that very clearly.

Hannuman snarled but didn’t say anything. What was there to say? He’d made his choices and they added up to cowardice and betrayal.

Perro admitted to repairing the beacon. “I didn’t know my mother’s hunting party would be close enough to attack. I am sorry for all the loss.”

It was like he’d read her mind.

Well, that would make Vandler’s time here even more interesting. Batanya gave Vandler the Britlingen salute, raising her right fist to her upper left chest. Clovache followed. And to Batanya’s surprise, Vandler duplicated the movement.

“You’re much better than I thought,” Batanya said, and Vandler laughed.

She smiled at him.

“Better go before I have time to rethink this,” Vandler said. “Or he does.” He tilted his head toward Hannuman; the older man was frowning with impatience, the narrow lips turned down in an expression that must be habitual since the wrinkles were so deep. He didn’t seem to want to say goodbye to anyone or take anything with him.

The two mercenaries beckoned to the mage and he came to join them, not even glancing at his wife and his children. Marla had gone to her sons and put her arms around them. She stood with her back to her former husband.

Batanya gave Vandler a quick nod, and she and Clovache set off with Hannuman in tow. They did not speak but followed the path back to the clearing where Geit had been, then across the narrow strip of land leading to the spot where the first party had arrived. It would be easiest to return from that point.

“You know, I did much for those savages,” Hannuman said, looking straight ahead of him.

“Sure you did,” Batanya said.

“I could tell they loved you,” Clovache said, deadpan. They stood on either side of Hannuman, and each gripped a stringy arm. Clovache pulled out her knife with her free hand, and the next instant it was at Hannuman’s throat. With his hands held, he could not attack them with magic.

“What say I cut his throat and we toss him into the swamp?” Clovache said.

“He’d be eaten up in no time,” Batanya agreed.

“And certainly no loss.”

Hannuman’s furious and frightened old eyes latched on to Batanya. He did not dare speak, not with the knife so close.

“Better not,” Batanya said. “It would be satisfying, though. Maybe Geit would like the privilege.”

Clovache shrugged. “All right, then.” She slid her knife back into its sheath with one smooth movement.

Batanya activated her amulet at the same moment Clovache did.

In the second before they reappeared on the platform where they’d been two hours before, safe in heart of the Collective, Batanya made a mental note to tell the mechs that she wanted to be sure she was the one sent to fetch Vandler.

In one year.