Blackhawk: Far Stars Legends I Page 9

  Of course they’re probably lying to me about that. They should have broken these pirates long before now.

  “Yes, sir.” Roogen’s tone suggested he thought the same thing.

  “Still, we must know more about this prisoner. Perhaps a DNA scan will shed some light on his origin. If he is Celtiborian, we should be able to pinpoint his region of origin…or at least that of his parents and immediate ancestors. And if he is not from this planet…” Ghana let his voice trail off. He had a number of thoughts, but they were still formative, nothing worth speaking of yet.

  “Yes, General. I will order a complete scan at once.”

  “I want the results as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.” The aide waited for Ghana to dismiss him, but the general was silent, staring down at his desk. “I want more guards on duty in the detention area as well, Captain. Two more. Every time someone enters the cell. And two more in the hall.”

  “General, we already have additional guards…”

  “Then we will have even more won’t we?” Ghana snapped. “Perhaps that will eliminate any risk of problems with the prisoner…problems I can assure you would not go well for those in charge down there. After all, this man has already killed, what, twelve of my soldiers? And that despite the fact that we vastly outnumbered his party and had warning? We were supposed to be ready for him…and yet he almost escaped. Indeed, had he been in any terrain save the open desert I have no doubt he would have eluded us. So let’s just say I want to be sure. Post the additional guards. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  The soldier saluted and turned on his heels, walking quickly to the door and out of the office.

  Ghana leaned back in his chair massaging his temples. He was tense, about the mysterious prisoner, about the unexpected endurance of the captured raiders…but mostly about Marshal Carteria. He’d been hesitant to ally with the Marshal at all. Carteria’s reputation, not just for betraying allies when it served his purpose, but also for intolerance of failure, was well-known.

  Ghana had convinced himself it would work, he’d succumbed to the temptation to gain an edge on his rivals, overruling his caution and reaching out to Celtiboria’s Marshal. It had succeeded at first. Carteria’s gold had financed his campaign, allowed him to bring overwhelming force to bear. The Warlords who had controlled the Badlands before were all but defeated now, but the fight for the precious trade routes was still in doubt.

  His plans had been so clear when he’d accepted the Marshal’s overtures. Control of the Badlands and its trade routes was a major step toward dominance on the Northern Continent, and with Carteria’s aid, he’d been sure he could seize the stretch of barren desert in a single campaign season…so sure, the thought of failure hadn’t entered into his calculations.

  That was before Augustin Lucerne turned up.

  And now he was on the verge of total defeat at the hands of the upstart. He’d taken Carteria’s coin…and he had not lived up to the promises he’d made. He knew that was dangerous.

  He was still amazed he’d found himself in this position. He’d been worried about a few of the other Warlords becoming involved—or at least rattling their sabers—but Lucerne hadn’t been one of them. The general had a reputation as a strong tactician, but he was from the Riverlands, a backward province inhabited mostly by farmers and fishermen. By all accounts, Lucerne ran his economy well, but it was hard enough to sustain a modern army with revenue from farms and fishing villages. Ghana hadn’t imagined for a moment that Lucerne had the wealth and strength to project power as far from his base as the Badlands. But he’d been proven wrong in that. Catastrophically wrong.

  The two local Warlords who had controlled the Badlands had indeed seemed beatable…and he had quickly thrown them onto the defensive. Hagerod and Elemando were both near total defeat, crushed by his Carteria-financed forces. They were sitting on the periphery now, watching as the final battle approached. Their battered forces were waiting to see who would gain the advantage.

  The battle had become one between Ghana and Lucerne. Ghana knew the others would stay uninvolved, wait until either he or Lucerne was on the verge of final victory. Then they would commit…and work out the best deals they could for themselves.

  And I will give it to them…as much as I’d like to grind the opportunistic bastards into the ground, it doesn’t make sense. I’ll let them keep a piece of the trade revenue, ten percent maybe…and they will become my allies. At least the kind of allies money buys.

