Resistance

“IT LIES!”

The messenger quivered with indignation, drawing himself up on his hind legs—in indignation, yes, but also to bring his own eyes level with Steetsin’s, where he reclined on the couch from which so many of his ancestors had delivered judgment.

Around them, the Great Chamber of Wedge Hold stirred to the mutter of Steetsin’s warriors. Above their heads hung the tattered banners captured in hundreds of years of fighting. The walls boasted their trophies, too—ancient weapons from celebrated battles.

There were a few more recent weapons—sidearms and slugthrowers once carried by officers and men of the Fleet.

“Chief of the Wedge Sept,” the messenger insisted, “this missive was penned by the Clan Chieftain’s own hand!”

“It cannot have been!” Steetsin snarled. “Never would a Khalian chieftain stoop to such cowardice!”

“How can it be cowardice, if the Clan Chieftain does it?” the messenger demanded.

The Syndicate envoy leaned close to Steetsin’s back and murmured, “How can the Clan Chieftain have done it, if it is cowardly?”

The answer was clear, and Steetsin did not shy from it. “If it was the Clan Chieftain in truth who wrote it, he must have taken the Terrans’ pay!”

The messenger spat an oath in sheer shock, before he managed to control his outrage. His voice quivered with rage as he said, “It is not cowardice, but the honorable respect due an adversary who has proved himself worthy.”

He did not explain; he did not need to. The Fleet had driven the Khalia back on all fronts, had captured Target in spite of the Khalia’s furious defense, and now had invaded the home world itself! They might he hateful, but they were mighty—and being mighty, they were worthy of allegiance.

And being the victors, Khalian honor demanded that the Khalia accept whatever task the Fleet assigned them, so long as it was in battle.

Yet they had slain Steetsin’s mate and cubs on Target and, what was worse, had slain them unknowing, when the city in which they denned had exploded in flame. That, Steetsin could not forgive—nor could he truly think of the men of the Fleet as allies. “Therefore does the Chief of Clan Ruhas say that we must be done with war-for-hire, and ally with the Alliance Fleet, who had proved themselves worthy—and be done also with the Syndicate, who have sought to buy our honor, and have lied!”

“Be still!” Steetsin flowed off his couch, claws out, lips writhing back in a snarl. “I will hear no evil against the councilor who has advised me so long and so well! Cartwright is no liar, but a tried and valiant warrior, who has watched with me in the cold of the night and has stood by my side through many battles. Speak not against him, or his kind!”

Cartwright smiled and inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment of Steetsin’s praise.

The messenger’s lips writhed back in a harsh laugh. “What! Are we to hear no wrong of your Syndicate shadow, who would have honor for coin, and say the Chief of Clan Ruhas lies?”

“If he speaks truly, let him come here to the Hold of the Wedge and speak it to my face! Let him stand against the upbraiding of a vassal who has ever been honorable and true! Until he does, the Khalia of the Wedge Sept will harry any human of the Fleet who comes near!”

“Then up and out!” the messenger sneered. “For an army of the Fleet even now rolls through your valley, coming to your gate with tokens of friendship—and its gunboat circles overhead!”

Steetsin stood rigid. Then he hissed, “If they come, they bring destruction, not gifts—and we shall know you for the traitor you are!”

Running steps, and a soldier burst into the Great Chamber. “Lord Steetsin! The Blind Eyes show an army within the Wedge, and a Scout overhead!”

Steetsin spared the messenger a look of hatred.

“Go up to your battlements,” the messenger urged. “Look down and see that they are truly humans of the Fleet—and count any weapons you may see, that are more than sidearms!”

“I go,” Steetsin hissed, “and if I see cannon, you shall die!’

