size of the Stalker," he said. "All coming our way, backed by millennia of carefully nurtured hate. We're held responsible, it seems, for all the AIs' failures since . . ."
"Since the Revolt," said K'Sar.
L'Wrona looked at him, startled. "I thought only the AIs retained that bit of history. Or do you still have friends in FleetOps?"
An even stronger wind buffeted them from the lake, sending leaves swirling around the monument. K'Sar hooked his arm through L'Wrona's. "Walk me home, H'Nar. I promise you a good meal, a better brandy and a warm fire."
A few moments and they were crossing the village plaza. What L'Wrona recalled as a bustling marketplace was now a row of gutted shops, their windows smashed, broken glass and congealed duraplast puddling the scorched paving stones. Fires flickered among the ruins, people huddling around them, silently eating from Fleet survival packs, not bothering to look as freeholder and margrave walked by.
"What happened here?" asked L'Wrona.
K'Sar shrugged. "The usual. When what was left of the Fleet fell back and the S'Cotar landed, we fought ... we lost. Then they started conscription, brain wiping about a third of the survivors down to automaton level, using them to produce war goods in retooled factories. Now the S'Cotar are gone, and we're left with the ruins—physical, mental, spiritual. Fleet does what it can, but there are so many worlds in need ..."
They reached the little stream whose venerable old bridge was now just a heap of hand-tooled masonry. Someone—Fleet engineers, Planetary Guard—had thrown a field span across it, twenty meters of gray duraplast strung with thick hand cables. Crossing the bridge, the two men turned right where the footpath forked into the forest—a primeval forest of thick-trunked trees whose high canopies cloaked the Stalker and the stars.
"Home," said the Freeholder as the outline of a tall, wood-beamed house rose out of the night, a single light in one of the lower windows. The footlights flanking the pebbled path were dark.
"When are they going to get the power grid back on?" said L'Wrona as K'Sar fumbled at the lock.
"When an Emperor sits on the sceptered throne again," groused the old man. The door clicked open and they stepped into the house.
It was the same room that L'Wrona remembered from before the war, but darker, shrouded in deep shadows that danced to the flickering light from the oil lamps and the hearth: a long, wide room of broad-beamed ceiling and wide wood floors that swept on into the dining area and the darkened kitchen beyond.
"If you'd stoke the fire," said the freeholder, "I'll heat the stew." Not waiting for a reply, he moved into the kitchen, turning up the oil lamps along the way.
Throwing the hardwood logs on the fire, L'Wrona replaced the mesh screen and stepped back, rubbing his hands. As he did so, he noticed the char marks burned into the floor in front of the stone fireplace. They were small, perfectly round and patterned into two rough clusters a few meters from each other, the sort of marks a hand blaster set on low would leave.
As the flames rose and the heat grew, L'Wrona unfastened his battlejacket and folded it over the back of a sofa. Unstopping the decanter that stood on a side table, the margrave poured the amber-colored brandy into two of the thin crystalline goblets. As he replaced the stopper, K'Sar appeared, wheeling a small serving cart.
"Best to eat in here," said the freeholder, unfolding a pair of floor trays and setting them before two chairs to either side of the hearth. "The dining hall's spacious but cold."
L'Wrona took a steaming bowl of v'arx stew from the cart, setting it at K'Sar's place, then took one for himself as the old man doled out the black bread. Before he sat, he placed one of the brandy goblets on the freeholder's tray, taking the other for himself.
"All kinds of rumors reach here about you, H'Nar," said K'Sar, carefully sipping the stew.
"Oh?"
"Hero on the run.
"Since the Revolt," said K'Sar.
L'Wrona looked at him, startled. "I thought only the AIs retained that bit of history. Or do you still have friends in FleetOps?"
An even stronger wind buffeted them from the lake, sending leaves swirling around the monument. K'Sar hooked his arm through L'Wrona's. "Walk me home, H'Nar. I promise you a good meal, a better brandy and a warm fire."
A few moments and they were crossing the village plaza. What L'Wrona recalled as a bustling marketplace was now a row of gutted shops, their windows smashed, broken glass and congealed duraplast puddling the scorched paving stones. Fires flickered among the ruins, people huddling around them, silently eating from Fleet survival packs, not bothering to look as freeholder and margrave walked by.
"What happened here?" asked L'Wrona.
K'Sar shrugged. "The usual. When what was left of the Fleet fell back and the S'Cotar landed, we fought ... we lost. Then they started conscription, brain wiping about a third of the survivors down to automaton level, using them to produce war goods in retooled factories. Now the S'Cotar are gone, and we're left with the ruins—physical, mental, spiritual. Fleet does what it can, but there are so many worlds in need ..."
They reached the little stream whose venerable old bridge was now just a heap of hand-tooled masonry. Someone—Fleet engineers, Planetary Guard—had thrown a field span across it, twenty meters of gray duraplast strung with thick hand cables. Crossing the bridge, the two men turned right where the footpath forked into the forest—a primeval forest of thick-trunked trees whose high canopies cloaked the Stalker and the stars.
"Home," said the Freeholder as the outline of a tall, wood-beamed house rose out of the night, a single light in one of the lower windows. The footlights flanking the pebbled path were dark.
"When are they going to get the power grid back on?" said L'Wrona as K'Sar fumbled at the lock.
"When an Emperor sits on the sceptered throne again," groused the old man. The door clicked open and they stepped into the house.
It was the same room that L'Wrona remembered from before the war, but darker, shrouded in deep shadows that danced to the flickering light from the oil lamps and the hearth: a long, wide room of broad-beamed ceiling and wide wood floors that swept on into the dining area and the darkened kitchen beyond.
"If you'd stoke the fire," said the freeholder, "I'll heat the stew." Not waiting for a reply, he moved into the kitchen, turning up the oil lamps along the way.
Throwing the hardwood logs on the fire, L'Wrona replaced the mesh screen and stepped back, rubbing his hands. As he did so, he noticed the char marks burned into the floor in front of the stone fireplace. They were small, perfectly round and patterned into two rough clusters a few meters from each other, the sort of marks a hand blaster set on low would leave.
As the flames rose and the heat grew, L'Wrona unfastened his battlejacket and folded it over the back of a sofa. Unstopping the decanter that stood on a side table, the margrave poured the amber-colored brandy into two of the thin crystalline goblets. As he replaced the stopper, K'Sar appeared, wheeling a small serving cart.
"Best to eat in here," said the freeholder, unfolding a pair of floor trays and setting them before two chairs to either side of the hearth. "The dining hall's spacious but cold."
L'Wrona took a steaming bowl of v'arx stew from the cart, setting it at K'Sar's place, then took one for himself as the old man doled out the black bread. Before he sat, he placed one of the brandy goblets on the freeholder's tray, taking the other for himself.
"All kinds of rumors reach here about you, H'Nar," said K'Sar, carefully sipping the stew.
"Oh?"
"Hero on the run.
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