John Ringo - Council War 4 - East of the Sun,West of the Moon

Prologue

Orc Private Tur-uck was having a bad day. It had started by being left in the camp to guard the baggage

and had only gotten worse when the humans counter-attacked and took the portals. He slammed his

shield into the human pussy and drove him back, striking hard with his broad, curved sword. The blow

slipped past the humans' defenses and blood flew from a deep gash that gaped like a bloody grin. Then

the orc stabbed back in a blinding reverse and drove the sword into the human's throat, ripping it out in a

welter of gore.

"The doors!" Sub-leader Grath bellowed. "Forget the humans! Get the doors up!"

Tur-uck sheathed his sword and dropped his shield, sliding his fingers under the edge of the fallen

doorway. The portals, until the humans had taken them, had been spilling out the victorious hordes of the

Masters. None could stop the Horde, it was victorious in every battle. Except, a quiet voice suggested,

this one. The humans had appeared from their own doorways and were knocking down the doors of the

Masters, and the Horde, blindly obeying orders, was dashing out of the camp, leaving it to the human

invaders.

The doorway was heavy and the attack had cost Grath's group many lives. Lives were nothing, they

were to be spilled for the Masters. But they had barely enough to lift the portal to the level of Grath's

knees, much less set it back upright. It was heavy metal with a concrete base and no matter how they

struggled they could not get it more than a meter off the ground.

Tur-uck suddenly let go and dropped to his hands and knees, scuttling under the doorway.

"Come back here, you coward!" Grath shouted, his voice made guttural by the Changes to his throat

and the large canine tusks in his mouth.

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"I'm going to get help!" Tur-uck shouted, but he knew he was too late. Already more of the humans

were charging Grath's remaining orcs and from the far side there would be no way to raise the doorway.

Tur-uck jumped upward, exiting the portal near its top and falling through the air without a cry to thump

to the ground on the far side. His ears were immediately assaulted by the blessed sound of thousands of

orcs, angrily balked by the fallen doorways. One of them kicked him as he rolled across the ground, but

that was more in the way of a greeting than in anger. It was simple courtesy to kick someone when they

were down.

"You!" one of the lesser Masters shouted, striding forward and waving back the orcs that were gathered

around the mirror-like portal. "Where did you come from? What in the hell is happening?"

"Master!" Tur-uck groveled, rolling to his hands and knees and bowing his head. "The humans have

taken the portals and tipped them over! We tried to right them but we were about to be overwhelmed. I

returned to bring word, Master!"

"How the hell did that happen?" the lesser master shouted.

"What the hell is happening?" another voice bellowed and the orcs fell silent, falling to their knees and

bowing as a True Master approached.

"Lord Chansa," the lesser master said, bowing so that his robes swished back in forth nervously. "This

one has returned through the portal. He says that the humans have taken the camp on the far side and are

turning the portals face down. We can't push through that."

"Damn!" Chansa shouted. "Damn and damn and damn again!"

Chansa Mulengela was a huge "natural" human. He was nearly three meters tall, broad and thick in

proportion, designed right at the limits of what a normal human could support. Huge, dark and fearsome,

he appeared like nothing but a human juggernaut, especially when, as now, he let loose his volcanic

temper.

Tur-uck had assumed the full prostration, nose in the dirt, arms and legs spread, as the True Master

approached. At the sight of the Master's anger, many of the gathered orcs had followed his example.

"You!" Chansa said, tapping him on the side. "Get up. Tell me what you know."

"Master!" Tur-uck said, almost overjoyed to be actually addressed by a Master but well aware that it

might be the last conversation he ever had on earth. He stumbled to his knees and bowed his head, hands

clasped in front of him. "I was part of Sub-Leader Grath's group. We were assigned to provide internal

security to the south-east portion of the camp. The camp was attacked by dragons as the portals

opened. We reacted to the landed dragons then saw many human soldiers poring out of other portals.

They were pushing the portals of the Masters over so we went to stop them. There were only four on the

portal that we attacked, but they killed eight of my leader's group. We took the portal and the remainder

of us tried to raise it, but it was too heavy. So I came through to bring word. Master, spare me!"