Cartwright was only two paces behind Steetsin, in spite of the steep incline of the tower steps. The Chief noted the fact with grim satisfaction as he came out onto the battlements—as he had said, Cartwright was a warrior. He leaped to the crenels and reared up, forelimbs resting on the stone—stone that had been laid down by his father (dead in battle ten years ago), with money given them by the Syndicate—money, and the use of gigantic shambling machines that had cut and lifted the stones. He looked down, as his father had before him, and his grandfather, and all his forefathers, over the Wedge—the two rivers, dimly seen off to each side, that flowed toward each other, meeting in a point as they flowed into the Great River. Beyond its waters lay the domain of Clan Chirling—allies now, but for hundreds of years, enemies. Hundreds of years, until the Syndicate had come and shown them wondrous weapons, that could be theirs if only they would fight the Fleet. He felt a stab of shame, quickly buried—there was no surprise that the Khalia had hearkened to the Syndicate’s promises, for who would not at the sight of weapons that could reach to the horizon, and ships that could carry an army to the stars? They must have been wonders indeed to Steetsin’s grandfather, and he could not be amazed that all the Khalia had put aside hostilities to pounce on the contemptible humans of the Fleet . . .

And here came the contemptible ones, marching ten abreast in a long flowing carpet, down the valley and up toward his gates.

He stared again at hairless skin and unc1awed hands. How could such creatures know of fighting? It should have been so easy . . .

But it had not been, and the Chirlings were his friends now, had been the shield on his back at Target, and the enemy was now his ally . . .

The memory rose up of his mate and cubs, a memory sheathed in flame, as he imagined it must have been when the bomb struck, and the hatred raged up again. What honor could they have, who cared not if they slew families and cubs? How could the Chiefs of the Clans have made peace, and allied with the Fleet? Better to have died one and all, each and every Khalian! He had to admit to a certain sneaking admiration for the enemy, for their tenacity arid their fighting skills but the hatred was still there, over all.

“It is true, Cartwright,” he hissed. “I see no rocket launchers, no cannon. They come in peace—as much as an army can do.”

“And how much is that?” Cartwright breathed at his shoulder. “What will happen if you admit them within your gates, Steetsin?”

Steetsin stood rigid, and the lifelong animosity of one raised to regard the humans of the Fleet as his enemies rose to the fore, and with it the hatred in flames. “Gunner!” he snapped to the soldier nearby. “Bring down that gunboat!”

The soldier was too well trained to hesitate or argue. He turned to his cannon. Its barrel rose, swiveling, and a huge gout of flame burst from the muzzle. Its thunder shook the turret as the energy bolt split air aside, and the gunboat lit with a brief dazzle.

“A force-shield!” Steetsin spat. “Treachery!”

But the gunboat had been too close for the shield to absorb all the energy—an edge was twisted, scorched. Not enough to cause any great damage, no, but enough so that the gunboat spat back at him, a lightning bolt that seared the air near Steetsin and blasted two crenels off the turret. By the time they started to fall, Steetsin was already down under the stone. “What friends are they who fire!?”

“Ones who insult you.” Cartwright was down beside him.

“So little energy, so small a shot . . .”

“They shall learn the anger of the Wedge Sept!” Steetsin howled, leaping to his feet. “All warriors! Arm and form for a sally! As your grandfather did, against Khalian thieves!”

“No-o-o-o-o!” The cry split the air, freezing all the warriors in surprise. The messenger leaped into motion, a brown blur streaking toward the gate. Too late, Steetsin realized his error—he should have had the warrior bound hand and foot and cast into the dungeon. But he had not, and the Khalian rose up next to the gate, forelegs reaching out to the great bar.

“Kill him!” Steetsin screamed, but none of his warriors moved against the Clan Chief’s messenger. “Bum him!” And Steetsin himself leveled his sidearm, but too late, too late, for even as the gun leaped in his hand, the messenger had wrested the bar from its staples. He leaped in pain as Steetsin’s bullet took him; he fell crumpled in the dust, dead—but the huge gate swung inward, and the army of the Fleet filled the portal.

