Human screams, voices crying out in every language of the world.
The clash of battle.
Impossible explosions.
He burrowed deeper into the umbilical bundle but the intrusive sounds followed, rising to an awful crescendo before they faded as quickly as they had come.
Silence, gravid with a sense of immediacy.
At last another sound crept in between the strands; Seregil knew this sound and it inexplicably filled him with a greater dread than all the rest.
It was the heavy rumble of ocean surf—
“Seregil?”
The sound of Micum’s worried voice broke through the vision, yanking him back to the cramped chamber.
“You all right in there?” Micum called again.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Seregil replied thickly, although suddenly he didn’t feel all right. He felt pissed as a newt.
Rising slowly, he staggered back to the opening and pulled himself through. Micum helped him to his feet, but his legs didn’t seem to want to support him just yet. Sliding down with his back to the wall, he rested his elbows on his knees.
“What happened in there?” Micum demanded, studying him with apparent concern. “You don’t look right.”
“I don’t know.” There had been something, a fleeting glimpse of—what? Gone, nothing.
Seregil scrubbed his fingers back through his hair to clear his head. “Must have been some residual effect of Nysander’s magic, or a pocket of bad air maybe. I just went a little light-headed. I feel better now.”
“You were saying something about a shelf in there,” said Micum. “Did you find something?”
“Just the marks. From the coin and the crown and the bowl.”
“What bowl?”
Seregil blinked up at Micum. “I don’t know. I just—know.”
For the first time since he’d learned of Nysander’s prophecy Seregil felt the faint, chill brush of fear, but it was tempered with a sudden burst of grim anticipation.
34
LIGHTNING FROM A CLEAR SKY
The blare of battle horns brought Beka up out of sleep just after dawn. Grabbing her sword, she ran from the tent.
“To arms! To arms!” a messenger shouted, riding through the encampment. “An attack from the eastern hills. To arms!”
Shading her eyes, Beka looked across the small plain that lay between the camp and a line of hills a mile to the east. Even with the sun in her eyes she could see dark ranks of horsemen and foot soldiers in the distance, perhaps as much as a regiment. The Queen’s Horse was still at half strength; Wolf Squadron was patrolling the supply route that stretched back to the Mycenian coast twenty miles to the south.
Sergeant Braknil rushed up fully armed, his blond beard bristling. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Look there,” said Beka, pointing.
“Damn! The scouts from Eagle troop said those hills were clear yesterday.” The edge of Plenimaran territory lay more than twenty miles to the east.
The rest of the turma scrambled from their tents in various stages of readiness.
“Full armor,” shouted Beka, dashing back to finish dressing. Outside, she could hear Portus, Braknil, and Mercalle barking at their riders. “Lances and swords! Come on now, this is it!”
Minutes later all thirty riders were mounted and ready. Their chain mail, and the white horse and sword insignia on the fronts of their green tabards, showed bravely in the early morning light. Beka gave them a satisfied once-over, then led the way to where Captain Myrhini and the troop’s standard-bearer were waiting. Lieutenant Koris’ Second Turma galloped up to join them.
Myrhini sat her white charger and barked out orders in a voice that carried over the general outcry of the camp.
“Commander Klia wants our troop to hold this far right end of the battle line. Commander Perris’ squadron will be to our left. Lieutenant Beka, I want your turma on our right. Koris, you’ve got the left. We’ll show these sneaky bastards that you have to get up earlier than this to catch the Queen’s Horse in bed on such a fine morning. Form up!”
Beka turned to her riders. “Sergeant Mercalle, you’ve got the center of our section. Sergeant Braknil, take right; Portus, the left.”
The three decuriae fell into formation, lances waving like the spines on a sea urchin. Watching their faces, Beka saw in them a mix of fierceness and elation.
And fear.
They were a young group, among the youngest in the regiment and, despite all their hard training, they hadn’t seen any worse action than their skirmish with bandits weeks ago. This was just as unexpected as that had been, but a hundred times more daunting. Thirty-three faces turned to Beka as she buckled on her white-crested helm. She knew as she looked at them that no matter how brave they were or how well they fought, there were bound to be some who wouldn’t live to see the sun set.
