Stoor advised that they let the Raiders board so that they could be properly dispatched of. Varian was not of the same opinion, feeling that as long as there was some distance between them and the large pursuers, they had a better chance of survival. But Raim then joined them on the roof, and there was a quick vote taken.
Varian lost, and the Raiders were allowed to close the gap. It was then that Varian was treated to a fighting display that was truly as spectacular as anything old Furioso could have ever been capable of. Little Raim became a blur of sweating flesh and flashing steel. The first two Raiders had barely grappled on to the edge of the carrier when Varian and Raim descended upon them. Varian saw a heavily muscled arm separated from the armored body of the first attacker, quickly followed by his head. Raim’s sword was as sharp as a Vaisyan palace guard’s.
It took a bit longer for Varian to parry and riposte his attacker’s initial assaults, then he caught him with a side-slashing stroke through the waist and kidneys. Sloppy, but effective. The man went down.
The remaining four Raiders decided to call it a day and started to fall away from the carrier, but Raim picked them all off with his scoped weapon. Varian was disposed to let them escape, but Stoor feared they would bring back a large enough force to eventually overwhelm the trio.
It was, as adventures go, not a great one, but it was extremely instructive. It proved that each man could now respect the other and place more than a small amount of trust in that man’s protecting the other’s life. It also showed that the three men worked well together as a team, despite the differences in culture, personality, and age.
Varian was beginning to think that they might, after all, be successful.
This feeling persisted and was reinforced when they traveled through the remainder of the Behistar Republic without further incident. Either the absence of the first band of Raiders had stirred up enough respect for the carrier and its crew that the rest of the bandits kept their distance, or they were simply fortunate enough to have avoided anymore dangerous characters.
They had been traveling for more than a full moon cycle when Varian picked up the first traces of the Ironfields on the Finder Screen.
“The Finder’s going mad,” he said loudly to anyone who could hear.
Stoor ambled forward into the cabin. “Ironfields, dead ahead. Ever see it?”
Varian shook his head. “No. Heard plenty of stories, though.”
“Ain’t the same. I remember the first time I was through there. . . . Ever hear of Giulio Seezar or . . . uh, General Patent?”
“No, who are they?”
“Couple of military men I used to travel with when I was a lot younger. Between the two of them, they knew just about all there was to know about fightin’. . . .”
Varian continued to watch the terrain ahead, but spoke easily. “Well, what about them?”
“Oh, yeah! Well I was with them when we came on to the Ironfields. Sun was just goin’ down, and we were droppin’ down out of G’Rdellia. There’s no tellin’ how far it stretches; it just goes on and on.”
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” said Varian. “Do you think it’s possible that the great battle that was fought there . . . do you think it might have been the Riken?”
“And the Genonese?” said Stoor. “Sure, I thought about it. Makes a lot of sense to me. There’s so many stories about the ‘fields’ that nobody knows for sure what really went on there. Some even say that there’ve been hundreds, maybe even thousands, of battles fought there . . . like it’s some kind of magnetic place that draws men to it when they sense the time for a ‘final confrontation.’”
“Like birds in migration . . .” said Varian.
“Or lemmings, runnin’ to cliffs to kill themselves,” said Stoor. “You ever hear them stories. Crazy. Just plain crazy little critters!”
Varian was not positive he knew what the old man was talking about, having never heard of “lemmings,” but he nodded as if he had. Varian was not in the mood for another story right then, especially about crazy little animals.
The old man looked at the screen where the indicators were illuminating the first markers of the Ironfields, then he checked the sun’s position in the sky.
“If we can keep up this pace, we’ll probably hit the ‘fields by sundown. That seems kind of appropriate, don’t it? Kind of poetic-like, I’d say.”
Experienced traveler that he was, old Stoor was almost precisely correct in estimating the time of visual contact with the Ironfields. Raim was at the controls and Tessa was in the passenger seat when it happened.
She called out to the others, who entered the cab to see the first dark, crumpled silhouettes on the horizon. The vehicle rambled closer as a light breeze carried warm air through the cab. Sand eddied and capped like sea foam around the twisted hulks, which rose up from the sand like grave markers. The sun was setting and the temperature was dropping rapidly—as though heralding their entrance to a place which lay beyond the limits of space and time.
Images and impressions crowded into Varian’s mind; he watched the looming shapes grow larger under the vehicle’s approach. Words and emotions fought for place and sense, but he had the feeling of being overwhelmed. They were entering a place of mystery and of myth . . .
. . . a place of death.
Nothing moved. Nothing lived in the Ironfields. As the machine moved deeper into the vast hulk yard, a silence descended upon them. Even Stoor was quiet as the group privately took in the horrible tableau. It was an unending gallery, filled with mazelike corridors of the grotesque, the unspeakable. A montage still life of end-moments for men and