“Fight!” Steetsin howled. “Slay as you retreat!” For he knew the Hold was lost.

Finally, his warriors came alive. These were no loyal Khalians they faced, but the age-old enemy, tales of whose cruelty and cowardice had filled their ears almost from birth; these were the monsters who had somehow overwhelmed them. Not a warrior among them but had lost a wife or a comrade on Target; not a warrior among them but bore his own store of hate for the Fleet. Guns racketed all around the courtyard. Humans of the Fleet fell, gouting blood, but others took cover behind the gate or ran for the flimsy protection of carts and dead bodies. Guns barked in Fleet hands—puny sidearms and rifles, but so many of them, so many! And Steetsin’s men began to fall . . .

“To the postern!” he screeched as he fled down the tower stairs. “To the tunnel!” as he raced for the great portal in the side of the Great Chamber. “Down and away!” as his men began to file down to the escape passage.

Steetsin himself ran to join the rear guard, to heat his barrel to melting with bullets for the humans of the Fleet, knowing that Cartwright was nearby, would follow, would shadow him, even though Steetsin could see him not . . .

When the last of the men had stumbled through, Steetsin ran the pads of his paws lightly over the tunnel wall, found the third brick from the top, lifted it, and pressed the button underneath. A hundred yards away, on the other side of the river, a muffled explosion sounded. Steetsin turned away, the knowledge bitter within him that one wall of his ancestral Great Chamber was now choked with a jumbled mass of stonework—but no enemy would follow through the blocked mouth of the tunnel. “Raid leaders!” he called. “Tally your men!”

His lieutenants counted quickly and reported in. Only two thirds of Steetsin’s warriors had come out of the keep. His neck fur bristled at the thought. “So many comrades slain! Yet we shall avenge them.” He looked about him, gimlet-eyed. “Where is Cartwright?”

There he came, turning away from a warrior with a wounded arm—bandaged now, and healing, thanks to Cartwright’s Syndicate medicine. “Do you seek me, Steetsin?”

For some reason, the man’s atrocious accent suddenly grated on Steetsin’s nerves—now, after all these years! He told himself again that the human mouth was not made for Khalian shrills and whistles, and schooled himself to patience. “What say you, Cartwright? How shall we desecrate this messenger’s memory, he who opened our gate to the humans of the Fleet? For surely, he deserves to be forever abhorred!”

But a wordless protest sounded, from a hundred throats, and Steetsin turned, shocked. “How can you speak well of him!” he shrilled at his men. “He, who betrayed us!”

Now, now they were silent. They stood, eyeing one another uneasily.

“What—would you defend him, but not have the boldness to tell why?” Steetsin demanded. “Raznor, speak! You, who are my second in command! How can you defend the vile action of this traitor!”

Raznor glanced at his captains, then turned back to Steetsin. “I do not, Chieftain—but he placed his faith in the Clan Chief, and was loyal to him.”

Steetsin stared.

“He must have known he would die,” Raznor explained, “but even so, he stuck fast to his word of loyalty. Such courage must be admired. Wrongheaded or not, his memory should not be desecrated.”

Steetsin’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Truly, there was nothing to say.

But Raznor was not done. “Who are we, to forswear loyalty to the Chief of our Clan? Tell, Steetsin—what cause have we to think he betrayed us? For surely, it is not for us to say what is best or worst for all Clan Ruhas!”

Steetsin swelled with the horror, the enormity of it. “How could you have forgotten, forsaken the memories of your glorious comrades?” he shrilled. “What! Do you not remember their suffering? Do you not remember the fall of Target?”

Then he took up the tale, began once again to recount the atrocities of the Fleet, to remind them of the falling fires, the twisted limbs, the charred wreckage and the wasted lives, of the eternal oblivion of male cubs who would not now have their chance to prove their courage, to gain their honor; of females who would not win through to ever-life through the honor of their sons.