  But Lucerne will do the same…and he is far closer to victory than I am…

  He had to rally his forces, turn things around and defeat Lucerne…and he knew he couldn’t do that with his own empty treasury. He needed more help. He was far from sure Carteria would provide it, but he had nowhere else to turn. The Marshal had proven himself reluctant to throw good money after bad, but control of the Badlands trade was valuable…and Ghana was sure of one thing. General Lucerne…the honorable, the unspotted…he would never deal with a creature like Carteria. If the Marshal wanted influence on the Northern Continent, he needed Ghana.

  I just hope he realizes that…

  Jinn Barkus had been gone for days now…and he’d sent no communications, not a word. Nothing. Ghana knew that Carteria had a streak of paranoia, that he blocked all outgoing communications from his palace. But the lack of an officially-sanctioned update wasn’t a good sign. Carteria had been known to answer petitioners by killing their ambassadors. Ghana had been reluctant to send Barkus…Jinn had been with him for a long time and was one of his most trusted aides. But the matter was too important to entrust to anyone less capable. Barkus was smart, experienced…he knew what he was dealing with in Carteria.

  He will succeed.

  I hope…

  Chapter Eight

  General Lucerne’s Headquarters

  “The Badlands”

  Northern Celtiboria

  “We are certain, sir. We’ve confirmed it with General Horatii. He has a man in Carteria’s court. One of the Marshal’s retainers he keeps on his payroll.” Rafaelus DeMark stood in front of Lucerne, his uniform wrinkled and stained from travel, not at all how he’d usually present himself to the general. His face was twisted into a frustrated scowl. The news he’d come to report wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

  “Well, that explains how he funded an expedition the size that he did, doesn’t it?” Lucerne sat staring at his desk, his head cradled in his hands. Normally, he’d have made more of an effort to hide his concern in front of one of his soldiers, but DeMark was very much one of his inner circle, an officer he considered not only a gifted tactician, but also one of his few true friends. Indeed, that is why he’d entrusted DeMark with the mission to find out who was backing Ghana.

  Lucerne had been sure his adversary was getting help from someplace, and he needed to know where. And now he did. He couldn’t say he was truly surprised. Carteria had always been a possibility, but he’d hoped it would turn out to be one of the other alternatives. Any of the others. Fighting against the most powerful Warlord on the planet was dangerous business, even when the Marshal was only a financier. Lucerne was disgusted by Carteria, and he’d long ago decided he’d never ally with the man, no matter what the situation. But he wasn’t ready to openly oppose him either, not even when the bulk of Carteria’s strength was an ocean away.

  “Yes, sir. General Horatii’s source believes it was at least ten million ducats, possibly more.” DeMark took a deep breath. He’d just returned from Horatii’s capital on the southern coast, a difficult and dangerous journey. It was late, and he looked exhausted. It had been a long trip there and back again, but Lucerne hadn’t wanted to wait to hear DeMark’s intel…and he’d given the officer strict instructions not to trust any over the air communication, subject to interception. There was no way of knowing where any of his rivals had set up a listening post.

  DeMark was trying to hide his fatigue, with
limited success. He hadn’t slept since before he’d left, but as soon as he landed he raced right for Lucerne’s quarters. He’d had a bit of a fight to get the guard to let him through to wake the general, but Lucerne had heard the argument and come out of the office, ordering the sentry to stand down.

  Lucerne had recently given into the pressure from his officers and created a guard company charged with escorting him and managing his personal security. The veterans assigned to the new duty took it very seriously, standing up even to superior officers whenever their perception of the general’s needs were at stake. Lucerne went easy on the guard…his zealousness came from pure loyalty, after all and not any disrespect or insubordination to DeMark. But he’d been wide awake, sitting at his desk, waiting for his officer. He wanted to see DeMark as soon as possible.

  “I know you’re exhausted, Rafaelus, but you were right to come here immediately. General Ghana doesn’t worry me, not too much at least. We can handle him. But if Carteria is involved, we must be careful. The Marshal didn’t get where he is by being foolish…or by easily accepting defeat.”