“We’ll show ’em today, right, Lieutenant?” called Corporal Kallas, giving her a nervous, cocky grin.
She grinned back. “Damn right we will! Honor, strength, and mercy, First Turma.”
Waving bows and lances, they returned the cry.
The trumpet signal “canter advance” came down the line. Unsheathing her sword, Beka brandished it and yelled out, “Blood and Steel, First Turma!”
“Blood and Steel!” they roared back at her, shaking their lances.
The rumble of hooves and harness rang out on the morning air as the line advanced to meet the enemy cavalry. The trumpets sounded again, and the line sprang forward at a gallop across the plain. Spring was creeping slowly up into Mycena and their horses kicked up clods of half-frozen mud as they ran.
As the two forces hurtled at each other, closing the distance to seconds, Beka felt only a deadly stillness as she marked an oncoming Plenimaran officer. Both sides set up a blood-chilling battle cry as the two forces collided—cries quickly swelled by the screams of horses and soldiers.
Myrhini’s troop was in the thick of it from the outset. By midmorning they had battled their way behind the enemy’s flank. Regrouping, they wheeled back to attack the rear guard, only to have the Plenimaran cavalry fade away like smoke before wind at their advance, leaving a line of archers and pikemen in their wake to meet the Skalan charge.
Bloodied to the elbows, Beka and her remaining riders heard the trumpets sound the advance again and rode down on the enemy line through a hail of arrows. As she rode, Beka glimpsed soldiers falling and riderless horses veering wildly across the field. Sergeant Portus went down under his own horse, but there was no time to stop for him.
Plowing into the ranks of infantry, Beka’s turma fanned out, striking left and right with swords as they pressed their mounted advantage.
Hewing her way through the chaos, Beka caught a welcome glimpse of regimental standards on the far side of the melee.
“Look there,” she shouted to the others. “Second Turma’s with us. Close the gap!”
She was wheeling her horse for a renewed charge when an enemy soldier struck at her with a javelin, catching her a glancing blow across the front of her left thigh just below the edge of her mail shirt.
He struck at her again, aiming for her throat. Beka rocked back in the saddle and grabbed for the shaft, using the man’s own forward momentum to pull him off balance. As he staggered forward she struck him over the head with her sword. He fell back and disappeared under the crush of fighters surging around them.
Looking up, she saw Second Turma’s standard tilt drunkenly in the distance, then disappear.
Cursing, Beka called out new orders and spurred forward to aide Corporal Nikides, who was about to be skewered from behind.
The battle raged on into early afternoon as the two forces battered each other in repeated charge and melee. There was no quarter given to the dead or dying; those who weren’t carried from the field were trampled into the cold, reeking mud. Combatants on both sides were so filthy that it was difficult to tell friend from foe.
Though outnumbere
d, the Skalans refused to break and finally the Plenimarans gave way, disappearing back into the hills as quickly and mysteriously as they’d come.
Beka gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on other things while the troop surgeon tugged the last stitches tight, closing the gash in her leg.
The hospital tent was crowded, the air rank with the stench of the wounded. Moans and cries came from all sides as the more seriously hurt begged for help, water, or death. A few feet away, a man screamed as an arrow was pulled from his chest. Dark blood bubbled out ominously from the wound. When he cried out again, more weakly this time, air from his punctured lung whistled through the hole.
The gash on Beka’s thigh was a deep one and it hurt like hell now, though she’d hardly noticed it during the battle. No one had been more surprised than she when she’d fainted across her horse’s neck when the fighting was over.
“There now, that should heal nicely if it doesn’t fester,” Tholes assured her, laying his needle aside and pouring a bit of sour wine over the wound. “Vinia will bind it up so you can ride.”
There was a stir at the door of the hospital tent as Commander Klia entered, flanked by her three remaining captains, Myrhini, Perris, and Ustes. All four officers were covered with the filth of battle and Beka noted that Myrhini was limping on a bandaged foot. Captain Ustes, a tall, black-bearded noble, wore his sword arm in a sling and Perris had a stained bandage around his brow. Klia alone appeared to have come off without a scratch, although word was she’d been in the thick of it the whole time.