"Stand up, orc," Chansa growled. "Let me look at you. Did your sub-leader order you to return?"

"No, Master," Tur-uck admitted, getting to his feet and standing to attention. The build of his body did

not permit him to stand fully erect and his long arms dangled almost to his bowed knees. "He ordered me

not to return."

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"So, why did you?" Chansa asked, mildly.

"I..." Tur-uck started to reply then stopped. "Masters needed to know. There was not time to explain,

Master. I beg your forgiveness! I was not fleeing battle, Master! I am brave and willing to die. My life is

yours, Master! But the Masters needed to be told!"

"My God," Chansa muttered. "Celine finally screwed up and produced an orc with initiative."

Tur-uck didn't know what that meant so he remained mute.

"Did you challenge Sub-leader Grath for his position?" Chansa asked, walking around the orc and

looking him up and down. "You are a prime specimen. You might have won."

"I did not, Master," Tur-uck admitted.

"Why not?" Chansa asked.

"Sub-leader Grath was a good leader, Master," Tur-uck said, nodding in nervousness. "He kept us fed

and told us of good ways to fight, to kill the humans. I...I did not wish to challenge him until he had taught

me all I might learn from him."

"And one with patience?" Chansa laughed. "So all the portals are down?"

"They appear to be,Marshall ," the lesser master interjected.

"I wasn't talking to you," Chansa snapped. "Orc, what is your name?"

"Tur-uck, Master."

"All the portals are down, Tur-uck?"

"Yes, Master," the orc admitted. "The west side was commanded by a Greater Dragon and none could

defeat her. Many human soldiers had also attacked and there appeared to be an attack on the south gate.

Most of the Horde had left by the north gate by the time I came through."

"The human soldiers, you fought them?"

"Yes, Master."

"How was their armor marked? Their shields?"

"The shields were marked with words and a sword, Master," Tur-uck said. "I do not know the words.

Their armor had a device of an eagle, here," he said, indicating the left breast.

"Blood Lords," Chansa snarled. "Very well. Tur-uck, you are made a sub-leader as of now. Of course,

you must fight to retain your position, but you have it. Good job coming back, I'm willing to accept that it

was not for lack of courage."

With that the True Master strode away and Tur-uck sagged in relief.

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"I would have had your head off for disobeying orders," the lesser master snarled.

"I live to serve, Master," Tur-uck said, falling to hands and knees. "My neck is yours to strike."

"Get up," the lesser master said. "Your life is Marshall Chansa's to take and his decisions I don't

question. I'll assign you a sub-group. Don't fisk up or Iwill have your head."

"Yes, Master," Sub-leader Tur-uck replied, rising to his feet and admitting that maybe he wasn't having

such a bad day after all.

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Contents

Framed

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Contents

Chapter One

As the axe clanged off his shield, Herzer knew he was having a bad day.

His opponent was as fast as he was and darned near as tall and strong. Furthermore, Herzer had never

in his life fought someone who used an axe with such effectiveness. The weapon had a meter and a half

metal covered shaft and his opponent used it as a combination of quarterstaff and axe to great effect.

Herzer Herrick was a young man just nearing his twenty-fifth birthday, a shade over two meters tall and

broad in proportion with black hair and dark green eyes that, as now, slitted into fiery intensity when he

was in combat. His face had a long scar on the cheek and more crisscrossed his unguarded forearms,

visible proof of his many battles.

Herzer flickered the tip of his longsword forward and was rewarded with another one of those nasty

spin and catches, the haft of the axe clanging into his blade then the head sliding down to trap it. Before

he knew it, the butt of the axe was hammering into his shield and he leapt back, disengaging his blade

with difficulty.

"Think you're tricky?" Herzer panted.

"Very," the man said. He began spinning the axe overhead, clockwise, moving back and forth lightly on

his feet. "Trickier than you, Major. As you'll learn when I kill you."

Herzer knew there was a reason to the motion but he couldn't divine it. The axe could slam down but

with all that momentum there was no way that his opponent could use it for an effective block. Especially

if he came in low. He circled to the left then lunged forward in a shield bash, his sword held low at his

side, point angling upward to slip through chinks in his opponent's armor.