  “No, sir. And I’m afraid I have more news. One of General Ghana’s officers was at Carteria’s stronghold. Jinn Barkus, a major. Close to the general, a trusted aide. He arrived three days ago, and he was received several times, the last two in private.”

  Lucerne sighed. That was bad news. Ghana’s man was seeking additional support, there was no other explanation…and while Carteria would no doubt be enraged at the setbacks, Lucerne knew the Marshal wouldn’t throw away the chance to gain control over the Badlands trade routes. He’d been after a foothold on the Northern Continent for years now…and there was no question. This was the best opportunity he’d had. Whatever mistakes Ghana had made, Carteria would continue to back him, at least until he’d secured the Badlands. And Barkus was one of Ghana’s top aides, his equivalent of DeMark. He would get the job done.

  “We need to know what Carteria is planning. Will he give Ghana another ten million ducats?” That would be bad. Lucerne knew the Warlords along the continent’s western coast had just made peace, putting an end to six years of war. While no one doubted hostilities would come again, the nearly-bankrupt combatants had dismissed thousands of their hired soldiers. The mercenary markets of the river cities were glutted, individuals, small groups, even large companies looking for employment. Lucerne had considered supplementing his own forces, but the campaign had already stretched his resources to the breaking point. He simply didn’t have the cash to hire mercenaries. But if Ghana had another ten million ducats from Carteria…

  “I’m sorry, General. There was no way to get more information. General Horatii’s source is skittish…and he wasn’t a party to the discussions. We’re lucky we even know about Barkus. And the informant made it clear there would be no more updates for a while. He was planning to lie low to keep suspicion off himself.”

  Lucerne nodded, a grim expression on his face. That was the problem with buying off other peoples’ retainers. The backstabbing swine who would take coin to sell out their masters were, by definition, unreliable and untrustworthy.

  “If Carteria gives Ghana more coin, he’ll hire half the mercs in the river cities. He’ll put another fifty thousand experienced troops in the field against us. And those mercenary companies are ready to go, fully armed and equipped. He could have them here in a matter of weeks…before the truce expires.”

  DeMark just nodded. Then he stood silently for a moment, an uncomfortable expression on his face. Finally, he said, “General, perhaps we should hit Ghana now, before any help can get to him.”

  Lucerne paused for an instant. Then he shook his head. “Break the truce? Without clear provocation? No, Rafaelus, we can’t do that. That is not our way. I would not become like them to defeat them.”

  “Yes, sir…but…”

  “No buts, Rafe.” Lucerne looked right at his officer. “That is how it starts. Just this one time, I wouldn’t do this except…” Lucerne shook his head. “No, Rafe. We are not like them. Our success has been based on winning the people’s support…by treating them with respect instead of brutality. On showing our allies—and even our enemies—that our word is good. Can you name another Warlord who can maintain control over his provinces without stationing troops there? We are alone in that, Rafe…our people support us, they recognize that we are honest, that our promises to them are worth something. I would not sacrifice all that with a surprise attack. I will not violate the truce. Not under any circumstances.”

  Lucerne meant what he was saying, at least to a point. He tried to conduct himself with honor, at least whenever possible, but he wasn’t quite the paragon of virtue his public persona suggested. He wouldn’t violate the ceasefire, that much was true. But he wasn’t above trying to trick or provoke his enemies into doing it for him.

  “Then what do we do, sir?”

  Lucerne stared back at DeMark, silently. In truth, he had nothing to say, no idea of how to proceed. He’d think of something…he always did. He knew he was close to victory in the Badlands, and also to defeat. And which way things went relied far more on matters out of his control than he liked.

  “What do we do, Rafe? Well, for now, you go relax. Get a hot meal…and then some sleep. Our problems will still be here tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,” DeMark said, his tone heavy with concern. He looked like he was going to add something, but in the end he just said, “Goodnight, sir.” Then he turned and strode out of the room.

