Slave Empire III - The Shrike by T C Southwell Read Free Book Online Page B

going to
take it?”
    Tallyn leant
forward, his eyes narrowed. “So you can give me another decoy? What
kind of fool do you take me for? I have to know I’m getting the
real thing, not another phony.”
    “Do you accept
that I’m the real thing? If I take off the mask, right now, will
you release her?”
    Tallyn
considered. “You sound like him, but that can be faked. No, I think
the only image of the Shrike I’ll trust is the one we find in that
girl’s head.”
    Tarke spoke in
a soft, dangerous tone. “If you kill her, you’ll start a war with
me that you will regret. That, I promise.”
    “We’re not
going to harm her. No one ever died from having their head read.
It’s done all the time. And you don’t really expect me to believe
that threat, do you? I’m not stupid, Shrike, so don’t treat me like
an idiot. Once we have your image, you’ll have to stay on your
best-defended base, behind a fleet of ships, and even then, we’ll
find a way to catch you.”
    “You’re too
clever by far. You’ve even outsmarted yourself.” Tarke looked down
at his hands, then raised his head. “ Erenar niel rellorash
perzin trackesh, erenar nel toth muran, azin. Erenar nel eskareth
vrin lemarr, pretar. Erenar nel retorath trevesh rellin nar, merrin
weleth. Roth erenar nel shevin, renda mien esavesh, terrin sorral
orn, raazin.” He broke the connection.
     
     
    Tallyn turned
to Marcon, who sat at his station as usual, monitoring the ship’s
functions. Vengeance was en-route to Darmon, two hours from its
destination.
    “Have that last
thing he said translated.”
    “Yes, sir.”
Marcon touched the crystals on his console, and the holograms
scrolled until one came up with the answer. He read it with a
frown, then said, “It’s an ancient Antian oath, sir, quite
complicated. The sort they used to swear on the battlefield, back
in their primitive days. It might give us a clue as to his family,
since they each had their own particular code. I can look -”
    “I don’t care
about his family, its dead. Just tell me what he said.”
    Marcon cleared
his throat. “Well sir, in Antian it’s fairly brief, but translated
into Atlantean, it’s quite a speech.”
    “Don’t bore me
with the details, Marcon, just tell me, or must I read it
myself?”
    “It’s what’s
known as a blood oath, or vow of vengeance. It means ‘for the blood
of my servant, I shall reap a like payment, as I shall for the
blood of my warrior who dies in battle. For the blood of my noble,
I shall reap a fourfold payment, and for my friend, then shall it
be tenfold. For the blood of my king, I shall spill the blood of
thousands to repay the debt. But for the blood of my family, your
land shall run red with the blood of all your kinsmen, and the
killing shall not end until my blood has mingled with the earth and
my last breath has passed from my lips’.” Marcon cleared his throat
again in the ensuing silence, and added, “But he substituted the
word ‘family’ with ‘wife’.”
    Tallyn stared
across the gloomy bridge, stunned. “He’s serious.”
    “I would say
so, sir. An Antian blood oath is binding on the speaker. From what
we know, they’d rather die than break it,” Marcon said. “Shall I
contact him again?”
    “No. It still
doesn’t mean the man I spoke to is really him. It just means we’d
better make damned sure Rayne doesn’t die.”
    “From being
read by a telepath, sir?”
    “He seems to
think it’s likely. Contact the people on Darmon and warn them to be
extra careful. Make sure she’s sedated and monitored.”
    “Yes, sir.”
     
     
    Tarke stared at
the fire-sheathed screens, wishing the ship could go faster. He was
still an hour from Darmon, and cursed the fact that he had not left
Ironia sooner in pursuit. The helplessness ate at him, making him
curse all the fates that had conspired to bring this situation
about. Even with all his power, his empire of ships and men, even
by offering himself in exchange, he