"Has the Alliance discovered who it was behind the attacks?"
"Lord Sonovar does not think so. Or rather, his pathetic little worm of an advisor does not think so. The Alliance is too busy with its war against the humans to bother with us. I do not think they will attack us unless we attack them."
"Then let us hope we don't. We cannot fight a war on two fronts."
"We are warriors," she replied, her eyes gleaming. "We will fight as many foes as we wish."
"And then we will all die, and what will we have achieved? We have lost the Osen. How many ships do we have left? Your Storm Dancers clan and the Tak'cha form the bulk of our military strength now. We do not have the resources for two wars."
"Then we will have a glorious death. Besides, Sinoval has been.... quiet. He has made no attempt to counterattack."
"That," said Kozorr firmly, "is what worries me. Beware a quiet enemy. But, practical considerations aside, the reason we should not fight the Alliance is because we have no reason to, and nothing to gain if we did. At least with the war against Sinoval there is an objective."
"There is?"
"Of course. We are fighting for the future of our people. Well, Sonovar is. Me, I'm...."
"You're fighting for your pretty little worker." She shook her head. "I do not understand you sometimes. She must have bewitched you. How can you have such feelings for a worker?"
"Have you ever been in love, Tirivail?"
"Love?" she snorted. "A delusion crafted by poets and dreamers and priestlings. I have love only for battle." She smiled, studying him closely for his reaction. "Of course, physical attraction and respect I do understand, but that is not love."
"No, it is not, and until you have felt what I feel, you will never understand."
"A worker? In the Name of the Betrayer, Kozorr! They are weak, pathetic, bloodless wretches! Necessary, yes.... and useful, but they are little better than animals."
"Kats is not weak or pathetic. She endured a torture that would have crippled and broken anyone else. I have seen the fire in her soul."
"If it is fire you want, then I will be happy to burn you." Kozorr did not react, and she shrugged. "A waste. Such a waste, but maybe there is still time. And hope. At least she is not a priestling."
"I have never met a priestling worth the respect Kats deserves." Tirivail smiled sweetly. "But then I have met few warriors worth that respect either." The smile faded.
"Am I one of those warriors?"
He paused, and she studied him intently. He could feel the force of her gaze. He was about to reply when the door opened.
It was the smell Kozorr was aware of first, a black stench that made him reel. For one brief moment he thought of Kalain, but then he knew the difference. Kalain's was the smell of death. This was the smell of one who has not bothered with his ablutions for months.
It was Forell of course, Sonovar's rotten little worm of an advisor. The clothes were literally rotting from his back and many of the deep wounds visible on his face and hands were weeping foul–smelling pus. He was carrying a tray and two goblets, which were the cleanest things about him.
"The Great Lord sends these to his two finest warriors with his regards," Forell hissed. His voice seemed clear and precise, although with hints of hoarseness. Before his.... mutilation and torture he had been an adequate orator, and he still tended towards verbosity and sycophancy.
Tirivail grabbed one of the goblets and stepped back cautiously. She did not like Forell, but then few did. Even Takier was prone to wondering just why Sonovar kept him around. He was the only priestling here; even Gysiner and Chardhay had left to go to one of the refugee worlds.
Kozorr rose awkwardly to his feet. The pain in his leg was less now, replaced by a dull thud, but he still knew to be careful not to stumble and fall. He had not noticed before how thirsty he was, and the strong aroma of the elixir almost overrode Forell's filthy odour.
He seized the goblet with unseemly haste and raised it to his lips. The thick red liquid burned his throat as it went down, but he was soon filled with a soft and pleasant warmth. He looked at Tirivail, who was swilling the dregs at the bottom of her goblet thoughtfully. She noticed him looking, and drained the rest.
"And now that you are refreshed, noble warriors," Forell continued, "the Great Lord requests your presence immediately. He needs the strong and the brave to serve him in an.... important matter."
"A mission for us?" Tirivail asked. Her eyes were shining.
"A mission? Yes. An important mission."
A chill ran down Kozorr's spine. There was something lurking just behind Forell's eyes, something that aroused considerable suspicion. He did not like the sound of this.
But then he was a warrior, and, like or dislike, he was sworn to obey his lord.
Unto death.
Another routine day at the pub. The usual assortment of the drunk, the lost, the alone, the damned and the corrupt. There were times when Bo struggled to remember why he had opened this bar in the first place.
But then he did remember, his mind returning to the old days as a child, when his father had taken him into the bars. That had been in a small mining village on Vega. Every Sunday afternoon they had gone, as had all Bo's father's friends. They had sat around the same table, drinking patiently, playing cards, telling the same old jokes, laughing, complaining about their jobs and their wives, but all in good humour.
Bo had just sat and listened to them, answering their questions whenever they turned to him, running to fetch their drinks, advising his father on his hand of cards. But mostly, whenever he was tired, he curled up next to the fire - a real, genuine fire - and soaked in the warmth, the atmosphere, the conversation. He had known then that that was what he wanted to do: run a place just like that.
Oh, he had done all sorts of jobs after his father had died. Mining, cleaning, routine maintenance, all the usual shlub work that needed doing but that no one could be bothered doing. But he had done it, working hard, saving his money, and finally he had been able to buy this place.
Somehow, it wasn't how he had wanted it to be. The pub of his childhood had never had to deal with fights every night, never had to slip credits to corrupt Security officers, or pay off the local gangsters. The fire there had been warm and inviting, not a false front like this one. There had been no pathetic losers there, sobbing into their drinks or throwing up on the floor or smashing their glasses.
He wiped the table, lost in a reverie of the past, sighing softly. There was little hope of anything better now. He was too old to seek anything new. No, he was stuck here, but maybe.... just maybe.... he could fix things. He might be able to turn the place around, attract a good local crowd, have things just the way he remembered.
Then he sighed again. He had been having those dreams for years now.
There was movement by the front door, and he tried to remember if he had locked it or not. His mind quickly ran through anyone who might be coming to see him at this time of night. Mr. Trace and his men? - but they had visited the day before. He was fully paid up until the middle of next month, and he couldn't remember doing anything to annoy Mr. Trace. There was the typical drunken or drugged–up thief, but he remembered what had happened to the last person who had tried to rob a business 'protected' by Mr. Trace. Bits of him were still showing up in back alleys.
Security weren't out and about at this time. So who?
He mumbled something angrily to himself. Probably Jinxo or someone like him throwing up in his doorway, or settling down to sleep, or both. Or expecting him to still be open, and just looking for somewhere warm.