  Lucerne watched him go. Then he stood up, walked across the massive chamber he’d taken as his office. It was cold, cavernous, uncomfortable. Built for war, for defense. Just like his own stronghold.

  He scooped up a small picture frame on a table, a woman, young, smiling. Eliane. His wife. She’d been in her early twenties when the image was taken, just months before they’d been married. He still remembered the first time he saw her. He’d been dumbstruck, speechless. He’d come to her father’s estate to discuss an arranged marriage, one that would seal an alliance between the two houses. But the instant he laid eyes on his bride to be, all thought of strategy and tactics, of adding to his lands and his army, vanished from his mind.

  She was dead now, and he knew she hadn’t remained that smiling, happy girl in the photo. Lucerne had given his new wife everything she could want…everything except his time. Life with a Warlord had proved lonelier than she’d imagined. Campaigns had kept him away most of their married lives, and she had spent her days in the cold confines of Lucerne’s ancestral castle, a fortress designed for defensibility, not for comfort. She’d longed to travel, begging to stay at his side as his armies marched. But he’d always refused, too afraid to expose her to the rigors and dangers of the field. Like any man with enemies, he feared they would seek to hurt him through his family, and he’d kept her as a virtual prisoner, protected around the clock by his most trusted men. His mandates had been acts of love, his almost obsessive need to keep her safe…but in the end he’d killed her spirit, destroyed the natural happiness that had once been so much a part of her personality. And, he feared, he had also killed the love he knew she had once felt for him.

  Eliane had died alone, feeling abandoned. He’d had word that she was ill, but it was only days later, after a new dispatch came, that he realized how serious things were. Red Fever was sweeping through the Riverlands. Hundreds were dying…and Eliane’s illness was far more serious than the influenza he’d assumed it was when he’d first been informed.

  He knew he had to rush home, to be at her side. But the dispatch arrived on the eve of battle, with his army in a desperate situation. He’d almost walked away, turned command over to his officers and raced home immediately. But he didn’t. He stayed and commanded his army…and he won his first great victory. As soon as the battle was clearly won, he boarded a transport and raced back to his stronghold. But he was too late. Elaine was dead.

  He knelt long that day at the side of the bed, holding her cold hand
in his. He spoke to her, told her he loved her, shed tears for her loss. He ached to feel her grip his hand back, to speak words to him, any words. But she was gone.

  It had been three years, and the pain cut as deeply as it had that day. He ignored it most of the time, slammed his iron discipline down on it, as he did with most of his emotions. He was a man driven…he belonged to the quest. If he was to unite Celtiboria one day, it would take all he had, every last measure of devotion. Other men could take time to indulge their heartbreak, to mourn for those they lost. But not Augustin Lucerne. There was little room in his life for anything save duty.

  He set Eliane’s image down on the desk and walked over toward the fireplace. It was a massive hearth, and it was ablaze with a pile of logs. He sat down in one of the two leather chairs flanking the fire and stared into the flames. He’d always enjoyed a fire, it was one of the few indulgences he allowed himself.

  He stared at the hearth, felt the hypnotic effect of the flames. His mind drifted away, his thoughts turning to Blackhawk. Is he dead? Or a prisoner in Ghana’s torture chambers?

  He’d liked the wanderer…there had been an immediate connection between the two of them, one he somehow knew Blackhawk had felt too. He had sensed the stranger carried a lot of pain with him, and he’d hoped one day they would become friends, that Blackhawk would confide in him, join his quest.

  He’d had a lot of faith in Blackhawk, more than he could explain on such short acquaintance. But he had learned to trust his instincts on such things. He’d placed a lot of trust in his new comrade, and he’d hoped the mission would succeed in its true purpose of ending the truce, of tricking or provoking Ghana into making a premature move.

  Now he felt the bitterness of futility, of guilt. He’d convinced Blackhawk to step out from the past that was dragging him down, to undertake the mission for him. But that mission had turned out disastrously, and now, if Blackhawk wasn’t dead already, he soon would be.