It took him a moment to realize what was happening as the axeman brought the spinning circle of steel

downwards and neatly kicked the sword out of midline. The axeman rode the shield bash backwards,

actually loosing contact with his axe as it spun around the fulcrum of Herzer's useless sword. Then his

shield was wrenched outwards as a tremendous blow struck him on his chest armor.

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"Kill point," the judge said. "Break."

"Kill point?" Herzer protested, looking down at the blue mark. The axeman had first pulled his shield

outward then used his own energy to hammer the reverse point of the training axe into his armor. He

supposed it would have punctured the armor and given him a wound. But he'd had, and fought with, far

worse.

"In space," Colonel Carson said, pulling off his helmet, "that would have opened up your armor and

vented your atmosphere. It's a kill. Trust me."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not going along on your mission, then," Herzer said, grinning. "On the other

hand, I can think of two or three counters to that move. All of which would leave you disarmed, or dead,

or both. How many do you have in your bag of tricks?"

"Hopefully enough,"Carson said with a grin. "We've been training for this mission for two years and from

what Miss Travante tells us, New Destiny had yet to even begin to plan when she...errr..."

"Megan generally uses the term 'escaped,'" Herzer said with a grin. "I generally say something like 'blew

that popsicle stand.' Sometimes she doesn't get the humor."

"I see," Colonel Carson said, somewhat uneasily. While it was true that he outranked Major Herrick,

there was no one in the army of the United Free States, with the possible exception of Duke Edmund

Talbot, who was more famous. And with his engagement to the new Key Holder, Countess Megan

Travante, Herrick's career was presumably unlimited.Carson was well aware that he was probably

dueling with a future boss and certainly someone with the ear of some very important people so he chose

his words carefully. "I don't say it will be a cakewalk, unless they intend to just let us steal all the fuel and

do nothing about it. But we should be able to handle anything they throw at us."

Herzer grimaced despite the careful phrasing and shrugged.

"Colonel, with all due respect," he said, carefully, "I would strongly suggest that you not even think that.

New Destiny is, in many ways, better at this war than us. They are better at intelligence gathering, they

are better at...call it 'special systems' development and they are not stupid when it comes to tactics. I've

taken that attitude before and it bit me in the ass. So has Duke Edmund and it bithim in the ass. I would

strongly suggest that you assume New Destiny is going to throw something you've never seen at you, that

is game winning, and plan for it. Otherwise, it's going to bite you in the ass. And there won't be a second

shot at this mission, sir."

"So I'm aware,"Carson sighed.

"Big pressure, sir," Herzer said, nodding. "Welcome to the world saver's club. Admission is hard.

Staying in is harder," he added with a grin, holding up one arm that terminated in a complex prosthetic.

"You haven't had that replaced, I notice,"Carson said, walking over to the racks and putting up his

armor and weapons.

"Well, Megan has access to the power," Herzer admitted. "And Mistress Daneh, or even her daughter

Rachel, is more than capable of doing the regeneration. But..." he looked at the device and clicked it

thoughtfully. "It has some things it does better than a hand and, in general, I've found that those are useful.

Maybe if we ever win this damned war I'll have it replaced. Until then, I think I'll keep it. Great for

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opening beer bottles."

"And speaking of Lady Megan,"Carson said, smiling. "Where is your fiancée?"

"Getting ready for the Foundation Ball, sir," Herzer grimaced, looking up at the wall mounted

chronometer. "Which I'm, also, supposed to attend."

"Hanging out with the nobs, eh?"Carson said, smiling. "Why don't you look happy. Plenty of majors

would like an opportunity to bend the ear of the Army commander, for example."

"Well, honestly, I can bend Duke Edmund's ear any time I'd like, sir," Herzer said, shrugging. "And if he

thinks it's worthwhile he'll bring it to Minster Spehar which carries more weight than a major. But,

honestly, sir, it's four hours of standing around making polite conversation with people that will take your

words and use them as a knife in your back. Then there are the after dinner speeches. I don't even get to

sit with Megan since she'sreal high society and I'm just her...fiancée. I'll be down in the peanut gallery

with the low-lifes like...well...colonels and select members of the House of Commons."

"Sounds idyllic,"Carson said with a chuckle.