Magic, Beka wondered, or just charmed skill? Klia was a skillful tactician, to be sure, but it was her preference for leading from the front that made her so popular with her squadron. After exchanging a word with one of the surgeons, she moved off among the wounded, praising and encouraging them, and asking for details of the battle as the fighters had seen it.
Myrhini spotted Beka and hobbled over. “First Turma distinguished itself again today. I saw you break through the line. How’s the leg?”
Beka grimaced as Tholes’ assistant finished bandaging her thigh. Hauling her torn breeches up, she flexed her leg. “Not so bad, Captain. I can ride.”
“Good. Klia wants reconnaissance patrols out before dawn tomorrow. What state is your turma in?”
“Last I knew for certain, four dead including Sergeant Portus, and thirteen still unaccounted for. As soon as I get out of here I’ll round up the rest and let you know.” The truth was, she dreaded the final count. Lying here, she’d been unable to block the memory of young Rethus’ broken body trampled in the mud. He’d been the first to stand with her during their first fight with the bandits.
Myrhini shook her head grimly. “Well, you may be better off than some. Captain Ormonus was killed in the first charge, along with most of his second turma. All told, we’ve lost nearly a third of the squadron.”
Klia came over and squatted down beside Myrhini. Beka made her commander an awkward salute from where she lay. Klia looked older than her twenty-five years today. Tired lines had sunk in around her eyes and mouth and creased the smooth brow below her dark widow’s peak.
“A force that large—” Klia growled under her breath, tugging absently at the end of her long brown braid. “A full regiment of Plenimaran cavalry and foot soldiers boiling down out of hills we’ve been patrolling for a week!”
She pinned Beka with an appraising look. “How do you suppose they managed that, Lieutenant?”
Beka looked out the tent flap to the distant hills visible beyond. “There are hundreds of little valleys up there. Anyone who knew the area could sneak small groups into them, keep quiet, no fires. When the time came, they’d send out runners with orders to mass at some central point.”
Klia nodded. “That seems to be the general opinion. Myrhini tells me you’re a good tracker. If you learned any of it from your father and Seregil, then I know you’re better than most. I want your turma to go up into those hills tomorrow, see what you can find.”
“Yes, Commander!” Beka sat up and saluted again.
“Good. I can give you a few more riders if you think you’ll need them.”
Beka considered the offer, then shook her head. “No, we can move faster and quieter if there aren’t too many of us.”
Klia clapped her on the shoulder. “All right, then. This is like finding adders in the haymow, I know. Find what you can and send back word. Don’t engage unless you’re cornered. Myrhini, who else are you sending?”
“Lieutenant Koris is taking a decuria north into the steeper country. The rest of his turma will go up the central pass with me.”
“I’ve sent word to Phoria that we need reinforcements here,” Klia told them, rising to go. “With any luck the rest of the regiment will come up from the coast in a day or so. Good luck to you both.”
“Take care of yourself, Commander.” Myrhini grinned, thumping the toe of Klia’s boot with her fist. “Don’t go getting yourself gallantly killed while I’m gone.”
“I’ll wait until you get back,” Klia shot back wryly. “I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”
“Sakor touched!” Myrhini muttered, watching her friend stride away. “Good luck to you, Beka, and take care.”
“Thanks. I will,” Beka said.
When Myrhini was gone, she got up and looked around for familiar faces among the wounded. She soon found some—too many, in fact. Ariani, a rider in Braknil’s decuria, beckoned to her from a back corner of the tent.
She was wounded but looked able to ride. Some of those with her hadn’t been so lucky. Mikal had taken a spear in the belly, and Thela had a shattered leg. Next to her, Steb sat slumped against his friend Mirn, one hand pressed to a bloody dressing over his left eye. That wasn’t the worst of it, though.
The little group was gathered around the body of another comrade. It was Aulos, Kallas’ twin. A Plenimaran foot soldier had unhorsed him just before the retreat, then hacked his lower belly open. His brother had carried him off the field and now sat cradling Aulos’ head on his lap.
