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Authors: Jeanne G'Fellers
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cast the men a significant frown. “I have no problem using Taelach tech when needed. Do any of you?”
Four heads shook adamantly. No one wished to challenge this odd Autlach, especially when he had a bow lashing his arm.
“Very well.” Cance grunted. “Back to the bows.”
“They’re effective but difficult to master,” admitted the quiet one. “The Sarian military rarely uses them because they take too long to train on.”
“Not this one.” Cance waved the device under their noses. “It’s been modified to track and fire on a verbal command.” She flipped up the palm lever to reveal the blank underbelly. “There’s no trigger.”
“And no manual aiming makes for a sure shot.” Longhair grinned. “Got one for each of us?”
“The Cause has provided funding for four fully charged bows and two scan decoders.” Cance mentioned the Cause to remind all of the reasoning behind their actions. She disposed of the lighting sticks by cracking them in half, rolled the map scroll, and slid it into its tube. “Meet me at the Waterlead bar tomorrow evening. I expect to see each of you there, no excuses. You are sworn to this and to me. Failure to carry out your promise will be regarded as betrayal and dealt with accordingly by the Cause.” Cance gulped from the flask. “To Langus and her salvation!” The men shouted their concordance and took their own turns at the drink. Supportive or not, believing or otherwise, they knew there was no backing out.
“Return to your homes,” Cance told them, adding this harsh warning: “Tell no one. One slip of the tongue could be the demise of us all.” With that, the four scattered and faded into the countryside.
“Excellent work, my enterprising Taelach.” A voice buzzed from just inside the tree line.
“It’s clear, Talmshone.” Cance’s mouth contorted in a wicked, loathsome smile. “Come have a drink to our success.”
The field grasses rustled with footsteps and a heavily webbed, three-fingered hand wrapped around the wine flask. “The Commitment will be thrilled to hear their plans are developing so nicely.” Talmshone wiped the flask opening on his cuff then drained its contents in a single gulp. “Ahh, Sarian wine. ’Tis the only decent thing the Autlach produces, besides a few choice Taelachs such as yourself.” He gave Cance a vicious double-lidded wink.
“Flattery, Talmshone, can get you everywhere.” But Cance stepped back, so as not to encourage an advance from the scaly Iralian.
“Do not concern yourself with your personal safety.” Talmshone flung the empty flask to the wayside. “I fail to find Sarians enticing, Autlach or Taelach. You are both too delicately made and oddly arranged for my satisfaction. Even you guardians.”
“Delicate?” Cance took four shots from her inhaler. “Iralians are not exactly my ideal date either. Where’s my pay?”
Talmshone placed a band of rolled Autlach bills in Cance’s outstretched palm. He was well aware of her addiction and considered it the unstable link in their alliance. Prock, a native plant of Trimar, was liquefied to produce an inhalable spray. It was widely used among the inhabitants of the penal colony, more so by those escaped or slaved into the icy Junglelands surrounding the prison. Few served their sentence without becoming lifelong addicts.
“This makes us up to date plus expenses.” Talmshone waited for Cance to regain composure before he continued. “I would refrain from spending it all in one place, or on one thing.”
Cance sniffed, more at the remark than to clear her satiated nasal passages. “Like I’d go anywhere without a generous supply. Remember, I’m due four billion in Iralian funds when the job is done.”
“Four billion plus control of Langus. I am familiar with Commitment’s agreement. Just do your job.” Talmshone bared his pointed teeth in a crooked leer, the Iralian version of a polite smile. “And we shall do ours.”
Chapter
Four heads shook adamantly. No one wished to challenge this odd Autlach, especially when he had a bow lashing his arm.
“Very well.” Cance grunted. “Back to the bows.”
“They’re effective but difficult to master,” admitted the quiet one. “The Sarian military rarely uses them because they take too long to train on.”
“Not this one.” Cance waved the device under their noses. “It’s been modified to track and fire on a verbal command.” She flipped up the palm lever to reveal the blank underbelly. “There’s no trigger.”
“And no manual aiming makes for a sure shot.” Longhair grinned. “Got one for each of us?”
“The Cause has provided funding for four fully charged bows and two scan decoders.” Cance mentioned the Cause to remind all of the reasoning behind their actions. She disposed of the lighting sticks by cracking them in half, rolled the map scroll, and slid it into its tube. “Meet me at the Waterlead bar tomorrow evening. I expect to see each of you there, no excuses. You are sworn to this and to me. Failure to carry out your promise will be regarded as betrayal and dealt with accordingly by the Cause.” Cance gulped from the flask. “To Langus and her salvation!” The men shouted their concordance and took their own turns at the drink. Supportive or not, believing or otherwise, they knew there was no backing out.
“Return to your homes,” Cance told them, adding this harsh warning: “Tell no one. One slip of the tongue could be the demise of us all.” With that, the four scattered and faded into the countryside.
“Excellent work, my enterprising Taelach.” A voice buzzed from just inside the tree line.
“It’s clear, Talmshone.” Cance’s mouth contorted in a wicked, loathsome smile. “Come have a drink to our success.”
The field grasses rustled with footsteps and a heavily webbed, three-fingered hand wrapped around the wine flask. “The Commitment will be thrilled to hear their plans are developing so nicely.” Talmshone wiped the flask opening on his cuff then drained its contents in a single gulp. “Ahh, Sarian wine. ’Tis the only decent thing the Autlach produces, besides a few choice Taelachs such as yourself.” He gave Cance a vicious double-lidded wink.
“Flattery, Talmshone, can get you everywhere.” But Cance stepped back, so as not to encourage an advance from the scaly Iralian.
“Do not concern yourself with your personal safety.” Talmshone flung the empty flask to the wayside. “I fail to find Sarians enticing, Autlach or Taelach. You are both too delicately made and oddly arranged for my satisfaction. Even you guardians.”
“Delicate?” Cance took four shots from her inhaler. “Iralians are not exactly my ideal date either. Where’s my pay?”
Talmshone placed a band of rolled Autlach bills in Cance’s outstretched palm. He was well aware of her addiction and considered it the unstable link in their alliance. Prock, a native plant of Trimar, was liquefied to produce an inhalable spray. It was widely used among the inhabitants of the penal colony, more so by those escaped or slaved into the icy Junglelands surrounding the prison. Few served their sentence without becoming lifelong addicts.
“This makes us up to date plus expenses.” Talmshone waited for Cance to regain composure before he continued. “I would refrain from spending it all in one place, or on one thing.”
Cance sniffed, more at the remark than to clear her satiated nasal passages. “Like I’d go anywhere without a generous supply. Remember, I’m due four billion in Iralian funds when the job is done.”
“Four billion plus control of Langus. I am familiar with Commitment’s agreement. Just do your job.” Talmshone bared his pointed teeth in a crooked leer, the Iralian version of a polite smile. “And we shall do ours.”
Chapter
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