"Thanks," Herzer replied, putting away the last piece of armor. "I hope to see you again before your

mission, sir."

"I'm sure we'll meet again, Herzer,"Carson said, holding out his hand. "Try to enjoy yourself at the ball. I

understand that the cream of Washan's lovelier ladies will be there as well."

"I've already got the loveliest girl at the ball," Herzer replied with a grin.

* * *

"You look absolutely lovely, Megan," Mirta said, taking a last tuck in the Council Woman's dress.

Megan frowned at the mirror and opened her mouth then cut off the comment. She couldn't say she

hated the dress because Mirta had made it and, honestly, it was beautiful. And she couldn't comment on

her hair with Shanea putting the final touches on it. Finally she grimaced and shook her head, lightly.

"I've got a spot developing on my nose," she snapped.

"It'simpossible to see," Mirta replied, sharply. "Take a deep breath. You killed Paul, facing these people

is a minor inconvenience. Your dress is lovely and beyond the height of fashion. It's going toset the

fashion for at least the next year. Your hair is lovely andit's going to set a fashion. Your make up is

lovely. You are lovely. Meredith is fully dialed in on everything you're going toachieve this evening and

she is lovely but just a shade less lovely than you. You are absolutely going to slay them. Don't you

always?"

"I think this will hold even in the humidity," Shanea said, teasing her hair up and spraying a stray strand

into play. "You'll look great at the ball. I wishI was going instead of Meredith."

"There will be other balls, Shanea," Megan said, smiling. Shanea was a dear but she had the brains of a

gnat and the Foundation Ball would be attended by all the highest of society. Which meant that more

deals would be made and more bills finalized than in all the committee meetings in the next month. Which

in turn meant that it would be a vicious political dog-fight over cakes and champagne. Taking Shanea into

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that was out of the question.

Megan stood up and allowed Shanea and Mirta to help her into the dress. She could easily do it herself

and would have preferred it, but the two, along with a few others, had attached themselves to her like

limpets and, honestly, they were far more capable of this sort of thing than she. She nodded as Meredith

came into the vanity room and smiled.

"You look like Athena, Meredith," Megan said.

"Thank you." Meredith Amadou Tillou was a tall exquisite brunette dressed, like Megan, in a dress that

was backless with a high collar and cut low at the front. Hers was not cut quite as low as Megans and it

lacked the slits on the side that teasingly revealed long legs. She was not going to the ball to be noticed.

Quite the opposite. If she had a choice in her manner of dress it would be a full coverage dress and a

hooded cloak.

Her expression was much the same as it had been for four years in Paul Bowman's harem, blank. But

the eyes were different. While in the harem she had participated in one of the two revolts against Paul's

bondage and, when unsuccessful, she had been brain locked and kept as an imbecilic brood mare for

Paul's "breeding group." When Megan killed Paul it released the bond, and the memories of four years of

unwilling bondage, of the things that had been done to her and the things she did. Now she viewed the

world through eyes that were as cold as an iceberg and for all the world as deadly.

As Megan had quickly learned, the mind that had been released was at least as good as her own.

Behind that blank mask was a brain like a computer with a virtually perfect memory and an ability to

synthesize information that was phenomenal, making connections where others did not see them. For all

that she had, apparently, no ambitions for greater power. She had become Megan's political aide and

would be attending the ball in that position.

As Mirta was fastening the last catch, Ashley walked in the room, frowning.

"Megan, there's been a change," she said, unhappily. "You were supposed to go to a late meeting with

Duke Dehnavi and his wife after the ball. I just got word that he's planning on bringing...someone other

than his wife."

"Cancel it," Megan snapped. "I'm not going to be seen in public with him and his latest doxie!"

"He's a key vote in the Intelligence Joint Subcommittee," Meredith said, evenly. "Your father will need

his support for the new funding bill. Especially if he wants to increase the size of the agent training

program. The meeting will not cinch it but canceling it would inevitably cause him to view anything

brought up by a Travante through a negative light. He has openly boasted of having managed to arrange

it. He is also involved in the Agriculture Committee which will be looking at bills related to military food

support over the next six months. Various other political items come to mind since he is a quiet power in

the Corporate Party. Which is why Ashley arranged the meeting."