Beka felt her stomach go into a slow lurch. The surgeon had cut the remains of Aulos’ uniform and chain mail away, only to find that there was not enough of his abdomen left to stitch back together. White and panting, the young man lay staring mutely up at his brother, their faces mirrors of agony. They’d always been inseparable, Beka recalled sadly, equally quick to sing or fight.
“They gave him a draught, but he still feels it,” Kallas said softly as she knelt down beside him. Tears were coursing down his cheeks, but he remained motionless, patient as stone. “Tholes says there’s nothing to do but to let him go. But he won’t! He hangs on.” Kallas paused, closing his eyes. “As his kinsman, Lieutenant, I ask permission—to spur him on.”
Beka looked down into the wounded man’s face, wondering if he understood what was going on. Aulos locked eyes with her and nodded slightly, mouthing Please.
“Find someone, Mirn. Quickly!” Beka ordered.
Mirn hurried off, returning a moment later with an orderly who quickly opened an artery in Aulos’ leg. The wounded man’s labored breathing slowed almost at once. With a last long sigh, he turned his face to his brother’s chest and died.
“Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light your way home,” Beka said, speaking the soldier’s brief prayer for the dead. The others echoed it in a ragged chorus.
“Those of you who can ride, help Kallas bury him, then find the rest of the turma. The rest of you stay here and wait for transport to the coast. You fought bravely, all of you. Captain Myrhini’s proud of you. So am I.”
Accepting the murmured thanks of the others, she limped outside as quickly as her leg allowed, only to be met by the sight of scores of bodies lined up on the ground like bundles of harvested grain. Syrtas was there, and Arna, Lineus, and Sergeant Portus. They lay looking up at the blue sky with empty eyes, like dirty, broken dolls discarded once and for all.
“Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light—”
Beka’s voice failed her. How many more times would she have to say that parting blessing today? Wiping a hand roughly across her eyes, she whispered the rest.
“Lieutenant Beka?” It was Zir, calling to her from the next hospital tent. He appeared to be unhurt, but his face was deathly pale. “It’s Sergeant Mercalle— She’s in here.”
Squaring her shoulders, Beka followed him back into the stinking dimness.
The surgeons must have given Mercalle something for pain, for she smiled sleepily up at Beka. Both arms were splinted, and one of her legs. There were bandages wrapped tightly around her chest and rib cage, as well, and blood had seeped through these below her right breast and on her left side.
Beka knelt and rested a hand lightly on the sergeant’s shoulder. “By the Flame, what happened to you?”
“Damned horse—” Mercalle rasped, shaking her head slightly. “When I heal up, I’m joining the infantry.”
“She got thrown and trampled,” Zir whispered. “Corbin was carrying her off the field when they both got hit with arrows. He was killed. I got her on my horse and brought her in. Tholes expects she’ll live.”
“Thank the Maker for that. Where are Kaylah and the others?” Beka asked.
“She’s out looking for the missing ones, Lieutenant. You saw—” Zir nodded in the direction of the bodies outside, and she saw tears glistening in his eyes. “We’d just fought our way into the open, and thought we’d have a moment to collect ourselves. But there were Plenimaran bowmen there, too. By the Flame, Lieutenant, they hit us hard! Arna, Syrtas, and the others—they were in the lead and didn’t have time to turn their horses.”
Beka clasped his hand. “Go on. Find Kaylah and the rest. I’ll be along soon.”
“Lieutenant?” Mercalle’s eyes were bleary, but she fixed Beka with a direct look. “You were fine on the field, Lieutenant. Real fine. And you’re fine with them off the field, too. But you can’t care too much, you know? You’ve got to care for them, but not too much. It’s a hard thing to learn, but you won’t last if you don’t.”
“I know.” Beka sat a moment longer with her, realizing how much she was going to miss the older woman’s presence in the turma. “When you get back to Skala—if you need anything—my father is Micum Cavish, of Watermead near Rhíminee.”
Stalking Darkness Page 36
