"If that is truly your mind, shall I get a gun and shoot you?"
At Theodore's reply, Yoshida and Hideyoshi looked in horror at the Coordinator, who seemed refueled rather than crushed by his son's words. Takashi's head came up and his dark eyes flashed ominously. "Your acquiescence comes too late to bring me solace. I have acknowledged your right to command the military forces of the Combine, and I would not unman you by stripping you of your office now." He fought to keep pain from his face. "Do not emasculate your own nation by putting the fate of our Imperial City in the hands of yoheiunits."
Theodore pointed toward the map. "As you can see, father, our forces are arrayed to bear the brunt of the attack. We will do all we can to be sure we never need the mercenaries' help. It is the DCMS that defends the capital; the mercenaries are only here to offer support." The Kanrei fell silent, the muscles of his face working as he struggled for inner control. "Besides, father, what unit would we draw off to ward the capital? We have no others."
Takashi shook his head as though rebuking a foolish child. "You have one more unit, Kanrei." His tone dripped scorn. "It is the one composed of my own bodyguards and of Mech Warriors who fought boldly long before you were born. These troops are known as the Dragon's Claws." The Coordinator raised his head and matched his son's stare without surrendering anything. "We will draw the line, and with me at their head, not a single Clansmen will cross it."
37
Stortalar City , Gunzburg
Radstadt Province, Free Rasalhague Republic
31 December 3051
To set foot once more into the Iron Jarl's antechamber sent a chill down Phelan Wolf's spine. With his ceremonial Wolf mask hiding his face, none who guided him toward Tor Miraborg's office guessed his identity or that he might have reason for unpleasant memories of the place. These guides had not been present two and a half years earlier when Jarlwards had conducted Phelan, severely beaten and half naked, to see their master.
And they wouldn't know that his office was the last place I ever saw Tyra.Phelan recalled the few minutes they'd had together, holding one another on the red leather bench in the room. This is where she gave me the belt buckle she'd made.He let his anger at Vlad rekindle his hatred for Tor Miraborg. If not for her father, Tyra would have come with him and the Kell Hounds, and he'd never have ended up on his odyssey with the Clans.
The hooded, charcoal gray cloak Phelan wore was just a shade darker than his leather garments and enamel mask. The cloak's wolf-fur trim broadened the shoulders of his silhouette and gave him a more imposing air. The mask, whose jutting muzzle and bared teeth resembled the head of his
Wolfhound,made him look truly ferocious. None of his escorts got too close, not did they speak to him unnecessarily.
As for Phelan, he spoke not at all.
He had disguised himself according to Natasha's suggestion because he relished the idea of fooling Tor Miraborg. Yet on the way down to the planet and after being met by lesser officials, his outlook on his mission changed. Were he there only to take revenge on Miraborg, he would have done anything to shatter the man.
I would have treated him as Vlad treated me.
That was the realization that struck Phelan just after stepping from the shuttle Carew had piloted down to the Gunzburg. While greeting Miraborg's envoys, he saw their unmistakable terror. All paid him great deference, continually apologizing for what they feared might be Tor Miraborg's hostile reaction to him. As one explained, "Well, the Varldherre is a military man, jalYou will understand him and his ways, jaT
Suddenly Phelan's little game took on great importance. Not only must he win Gunzburg's surrender for the honor of the Wolves, fie also had to win it for the people of Gunzburg. Should he fail and the mission fall to Marcos to complete, Phelan knew the Crusader would stop at nothing for a quick victory. Nor would Marcos shrink from acts of brutality if he thought they could redeem him.
First, I win the planet's freedom, then I make the Iron Jarl pay!
When a civilian official opened the door to the Iron Jarl's office, Phelan felt as though his last time here was only hours before, not years. Seated in his wheelchair behind a massive mahogany desk, Tor Miraborg still looked every bit the strong leader a world like Gunzburg needed. His silver hair was trimmed short and shaved at the temples as though he were planning to strap himself into a 'Mech when the invasion came. The stripes of dark hair in his white beard still tugged down at the corners of his mouth, reminding Phelan of a badger's striped fur.
Even more memories were aroused by the scar bisecting the left side of Miraborg's face from eyebrow to beard. Phelan remembered how the people of Rasalhague had hated mercenaries after Vinson's Vigilantes caused Miraborg's crippling and scarring. An identical scar marring the face of Miraborg's tall blond aide reminded Phelan of how fanatical had become the devotion of Gunzburg's citizens, many of whom disfigured themselves voluntarily. The scar also reminded him again of Vlad and the Clansman's hatred for him.
The official who opened the door and ushered Phelan in began the introductions, but Miraborg waved her off. "I think the ilKhan's envoy knows who I am. My aide is Hanson Kuusik, a Kapten with the Gunzburg Eagles Aerospace Regiment."
Kuusik took a step forward and started to offer his hand, but Phelan's silent disregard for the gesture stopped him. The other man's face flushed as he dropped his hand and resumed his position. Miraborg's restless eyes drank it all in, and a curious look of respect settled over his face.
The official retreated from the room, leaving the trio of warriors alone. Behind Miraborg, a glass wall gave Phelan a good view of Stortalar City. It looked far different in midsummer than when he'd last seen it, and Phelan decided he preferred the flourishing green of trees and flowers to the white blanket of winter snow. From what he could see as dusk came on below, life continued normally in the city.
Miraborg interlaced his fingers as he rested his forearms on the leather blotter of his desk. "You surprise me by coming here. I thought all negotiations would be conducted via radio transmission. I had not heard that the Wolves negotiate in person."
"I am not here to negotiate." The mask's hollow muzzle let Phelan's voice echo back on itself, giving it a disembodied quality. "I have come to accept your surrender."
Kuusik's eyes narrowed and his urge to fight rode plainly on his face. Miraborg only stared at Phelan, as though his gaze could peel away the mask to reveal the man beneath it. "Our surrender?" He said the word not as though it were a ridiculous idea, but as though it were an option he had long ago dismissed. "Are your terms open to negotiation?"
"As I said before, I am not here to negotiate. Surrender, unconditionally, or your world dies."
The Varldherre sat back and stroked his chin. Kuusik, too, tried to hide the expression on his, face, but he failed. As he spoke, his nostrils flared and contempt edged his voice. "Perhaps we should be the ones offering terms for surrender. We have a formidable force on this world, and we know how to fight you. We almost beat you at Memmingen."