Megan sighed and grimaced.

"Careful," Mirta said, "don't break the makeup."

"Mirta, analysis, please?"

"Okay," the older woman said, sighing. Mirta looked as if she was in her late teens, one of the reasons

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Paul Bowman had picked her up along with the others. In fact she was well over a hundred and besides

being Megan's seamstress acted in the role of socio-political advisor. Ashley handled the social planning

but Mirta advised on who could and should be graced with the presence of the newest, and youngest,

and prettiest, keyholder in the increasingly political climate of the United Free States capitol.

"Short term, you gain," Mirta said. "You need the vote to get the bill out of committee without having it

gutted. Long term...you're giving support to the cookie eaters. That means all the wives willreally get

their knives out for you. If you were married to Herzer, he wouldn't dare try this. But he thinks since

Herzer's your fiancée, and you're assumed to be..."

"Carrying on relations," Meredith continued for her.

"Yes. That. Since you're carrying on regardless, he thinks he can score points and make it more

acceptable for him to trot out his cookies. Since his wife is a rhino, politically, it's actually better for him

to attend with his cookies, believe it or not. But..."

"Herzer won't want to come, anyway," Megan muttered. "Ashley: Send a message to the Duke telling

him that I will be unattended by my...fiancée...and since it would be imbalanced, etc."

"Good call," Ashley said, relieved.

"Public , Ashley," Megan snapped. "Very muchpublic . A male aide, fine. I'll have Meredith with me. A

doxie, NO."

"Will do," Ashley muttered. "De Funcha. Very new, very hip, brightly lit, I know the matre de so getting

you agood table at the last moment won't be a problem not that it ever is..."

"Handle it," Megan said. "Meredith, let's go."

* * *

"The Honorable Jasper Thornton!" the majordomo at the top of the steps cried over the buzz of voices

in the ballroom. "Mrs. Jasper Thornton."

"Her name is Amelia, for God's sake," Megan muttered angrily.

"Smile for the cameras," Herzer muttered as they stepped forward. "Although, I really hope he doesn't

screw up and call me 'Mr. Megan Travante.'"

"Countess Megan Samantha Travante!" the functionary said without a glance at the card Herzer handed

him. "Major Herzer Herrick!"

The low buzz of conversation stopped and the group broke into apparently spontaneous applause as a

chemical flash caught the couple standing hand in hand. It would probably make the morning addition of

the Washan Times, society page if not the front, and be in Lasang in no more than two weeks by courier.

Megan waved in appreciation of the applause as, shadowed by Meredith, they stepped down the stairs

to the floor of the large room. It was not filled to overflowing, by any stretch of the imagination, but

Washan in summertime was hot and the candles and lamps that lit the room added to the heat of the

pressed bodies turning it into a sauna. Megan was afraid she could already feel her hairdo wilting.

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"Remember, the slave said," Herzer said, leaning over to whisper in Megan's ear, "you too are mortal."

He was dressed in the most formal uniform of the UFS, a tight coat worn short, open at the front in

deference to the heat, with a blinding white undertunic on which his Eagle hung from a thick scarlet

ribbon. The coat was gray, the newly chosen color of the UFS Army uniform, with light blue lining to

denote his branch of infantry. The gray pants had a blue stripe down the side as well. It was topped by a

light blue beret. The coat was heavy with his medals and qualification badges; two silver eagles to match

the gold, the now defunct aurea victorous, wound badges, dragon qualification, maritime aviation badge,

air combat medal. Megan had insisted that he wear all of them. There were a few with more medals in

the room, the UFS Army was already getting medal happy. But there were none with more medals for

valor in combat.

Megan snorted softly and took the first hand that was outstretched to her.

"Duke Okyay, a pleasure to see you this evening..."

* * *

Herzer detached himself as soon as Megan began politicking, grabbed a glass of sasparilla and a plate of

munchies and worked his way over to the corner where Edmund and the Army Commander were

ensconced.

"Duke Edmund," he said, pushing past an aide. Most of the flunkies were staying well back from the

great men and surreptitiously acting as a filter. The Army commander's new aide had apparently not

recognized the unknown major.

"Hey, Herzer," Edmund said, grumpily. "Welcome to the jungle."