When he was done, not a one of his warriors but trembled with hatred and rage, held barely in check; not a one who would not have lashed out at any human of the Fleet who came near—and, indeed, several eyed Cartwright with cold hostility. But the man had courage; his smile scarcely faltered as he edged fractionally behind Steetsin. “They are ready, Chieftain. Turn them where you will.”

Steetsin knew where. He scanned the line of his warriors slowly, eyes burning. “From this time forth, the human of the Fleet will bemoan his fate! He will wish he had never come to the Wedge! In every way that we can, we will harry him! We will slay his stragglers, we will rend his supply trains! There shall be no trade, no crops—until at last, he abandons our Hold!”

“All honor to the Chief of Clan Ruhas.” The Marine captain bowed, as though he meant what he had said.

Ernsate believed that he did—that all the Fleet officers did. They may have hated the Khalia as old enemies do, but they respected them as valiant warriors. In those who had begun to see how the Khalia’s nobility had been twisted and abused by the Syndicate, that respect had turned to honor.

Therefore, Ernsate inclined his head in imitation of the human’s greeting. “The Chief of the Clan gives honor to his noble ally. I hope you are well, Captain English.”

“I am well. I trust the noble Chief is also?”

“In good health.” Ernsate tried to contain his impatience; the ritual was necessary. Still he was rather abrupt in saying, “It is the welfare of my Clan that concerns me, their welfare in body and in honor.”

“Surely there can be only the slightest of stains on the honor of Clan Ruhas!”

So. Word of the Wedge had come at last to English. “Only a slight stain that my warriors seek to banish. The time has not come when I would have to go myself to the Wedge.”

“Great honor would indeed come to a chief who would so care for his warriors!”

Yes, it was that necessary, then. “I have heard that the Chief of the Wedge Sept has feet made of mist.”

“It is true that none can find the tracks that show where he or his sept have been. Yet it is true also that he is a valiant warrior, that his claws are sharp and his grip harsh.”

Steetsin’s ambushes had done great damage, then. Ernsate rose up in decision. “I must go in person. So valiant a chieftain deserves the honor of personal care from the Chief of his Clan.”

“All praise to Ernsate,” the captain murmured, “honor to the Chief of Clan Ruhas!”

“They come, Lord Steetsin!”

Steetsin nodded, eyes on the plume of dust that rose from the roadway below. They were perched on a slope, hidden among trees and scrub. Off to his left, a group of ants came around a curve. Ants, he thought, and noted the metaphor’s aptness with wry appreciation. So were the Fleet, at least in moral stature. They knew nothing of honor, of nobility. “Be ready, Cartwright.”

“I shall follow you as I always have, Steetsin.”

The Chieftain nodded, satisfied. “The shield on my shoulder, yes. Be alert—they come.”

The slow-moving column wound along the road opposite them. When its rear was just past toe Wedge Sept’s hidden flank, Steetsin squealed in sudden rage and leaped from cover, bounding down the slope toward the soldiers of the Fleet, knowing that his warriors would follow, would fall upon the column all along its length, and that Cartwright would follow them, alert to protect any stragglers.

There they were, the smooth-skinned, flat-faced fools! Steetsin raised his sidearm to give the first shot, sword gleaming in his other hand . . .

Khalians rose up in the midst of the Fleet soldiers.

Khalians rose up, and Steetsin stopped.

Khalians rose up in such a fashion as to be so thoroughly intermingled with the humans that Steetsin could not be sure he would not hit one of his own kind. He stilled, trembling with frustration, and all his warriors froze, as he did.

But through the stalled throng, Cartwright churned and elbowed, coming up behind Steetsin to hiss in his ear, “These Khalians are traitors!”

The words freed Steetsin; as always, he felt a gush of gratitude toward his Syndicate ally, even as he screamed, “Traitors!” and fell on the Khalians before him, sword raised to slash, sidearm leveling . . .

Another Khalian rose up, head and neck above the others, taller, with russet highlights in his fur.