Herzer grinned slightly when he saw the turning aide grimace and face back to watch the goings on.

"I'm afraid I'm going to be spending far too much time, here," Herzer said, frowning. "Megan's taken to it

like a duck to water."

"Don't be too sure," Edmund replied. The duke was noticeably older every year as the weight of being

the pre-eminent field commander of the UFS forces bore down on his shoulders. What little hair he had

left was entirely gray and was shorn close to his scalp. But he still retained his salt and pepper beard and

an almost alarming presence. Next to him General Galbreath, ostensibly the commander of all UFS

ground forces, was a pale, thin shadow. Effectively Edmund let Galbreath get on with the politicking and

administration while Edmund got on with winning the war.

Seven ///Modean check please?/// years before, the world had been a virtual utopia with unlimited

power and technology so advanced it approached magic. Disease and want had been eliminated and a

world wide network of teleportation and replication permitted humans to live as gods, their bodies and

lives playthings in a continuous life of merriment.

In a moment it ended as the Council of Keyholders that controlled the network fell out in what amounted

to a world-wide civil war. Now the majority of the power from the twelve remaining fusion power plants

was devoted to energy attacks between the two factions of Keyholders and armies were forming on both

sides. The Freedom Coalition, those who fought on the side of Queen Sheida and her allies, used

unChanged humans for their forces while the New Destiny coalition modified the bodies of their soldiers,

and increasingly their support forces, into bestial creatures that were almost incredibly tough and strong

while being loyal to the point of suicide. Already, the United Free States, the portion of the Freedom

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Coalition that held Norau, had beaten off major attacks from the orcs of New Destiny. It was time for

some payback.

Edmund Talbot had been a re-enactor before the Fall, a person who spent his time creating a very close

approximation of a time "when." He'd lived in a stone house, crafted swords and armor and generally

lived a comfortable life as a feudal lord with extra amenities such as antique flush toilets. After the Fall it

had been revealed that he was one of the few legends of the pre-Fall period, Charles "The Hammer", a

man who had gone into Anarchia and tamed it in a few short years, disappearing thereafter, as

mysteriously as he had appeared, but leaving in his wake a stable government that, as far as anyone

knew, still existed.

Since the Fall he had been the UFS' pre-eminent general, winning battle after battle against New

Destiny.

The brand new Key hanging from a ribbon around Duke Edmund's neck, the one recovered from

Eleonora Still after her assassination by New Destiny, showed just who hadtrue precedence between the

two.

"Your reputation precedes you, Major," Galbreath said, sticking out his hand. "I think that what the duke

meant was that, given the planned counter attack on Ropasa, it would be...difficult for the Army to lose

one of its brighter field lights to politic in Washan."

"I've got a dozen posts I need you atnow ," Edmund growled. "Professor at theWarCollege comes to

mind. So does a battalion command. Hell, command of the new legion we're trying to raise. Get married,

go on your honeymoon, get your tubes cleaned and then pack your bags."

"Hell of a choice, sir," Herzer said, grumpily. "With Megan, who I love and want in a the worstpossible

way, in the capitol, doingthis ," he said, with a dismissive wave at the height of Washan society, "or

eating cold monkey on a stick in Ropasa."

"Let me guess which way you'd hop," Edmund chuckled.

"Cold monkey," Herzer admitted. "Although, if I was at the War College Megan would at least be no

more than a day away."

"Once we have control of a significant portion of Ropasa," Edmund reminded him, "we can set up

portals. Then she's just a jump away."

"You're going for a direct invasion of the mainland?" Herzer asked. "Megan supports an invasion through

Gael and the retaking of Breton first."

"Is that an unofficial message from a fellow council member?" Edmund asked, raising one eyebrow.

"That is, after all, what parties like this are really for."

"No, of course not," Herzer said, testily. "But you know she supports the Gael. Don't you?"

"I'm well aware of it," Edmund said. "But with an invasion force on his home coast, Chansa will be

forced to recall the units that are attacking the Gael. Then they canhave Breton for all I care."

"There's that," Herzer said, frowning. "I suppose you're correct."

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John Ringo - Council War 4 - East of the Sun, West of the Moon

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