Steetsin froze again, staring, appalled. “Chieftain of my Clan!”

“Even so,” Ernsate returned. “Put up your arms, Steetsin. The men of the Fleet are worthy warriors. We have both buried our dead; they are our allies now.”

Steetsin stood trembling, paralyzed by conflicting emotions, loyalty warring against hatred . . .

“No real Clan Chief would command such dishonorable action,” Cartwright snapped.

“Be still, worm!” Ernsate commanded. As the humans of the Fleet stepped forward, hands reaching for Cartwright, the Clan Chief lifted his gaze to the warriors of the Wedge Sept and cried, “Lay down your weapons! Declare your peace with these worthy warriors! They shall now be your arms and shield!”

“He has betrayed you!” Cartwright fairly screamed. “Your own Chieftain has betrayed you!”

The words kicked Steetsin into action. He hurled himself at Ernsate, sword lashing, sidearm corning up, shrieking, “Traitor! Seller of honor! Die!”

Khalians howled and leaped to block him, but they were too late—Steetsin was already on the Clan Leader, sword slashing.

And cracking against Ernsate’s steel armguard, as his other hand sprouted claws, ripping open Steetsin’s chest, and the first hand closed around his neck, probing, slashing . . .

Then the sky reeled about him, faces streaked, the earth slammed up into Steetsin’s back, and red haze overlaid all, the haze of his own blood pumping from his throat, dimming the faces, the sky, dimming all into darkness.

Ernsate stood, chest heaving, filled with the elation of battle and triumph but already beginning to feel the sadness, the grief that must have its vent in screaming, sooner or later, at the death of a valiant vassal and a gallant clansman.

He looked up, eyes narrowing. “Have you the corrupter, then?”

“We have,” said the Marine officer, and two of his men yanked Cartwright before Ernsate, hurling him down at the Khalian’s foot . . .

Hurling him down, but he came up screaming, a slender blade in his hand, hidden somewhere within his clothing, and Ernsate slashed at him—but already, the man was crumpling from a kick in the kidneys, driven by a Fleet man.

They stood, chests heaving, glaring at the Syndic who writhed before them in agony.

“This was the true enemy,” Ernsate told the Marine captain. “Not a traitor to your kind, no, for he is not one of yours—but a traitor to me and mine, for he abused Steetsin’s trust.”

The captain nodded, his face flint. “You take him, then. He is yours.”

The men of the Fleet cried out in involuntary protest, but as quickly silenced, glaring at the shuddering Syndic, hatred of enemy overcoming loyalty to kind.

“It is justice!” the captain snapped. “What will you do with him, Lord Ernsate?”

“We will suck his knowledge from him,” Ernsate stated. “Then he will die, for his crime against my Clan.” He beckoned to his own men, crying, “Come, take up the body of Lord Steetsin—for surely, he has died bravely and with honor! Let him be interred in the Hold of the Wedge with his ancestors, and let his funeral be sung with all pomp and ceremony, his weapons ranked beside him—for, though misguided, he strove with all his might for Khalia, and the glory of his Clan!”

All the Khalians rumbled agreement, and Steetsin’s warriors took up the body, turning their faces toward the Hold.

“And what of this scum?” demanded Raznor, with a hiss. Ernsate’s face hardened. “He shall be buried below Lord Steetsin, naked and bereft of weapons, that he may serve Steetsin’s ghost for a footstool, and be his servant in the Everlife.”

The ranks of human soldiers stirred with disquiet, but the captain called out, “It is just! Let him who has betrayed the spirit now serve that spirit! And let this deed be sung!”

“Let it be sung,” Ernsate echoed, “for today died a valiant warrior, and tomorrow shall die his evil shield. Warriors, bear him solemnly! All clansmen, chant his glory!”

Thus the column moved away toward the dark mass of the Hold, stark against the sky, and the keening lament rose to mark its way.